The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

Haven't posted since before the holidays. I've been going a little crazy with the lack of sleep due to working the night shift and transporting my husband to the second shift. I never feel like I get enough REM sleep.

Up until a week ago I was ecstatic. So positive, full of good vibrations: I was the warm, happy center of the universe. Then BOOM. And I go back to anxious, stressed out, tired, etc. Guess I was manic again. I never know I'm manic until either someone points it out, or I crash back into depression. While I don't think I'm nearly as low as I used to get, I'm definitely lower.

Thought I was going to menstruate like it eds a goddamn Christmas miracle. ALL the symptoms followed by spotting. Then... nothing. It was probably my body getting to ramp up to a period and failing miserably. Bit, of course, some foolish little optimistic part of me always interjects... and since it COULD have been implantation bleeding, I took a couple pregnancy tests which, of course, led to absolutely nothing with the first test and an annoying-as-fuck slight shadow on the second test, which I couldn't get to show up on camera, and now looks all nasty and yellow with a pink tinge because it's been a few days since I peed on it and my urine is dried. It's probably nothing as usual. I don't know why I continue to hope for something that is probably never going to happen. It's the very definition of madness, I suppose.

My best friend and his boyfriend came over tonight to hang out with the hubby while I am here at work. They kept complimenting me, saying how I look so good, etc etc and how I'm "getting skinny" and I just want to slap them. I know they're trying to be nice and encouraging to me, but I don't want lip service.

I've begun to wonder if I have body dysmorphia. It would be a mild case because I don't necessarily hide my perceived flaws, and jeez, how could I? I do still contemplate suicide regularly, but I think that's a coping mechanism for me. Like always knowing where the emergency exits on the airplane are... you know they'll not save you from certain death, but the illusion of safety itself is a comfort. At least, if all else fails, I know I have THAT control.

I think that's how I hit so fat: anxiety and perceived control. I couldn't change the bullshit in my life, but I could control my food intake. I binge ate. I can admit it now. It was pretty fucking awful. I can't believe how much food I used to put away. Even now, the potential is there. If I don't check myself, I just mow down everything as quickly as I can.

There's this character from a childhood cartoon that I think of as I write this. Heffer Wolfe from Rocko's Modern Life. There's this episode called "To Heck and Back" wherein Heffer chokes and goes to He(ll)(ck) and Peaches = The Devil makes him watch tv of his sin, gluttony. It showed him reading an entire cake, his grandfather's birthday cake, swallowing it whole, lit candles and all. Grandpa Wolfe is hitting Heffer on the head with his cane, crying "Did you even taste it?" Yeah, lately, I kind of feel like that's me. And that's sad.

I have a goal, though, because you can't live a life without one, especially when making a lifestyle change. This goal is to get down under 400 lbs. My reward? I'm going to go to the doctor. Does that sound counterintuitive? Maybe to some. But as all super morbidly-obese people know, going to the doctor is like a literal guarantee that they are going to make you feel like shit about yourself, they will refuse to help or actually treat any medical conditions, and will try to refer you to both a dietitian and a doctor who specializes in weight loss surgery. So yeah, huge waste of time. But I want to go rub my weight loss in Dr. Jerk's face. And then probably see about getting my menstruation back. Because however much I hate the stupid process, I'm happier, healthier, and more emotionally stable when my period comes every month.

When is enough too much?

I've always loved food. Everything about it. The smells, the tastes, how you feel after eating. That glow of content. It's like a drug. It was a drug. The best drug.

I abused food because I was abused. My father is a psychoawaypath who loand positiveved me intensely until one day he lost interest. And I filled the void with food, avoiding my feelings. One thing my dad hated more than the normal stuff a spoiled youngest-son white middle-class Vermonter male hates more than anything (besides gays, democrats, immigrants/minorities, being wrong) was fatties.

So I got fat.

Looking back on it now, it was probably very passive aggressive of me to take the anger I couldn't express towards him and turn it inward on myself. I made myself the walking, talking, eating antithesis of all he thought a woman should be.

And I did it fabulously.

Oh, Heather, you'll never have any friends if you're fat.

Bullshit.

You'll never have a boyfriend.

Bullshit.

No one will want to marry you.

Bullshit.

You'll never get pregnant.

Bullshit.

You'll have health problems, diabetes, and high blood pressure.

Bullshit.

Ever the contrarian, in spite of my weight (maybe even because of?), I went on to do all the things a woman does in her life. Because I had to develop a (gasp!) personality, I learned to use intelligence, humor, and sarcasm as both honey to draw people, and a whip to drive them away. I had (and have) many friends. I had no lack of suitors and sexual partners. I have married (twice!) and have given birth to 4 incredible and perfect children. And my weight never got in the way of my happiness.

What? You may ask yourself. Then why in the world did you use food as a drug? Why did you not use your abundance of natural, god-given talents to make yourself happy? I would answer you, then, that I'm a liar.

The queen of bullshit. Full to the top with delusion, avoidance, and an inability to accept personal weakness.

I would look at myself and I wouldn't see the fat. I'd see my gorgeous hair, my sparkling smile, my sexy geek glasses, my freckles, my small hands... anything but the fat.

The long and short of it? I disassociate. And when I do, I simply do not "see" what's wrong with me. I don't acknowledge it. It's the equivalent of a child hiding her head under a blanket and saying that they are invisible.

Do it long enough and you'll start to believe it.

See- from a mental health standpoint you might say, but look! She loves herself! Isn't that the point? Yeah. It is. But when you go to the doctor and get weighed and you realize that you've ballooned to a earth-shattering 468 lbs, you realize that maybe you should begin to examine yourself and your life and see what the hell happened!

What haven't I mentioned? Oh yeah. Remember at the beginning I was talking about my dad's neglect and abuse bringing out the worst in me? It also triggered childhood-onset bipolar disorder. It was diagnosed when I was 14, but I remember experiencing mania as young as age 4 or 5. I've also suffered with anxiety, probably that's the thing that even now I suffer from the most, besides depression. Oh yeah, and this stuff might be lived with if I took a cocktail of medications... side effects usually being weight gain which despite my nonchalance up until this point about my weight I still was unable to accept.

So. Unmedicated. What did I do?

Self medicate. With food. I ate because I was sad I was fat and crazy. And it was wonderfully horribly ineffective. Because, at the end of the day, I was still fat and still crazy. Only fatter.

So here I am, 468 lbs, and if I could render the fat down what would it be? Feelings.

Today I decided that enough is enough!!! I am going to lose 300 lbs of feelings. Because I'm sick of literally wearing my heart on my sleeve. And to prove it, I decided to start this blog.

I know that losing weight won't fix what's wrong with my mind. I know losing weight isn't a substitute for good mental health practices. I know that my problems won't vanish or decrease as I reduce my size. Just like moving away doesn't solve your problems. You can't run from yourself. Not really. So I think I have a leg up on people who believe otherwise.

Losing weight WILL, however, make me feel that I have some control, which will hopefully decrease my anxiety. It will help me sleep better. It will enable me to keep up with my gorgeous, sexy, fit husband. It will give me a good lifestyle and positive example to impart to my children. It will be good for me spiritually as well, because in my mind and in my heart I am svelte, not squat.

Tomorrow is a new day to make good choices and stop hiding from how I feel. I need to face myself and my feelings and find better ways to cope. Food fixes nothing. I need a cure, not a band-aid. And bit by bit, I'm going to literally work my fat ass off and go From Squat to Svelte. Because I DESERVE to have the body of my dreams. Just because god gave me a fixer upper, doesn't mean I need to suffer in silence. No. I am going to DIY this shack into a palace, because I DESERVE IT.