My scars are almost gone and now I am able to exercise. Oh, Joy! That means I actually have to get off my fat ass and do some kind of physical activity. Do I hafta exercise? The dotor says it is imperative. Who uses that word anymore, anyway? What happened to the word "required" or "mandatory"? Imperative? Its emperative that you take small bites, its imperative you chew slowly, its imperative you wait 5 minutes between bites, and its imperative that you exercise. Its imperative that you kiss my big ass!
We all know that 30 minutes of exercise daily is important,right? But, for some reason, it seems to be of Uber-importance for us Lapbanders. Why is that? I know why. Do I hafta tell you? Because we pretty much lose weight so quickly in the beginning, our skin cant keep up. So, excercise will help tone as we lose. Therefore, we wont be as saggy. Yeah, right? Tell that to my inner thighs and boobs.
Listen, I have great genes and good skin elasticity. But all the exercise in the world isnt gonna lift my boobs up any higher. Which, by the way, are keeping warm under my laptop. This is why I wont wear miniskirts anymore. My nipples will show. My thighs are another story. I've always hated them. You see, I was lucky enough to get the bottom-heavy gene from both sides. I call it "double whammy DNA". I think a lot of you know what Im sayin, right? Can I get a Hallalujah on that one?
My thighs have always lived in a world of their own. My bottom half was always bigger than the top. They never cooperated with the rest of me. Jeans were a nightmare to buy, because once I found a pair to get passed my thighs, they would gap at my waist. Then I discovered Lycra/Spandex. But with that discovery, came delusion. I could fit into a smaller size than I actually was. And, let me tell you, I could squeeze this ass into a size 16, even though I was clearly 1 size 20 or bigger.
It was a curse and a blessing in one. You see, If I was in a car, you couldnt see me from the waist down and I looked like a moderately thin person. But, one I stepped out of the car......POW!!!!! My secret was out. But, even that was shortlived, because once I ballooned up to 280, being smaller on top wasnt helping anymore. I just looked big all over.
I hated my thighs and still do. My mother had these thighs and every time I look at them, I am reminded of her. When we looked at her old pictures, she would say, "I was always 118-120". Ma,are you kidding me? You mean 118-120 in one thigh, right? No, let me stop. She wasnt fat as a young woman, just a little bottom-heavy. She was like the "J-lo" of her time.
Pat had me write a list of things that I liked about my legs and I had a really hard time with that. The only thing I liked about them was that they gave me the ability to walk. Thats it. I had nothin else.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Arrest Me
Sometimes I wish that I hadnt told anyone about my surgery. I feel like everything I eat is being scrutinized. Its like people around me think its their job to be the food police and make sure that I dont break the laws of the LapBand. They think they're helpingme, but what they are doing is really annoying the shit out of me.
My sister is the "Chief of Police". She has always watched me gorge myself until she literally had to take my dish and fork into custody. I actually welcomed the intervention. I wanted someone to recognize that I was crying out to be stopped. I wanted someone else to take control over this addiction, because I was beyond help.
Everyone wants to "police" everything you eat once you've told them that you've started some kind of weight loss plan or if they see you losing weight. They feel its their job to keep you on track and out of trouble. They want to point out that you shouldnt be eating this or that, and you should be exercising more. Shut up! When, exactly did these people become such experts in diet, nutrition, and exercise? Especially, since their fat asses arent in tiptop shape either. I guarantee you that I have 100 times more knowledge on the subject than all of them together. Im the one who's had experience with this "perpetrator" my whole life and I know exactly what I'm dealing with, not them. Im no rookie .
My sister is the "Chief of Police". She has always watched me gorge myself until she literally had to take my dish and fork into custody. I actually welcomed the intervention. I wanted someone to recognize that I was crying out to be stopped. I wanted someone else to take control over this addiction, because I was beyond help.
Everyone wants to "police" everything you eat once you've told them that you've started some kind of weight loss plan or if they see you losing weight. They feel its their job to keep you on track and out of trouble. They want to point out that you shouldnt be eating this or that, and you should be exercising more. Shut up! When, exactly did these people become such experts in diet, nutrition, and exercise? Especially, since their fat asses arent in tiptop shape either. I guarantee you that I have 100 times more knowledge on the subject than all of them together. Im the one who's had experience with this "perpetrator" my whole life and I know exactly what I'm dealing with, not them. Im no rookie .
Saturday, January 16, 2010
The Office
Back to work. Oh what fun! I went back to work about a week or so after my surgery. Everyone knows that I had Lapband surgery and everyone has questions. I answer them, proud, like I just came home from the Army. They wanted to know how the surgery was, how long it lasted, how did I feel when I woke up, what did they give me to eat or drink, can I feel the band inside me, how much did I lose, etc. The attention I got was nice. I felt important. Then, I had to start losing weight.
I wondered whether I should have told my co-workers about it. I felt like all eyes were on me, waiting for the weight to come off . Maybe they were waiting for me to fail. Maybe will, who knows. But you can bet ur ass that I’ll go down trying.
I wondered whether I should have told my co-workers about it. I felt like all eyes were on me, waiting for the weight to come off . Maybe they were waiting for me to fail. Maybe will, who knows. But you can bet ur ass that I’ll go down trying.
Cooking
So, here it is the middle of the week and I’m so bored sitting here all day. I decided to cook for my husband, since he hasn’t really eaten anything home-cooked. I felt bad for him and felt worse for me. Cooking for him was very therapeutic for me. It kept me from going insane from not eating. And, I didn’t just make him any old thing. No, I had to make gourmet meals, like Chicken Cacciatore, Lasagna, and Potato and Egg Fritatta. It was enough to just chop vegetables, beat eggs, and make sauce. I couldn’t eat it, but I can handle the food and create these masterpieces for someone else to enjoy. And, he did.
I couldn’t enjoy it, so why punish him? Looking back now, I should have poisoned the prick. I’ll get to that later. Cooking for someone other then myself gave me back some power, so to speak. I felt back in control again. Control over my food and what I do with it. Sounds weird, right? Even though I couldn’t eat that kind of food, no one can stop me from smelling it, touching it, preparing it. It was almost like I was being defiant while cooking. This band is not going to keep ME from food! I will not let it dictate what I do with my food. I had waged a war against food, daring it to cross me.
I must admit. I have been tasting as I am preparing. How else would I know if its seasoned properly? But, it wasn’t the same as eating it. So, no matter how I cooked food, smelled food, touched food, or prepared food, it was winning this war. It was still controlling me and it pissed me off.
I couldn’t enjoy it, so why punish him? Looking back now, I should have poisoned the prick. I’ll get to that later. Cooking for someone other then myself gave me back some power, so to speak. I felt back in control again. Control over my food and what I do with it. Sounds weird, right? Even though I couldn’t eat that kind of food, no one can stop me from smelling it, touching it, preparing it. It was almost like I was being defiant while cooking. This band is not going to keep ME from food! I will not let it dictate what I do with my food. I had waged a war against food, daring it to cross me.
I must admit. I have been tasting as I am preparing. How else would I know if its seasoned properly? But, it wasn’t the same as eating it. So, no matter how I cooked food, smelled food, touched food, or prepared food, it was winning this war. It was still controlling me and it pissed me off.
Pat
I found Pat on the internet as I was looking for relationship counselors to help with some issues my husband and I were having, that had gotten worse since I lost my mother. I don’t even know how I found her. But, there she was, smiling on the internet page. She looked really warm and compassionate. I was drawn to her instantly and she was only 15 minutes from my house. That’s a big plus. I like to keep all my doctors close by, so they all have offices within 5 miles of my house. Pat’s office is at her house. Her two dogs greet you at the door as they bark like hell at your arrival. She has her sessions in a kind of den-like room with a big comfy couch that I can sit on with my feet up on it. Pat is very smart and funny and she knows me like the back of her hand. I cant bullshit her and she cant bullshit me. We speak openly and freely and there are no reservations. She’s not your typical therapist. She will call me out on something that she doesn’t think I’m being honest about and she’s right on all the time.
Anyway, our first appointment with Pat was a little awkward. My husband and I had split up for a month and he wanted to come back. But, I had one condition. We have to go to therapy or it wasn’t gonna happen for us. He agreed and now loves Pat. We see her together and separately. It really has helped. We get along so much better and we’ve learned a lot about each other. Its been almost two years now and we still go to see her.
How sad are we?
We are gonna see her as long as it takes to get us right. Even if we don’t make it together, at least we will be able to make it without each other. I feel like I’m working towards something, like with the band. I have goals. Goals, goals, goals. Why does there have to be goals, anyway?
Anyway, our first appointment with Pat was a little awkward. My husband and I had split up for a month and he wanted to come back. But, I had one condition. We have to go to therapy or it wasn’t gonna happen for us. He agreed and now loves Pat. We see her together and separately. It really has helped. We get along so much better and we’ve learned a lot about each other. Its been almost two years now and we still go to see her.
How sad are we?
We are gonna see her as long as it takes to get us right. Even if we don’t make it together, at least we will be able to make it without each other. I feel like I’m working towards something, like with the band. I have goals. Goals, goals, goals. Why does there have to be goals, anyway?
Gas Pains or Growing Pains?
I’ve been banded now for one week and I’m so full of gas, I can fuel a jet plane. Don’t forget, the doctors blow your stomach up with air, so they can see your stomach better. Well, as I’m sitting in my favorite recliner, I feel another wave of gas pains coming on. I try to pass a little and I sharted. I heard that word in a movie once, but never really knew what it meant. Until now. As I was trying to expel some of this gas, a little diarrhea came out with it. You don’t realize it at first, but then you do. Now, trying to get up from a recliner after you’ve had surgery is bad enough. Trying to get out of a recliner after you’ve had surgery and just shit your pants is tougher. What a friggin mess!
There’s something about shitting your pants as an adult that really puts things in perspective. I mean, it makes you stop and think about what you’re doing with your life. What brought you to this point? How do I move beyond all this shit and feel normal again? Where do I begin to clean up the mess I’ve made of my body all these years? I know where I begin. I have to make an appointment with Pat. She’ll help me shovel through all the years of shit that’s been keeping me fat.
There’s something about shitting your pants as an adult that really puts things in perspective. I mean, it makes you stop and think about what you’re doing with your life. What brought you to this point? How do I move beyond all this shit and feel normal again? Where do I begin to clean up the mess I’ve made of my body all these years? I know where I begin. I have to make an appointment with Pat. She’ll help me shovel through all the years of shit that’s been keeping me fat.
Anger
I’m so angry with myself. I’m angry at everyone right now. I’m angry at my sister for being the “thin one”, angry at my husband for being able to eat every friggin thing he wants and his cholesterol is only 146, angry at my mother for not being here anymore, angry at every person who doesn’t have to get “banded”. I’m angry that all those skinny bitches are okay with eating healthy. I’m angry that I wont be able to eat a steak sandwich anytime soon, if at all. All this anger is making me very hungry. I think I’ll have a cup of tea. That should help. Yeah, right.
If anger is fear, what am I afraid of? Maybe I’m afraid of being thin. Its seem so scary to look good in my clothes, frightening to be able to fit into theatre seats, and just spooky to think about how good I’m gonna feel. Well. Maybe I’m afraid of how good thin will feel. After all, I was always overweight, even as a child. Yeah, I had a fleeting moment of near thinness between 1987 and 1988. It lasted for about a year. It was great. It was empowering. It was freeing. It was frightening. Wait. Its not the kind of fear where you’re walking around afraid to be thin. Its not like that. I mean, as the weeks went by and my clothes were getting looser and my body was changing, it put me on such a high. It didn’t feel real. I always had a “pretty face”, that famous bullshit line, but I did. So now, I have this near thin body, which by the way, I was lucky enough to be the kind of fat person where I had a small waist and big ass. So, when I lost weight, my body looked pretty good. People didn’t recognize me. I got compliments all over the place, guys were whistling, my mother actually said I should stop losing weight now. You lost enough, she said. I never thought I would ever be told that!.. It was a whole new world. My confidence went though the roof. I was accused of having a chip on my shoulder. I didn’t give a crap. I deserved this. I worked hard for it. I’ll be as obnoxious as I wanna be. Everyone can kiss my fat ass!
Ah, but alas. After about a year, my short bout with thinness was over and I had gained back all that I had lost and gained a few more. It actually was easier for me to be fat. I didn’t have to work at anything to keep my figure. I just had to eat. Everyone expected me to be fat. That’s who I was. That’s how people knew me. It wasn’t surprising to see that I was fat again, it was surprising if I wasn’t. People were more comfortable with me being fat. And, I was more than happy to oblige. They would have lost their eating partner. That would have been terrible. The funny thing is that I was the only one getting fatter and my eating partners weren’t. Bitches.
If anger is fear, what am I afraid of? Maybe I’m afraid of being thin. Its seem so scary to look good in my clothes, frightening to be able to fit into theatre seats, and just spooky to think about how good I’m gonna feel. Well. Maybe I’m afraid of how good thin will feel. After all, I was always overweight, even as a child. Yeah, I had a fleeting moment of near thinness between 1987 and 1988. It lasted for about a year. It was great. It was empowering. It was freeing. It was frightening. Wait. Its not the kind of fear where you’re walking around afraid to be thin. Its not like that. I mean, as the weeks went by and my clothes were getting looser and my body was changing, it put me on such a high. It didn’t feel real. I always had a “pretty face”, that famous bullshit line, but I did. So now, I have this near thin body, which by the way, I was lucky enough to be the kind of fat person where I had a small waist and big ass. So, when I lost weight, my body looked pretty good. People didn’t recognize me. I got compliments all over the place, guys were whistling, my mother actually said I should stop losing weight now. You lost enough, she said. I never thought I would ever be told that!.. It was a whole new world. My confidence went though the roof. I was accused of having a chip on my shoulder. I didn’t give a crap. I deserved this. I worked hard for it. I’ll be as obnoxious as I wanna be. Everyone can kiss my fat ass!
Ah, but alas. After about a year, my short bout with thinness was over and I had gained back all that I had lost and gained a few more. It actually was easier for me to be fat. I didn’t have to work at anything to keep my figure. I just had to eat. Everyone expected me to be fat. That’s who I was. That’s how people knew me. It wasn’t surprising to see that I was fat again, it was surprising if I wasn’t. People were more comfortable with me being fat. And, I was more than happy to oblige. They would have lost their eating partner. That would have been terrible. The funny thing is that I was the only one getting fatter and my eating partners weren’t. Bitches.
What did I do?
Oh my God! What did I do? Was I crazy? I actually did it. I had Lap Band Surgery. I had a band placed around my stomach so my food intake can be restricted. Doesn’t sound that bad, right? Wrong. Not only does it restrict my food intake, but I wont be able to eat my favorites foods ever again? What the hell was I thinking?
No more pizza, fried shrimp, cheeseburgers, French fries, grilled cheese sandwiches, or ice cream? Not even small portions once in a while? Not recommended I was told. That wasn’t exactly telling me I could never have that stuff again, right? Welcome to the world of healthy foods. Blech!
As I lay there in recovery, these thoughts whirled through my head and made me more nauseous than the anesthesia. I felt such regret for doing this and fear for what I had to look forward to. That fear was having to live my life never enjoying food again and always feeling deprived. I felt so angry with myself for not having the willpower to do this on my own, for giving in to the desperation I had felt when nothing was working for me anymore. I felt like someone just informed me that my best friend had been banned from speaking to me again. I was now on my own and had to find comfort elsewhere, other than in the arms of food. What a weak fat bastard I had become.
Food has always been a source of comfort for me. I grew up in an Italian American family with an Alcoholic father and a mother who tried to overcompensate for that by bringing home “goodies” to make us feel better. She worked in a pastry shop and would bring home cakes and cookies and Italian ices. She made fattening foods, nothing healthy. Everything had sauces, gravies, bread, and potatoes. We never had fresh vegetables growing up. Just canned corn, peas & carrots, and string beans. But, we loved her food and enjoyed those goodies.
I was now an emotional eater. Thanks Ma. I ate when I was happy, sad, bored, tired, full, walking, sitting, watching tv, working. Hell, I even ate while I was on the toilet. No Shit. I cant remember what being hungry is like anymore, because I ate so much all the time. I never gave myself a chance to be hungry. The funny thing is that I get full really fast, but just keep shoveling it in because it tasted good. My sister, the skinny bitch, would actually have to tell me to put the fork down because she could see that I looked absolutely stuffed that I couldn’t breathe anymore. She was right. I was stuffed. But there’s something about getting that last piece of food in that was so satisfying to me. It would annoy the crap outta me to leave an unfinished hamburger or hot dog on my plate. Im a freak, though. I had to have a little of everything on my fork. I dont eat my food separately. Oh, no. A little bite of my burger, some French fries and cole slaw on my fork. I had to have a taste of everything together and had to make sure that I would end up with an equal amount of everything down to last bite of food.
If you took the last bite of food off my plate, I would be pissed. I later learned from my wonderful therapist, Pat, that its called “longing”.
I’ve been longing my whole friggin life. I’ve longed for a happy childhood, a non-alcoholic father, an assertive mother, thin thighs, a prince on a white horse, a better job, nice house. We all have some type of longing, right? Right now I have longing for Ham, Fontina Cheese, and bacon on a Panini, hot and gooey. Oh my god, I have to stop this. I’m gonna drive myself crazy. Oh, and a pickle would be good with that.
Am I NOT supposed to be hungry?, I ask the nutritionist. Because, I am. I thought that I would not feel hungry, that I would not have the desire to eat. I had been home one day and I was feeling very hungry. She says, Oh, that’s just “head hunger”, if you were really hungry, you would feel dizzy, weak, and lightheaded. Bullshit! This is real hunger, stomach growling hunger, hunger pang hunger. The kind of hunger that comes from drinking one miserable shake a day. Yeah, sure. I can have clear broth, tea, sugar-free drinks. Big deal. I don’t know about you, but that liquid crap doesn’t satisfy my hunger. A big mac and fries does that. Pat tells me that fullness and satiety are two different things. Whatever. A big mac and fries would make me full AND satisfied.
Satiety is something that escapes me when I think about food. I mean, I’m satisfied when I’m full. But satiety is not fullness. Satiety with food is about eating until you are comfortable and your hunger is gone. I’m not satisfied when I feel so full that I could throw up. In fact, I’m disgusted. I guess I’m satisfied that I’m so full that I’m disgusted with myself. Sure, I can get full on steamed chicken and vegetables, but I wouldn’t be satisfied.
The food network is all I’ve been watching since I came home. I cant seem to get enough of it. Watching these cooking shows is almost like a punishment for me, a kind of torture that I am imposing on myself for being so self-indulgent all these years. This feeling of deprivation makes me so angry for going through with this surgery. I cant believe that I actually thought that this is something I could do. Me? I’m a foodie. I have had this love affair with food for so long, it seems odd not to have it in my life, on my terms. Its not up to me anymore. It up to the Band. The band is with me. Forever. Maybe. Well, it is removable. Ok, I’m not gonna remove it. But the hope is that I will one day be able to control my eating on my own, to one day be able to stop at “one”. Yeah, sure. I have to call Pat.
No more pizza, fried shrimp, cheeseburgers, French fries, grilled cheese sandwiches, or ice cream? Not even small portions once in a while? Not recommended I was told. That wasn’t exactly telling me I could never have that stuff again, right? Welcome to the world of healthy foods. Blech!
As I lay there in recovery, these thoughts whirled through my head and made me more nauseous than the anesthesia. I felt such regret for doing this and fear for what I had to look forward to. That fear was having to live my life never enjoying food again and always feeling deprived. I felt so angry with myself for not having the willpower to do this on my own, for giving in to the desperation I had felt when nothing was working for me anymore. I felt like someone just informed me that my best friend had been banned from speaking to me again. I was now on my own and had to find comfort elsewhere, other than in the arms of food. What a weak fat bastard I had become.
Food has always been a source of comfort for me. I grew up in an Italian American family with an Alcoholic father and a mother who tried to overcompensate for that by bringing home “goodies” to make us feel better. She worked in a pastry shop and would bring home cakes and cookies and Italian ices. She made fattening foods, nothing healthy. Everything had sauces, gravies, bread, and potatoes. We never had fresh vegetables growing up. Just canned corn, peas & carrots, and string beans. But, we loved her food and enjoyed those goodies.
I was now an emotional eater. Thanks Ma. I ate when I was happy, sad, bored, tired, full, walking, sitting, watching tv, working. Hell, I even ate while I was on the toilet. No Shit. I cant remember what being hungry is like anymore, because I ate so much all the time. I never gave myself a chance to be hungry. The funny thing is that I get full really fast, but just keep shoveling it in because it tasted good. My sister, the skinny bitch, would actually have to tell me to put the fork down because she could see that I looked absolutely stuffed that I couldn’t breathe anymore. She was right. I was stuffed. But there’s something about getting that last piece of food in that was so satisfying to me. It would annoy the crap outta me to leave an unfinished hamburger or hot dog on my plate. Im a freak, though. I had to have a little of everything on my fork. I dont eat my food separately. Oh, no. A little bite of my burger, some French fries and cole slaw on my fork. I had to have a taste of everything together and had to make sure that I would end up with an equal amount of everything down to last bite of food.
If you took the last bite of food off my plate, I would be pissed. I later learned from my wonderful therapist, Pat, that its called “longing”.
I’ve been longing my whole friggin life. I’ve longed for a happy childhood, a non-alcoholic father, an assertive mother, thin thighs, a prince on a white horse, a better job, nice house. We all have some type of longing, right? Right now I have longing for Ham, Fontina Cheese, and bacon on a Panini, hot and gooey. Oh my god, I have to stop this. I’m gonna drive myself crazy. Oh, and a pickle would be good with that.
Am I NOT supposed to be hungry?, I ask the nutritionist. Because, I am. I thought that I would not feel hungry, that I would not have the desire to eat. I had been home one day and I was feeling very hungry. She says, Oh, that’s just “head hunger”, if you were really hungry, you would feel dizzy, weak, and lightheaded. Bullshit! This is real hunger, stomach growling hunger, hunger pang hunger. The kind of hunger that comes from drinking one miserable shake a day. Yeah, sure. I can have clear broth, tea, sugar-free drinks. Big deal. I don’t know about you, but that liquid crap doesn’t satisfy my hunger. A big mac and fries does that. Pat tells me that fullness and satiety are two different things. Whatever. A big mac and fries would make me full AND satisfied.
Satiety is something that escapes me when I think about food. I mean, I’m satisfied when I’m full. But satiety is not fullness. Satiety with food is about eating until you are comfortable and your hunger is gone. I’m not satisfied when I feel so full that I could throw up. In fact, I’m disgusted. I guess I’m satisfied that I’m so full that I’m disgusted with myself. Sure, I can get full on steamed chicken and vegetables, but I wouldn’t be satisfied.
The food network is all I’ve been watching since I came home. I cant seem to get enough of it. Watching these cooking shows is almost like a punishment for me, a kind of torture that I am imposing on myself for being so self-indulgent all these years. This feeling of deprivation makes me so angry for going through with this surgery. I cant believe that I actually thought that this is something I could do. Me? I’m a foodie. I have had this love affair with food for so long, it seems odd not to have it in my life, on my terms. Its not up to me anymore. It up to the Band. The band is with me. Forever. Maybe. Well, it is removable. Ok, I’m not gonna remove it. But the hope is that I will one day be able to control my eating on my own, to one day be able to stop at “one”. Yeah, sure. I have to call Pat.
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