Humans have this thing called self-preservation. As far as I know, most animals have it. It keeps you from harming yourself, right? Like a built in protective measure, a survival instinct, a last ditch effort by your body that says “hell no, we won’t go!” Thomas asks me about it all the time. He uses it in the form of masochism, and how he doesn’t understand the ability to override that self-preservation and enjoy pain. Well, I sort of do. I’m not really a masochist in the traditional sense of the word (ya know, because aristocrats in the 1800′s were throwing the word ‘masochist’ around at teatime like it was no big deal!) but I used to cut. (I had to pause and determine what tense to put that sentence in). I enjoyed the hurt because it was sort of a physical manifestation of what I was feeling inside. And then other times I didn’t feel it at all, but I still did it. There wasn’t anything that stopped me. I was simply able to override the command to self-preserve and harm myself. Now, the thing is, how do you undo the command? I do speak Java, or any form of code for that matter, and humans are not as complexly simple as computers are. Once someone begins to tamper that survival instinct, does it remain like that, a flattened, useless piece of abandonment that helps no one when it is really necessary? Because if that’s the case, self-sabotage is redundant. The moment you enjoyed picking that scab or pulling that pair of scissors across the board stretch of smooth skin of your arm, you popped every champagne bottle there was ever to be. It’s like Minority Report, or the episode of Law and Order: SVU I just watched. Do past actions and thoughts predict future behaviors? Because if that’s the case, with people who self-harm, wouldn’t you have to break the pleasure found in harming, not in the act? Alright, I feel like Allister, wherever he is and whatever he’s doing, just stopped and palm-smacked his forehead in the most duh-Lucy-that-was-the-slowest-lightbulb-moment-I’ve-ever-experienced-in-all-my-career-as-a-therapist way. Deep down, I knew that. I understand that that’s the root of all therap-evil. But what if there isn’t a way to stop it? What if, like Frankenstein’s monster, there is no way to undo the lightning strike that brought the monster to life? I was contacted by Tasha today about coming to a get-together to start celebrating her birthday. Obviously there’s a chance Mara will be there. I’m actually excited that Tasha contacted me. I want to be friends with her, I want her in my life, but I’m not sure I’m actually ready for contact (of any kind) with Mara yet. We had that phone call about Levi’s accident and I was a wreck for like a month. And that was just a phone call! I don’t know what would happen if I saw her face to face! The war council was approached, strategies were discussed and a battle plan was agreed upon. However, rather than stick with that and be satisfied about the whole thing, I’m back in my head, swirling around what once was, what could be and all the other whats in between. I started absentmindedly deleting followers on Twitter and came to Levi, whom I thought I already deleted. Nope, I didn’t. Well, as is Internet etiquette 101, I played the let’s-see-how-far-I-can-click game. I ended up on Mara’s Facebook page, scrolling through the public pictures, reading the updated posts, looking at the glossy, web life she’s portrayed to the world. Ultimately, I am happier without her. I am better off, stressed less, have more money and just in a better place. But, (and it’s a big one), I also have to (reluctantly) admit to myself that I had good times with her, that things weren’t always terrible, and that that was a major chapter in my life, filled with milestones that I won’t get back. So, that being said, am I destined to pull the scab on, to continually create pain the absence of physical harm so that I can satisfy that anti-primal urge to self-destruct? Even the messages from my body are confusing. My foot flared when we got off the plane last week (I think because of all the pressure changes and sitting for so long) and hasn’t calmed down since. In fact, it’s gotten much worse. It’s creeping up my leg, slowly but surely, sensitivity and all. I had a few dreams where I was missing my right leg from the knee down. CRPS was always likened to phantom-leg syndrome because that’s what it is described as but with your leg still attached. Well, I know exactly what they’re talking about. I’ve never felt it more than now. My leg has betrayed me. It’s gone rogue. It’s joined the enemy. But I can’t decommission it. I can’t get rid of it. I can’t make the pain stop, or even lessen, no matter what I do. A few days ago, it was pretty easy for me to just accept that another flare-up was in full effect, like the heat of summer, and that’s just the way the world worked. But now, with the pain increasing, me staying up night after night because I can’t sleep, my mobility slowly decreasing…something has to change. I absolutely refuse to go out like this. I read a blog a little bit ago about a girl who was questioning whether or not she was holding on to her dreams too tightly. Was CRPS making her grip harder to something that was impossible because she knew it was impossible? I’ve changed my future plans and goals a million times in an effort to adapt and stay in a lane that is at least moving, even if it’s at a snail’s pace. What do you do when that self-preservation is suddenly kicking in and your need to self-destruct, your need to crumble are at odds? Both are so strong, both so willful, resourceful and passionate in their plight that they will never give. I’m going to end up like the U.S. and Vietnam. Still at war. Always at war. Even if no one knows it.
Vacation. A break. Time off. It’s supposed to be a chance to relax, kick back, lighten the load and enjoy the view, right? Well, mine was…sort of. It was a time away from not having a job, or no education. It was a chance to get away from the suckish hellhole that my life usually is. Some of the time though, vacation was a constant reminder of all the problems I have. It was a reminder of the shit I have to deal with and have yet to deal with. I don’t even know where to begin on this long bus ride (because that’s what it was. A bus ride, a few layovers and a very scary flight to Chicago) of a vacation…
Seattle: We left Monday. Everything went fine. Excluding the fact that the shuttle to take us to the airport was 45 minutes late, which wound my mother up like a toy screw. She was so frazzled when we got there, everyone was frustrated within the first 10 minutes of being in the gate. We got on the plane, exhausted (it was like 4 in the morning), and flew, connected, and flew again (with some time zoning problems in there) to Seattle. The city was amazing. Modern, cool, edgy, everything about it just screamed young and upcoming. And apparently that’s what it was. Thomas and my mom ditched me and my dad to see the Space Needle (I don’t do heights. Let me repeat: no heights) so we sat and just sort of watched the city pulse. It was awesome. The air was cooler, no sirens, no horns honking, pedestrians crossed the streets with sense and reason and trucks and cars stopped and started with the lights like they were supposed to. It was fabulous. Even the policemen, the few I saw, were on bicycles, that’s how low-key this place was. Nice way to start us off.
Portland: On the way to Portland, we stopped at Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Hood. They were absolutely stunning. I’ve never seen snow-capped mountains before, not like that. And it was epic. Obviously we took a bunch of pictures, and then we were back on the bus. Now, the drive to Portland is way longer than I seemed to have calculated without any sort of map or knowledge of the area prior to this trip. I assumed all the cities on this journey were relatively close to one another, a few hours at the most, making the time on the bus minimal. Ha! We lived on that bus. And the trip, which we’d booked through AAA, was mostly older people. Like seriously, everyone on the trip had at least, 30 years on us. At least. I don’t have a problem with driving, really don’t. When I’m doing it. This was a jerky bus, that was not under my control, that forced me to be seated in a tight space for extended periods of time, with people that generally annoyed me. By the time we reached Portland, I was pretty sour on the whole thing. The city was nice, but lacked the personal charm of Seattle (I apologize if any of you live in Portland. Just wasn’t my cup of tea. Plus, like I said, I think my opinion was a little skewed). We went on a dinner cruise and toured the city a little bit, then it was back on the bus the next day.
Coos Bay and Eureka: Coos Bay is a small town in Oregon, that allows gambling. We stayed overnight in a “family-friendly” casino (please, can anyone explain to me the point of bringing little kids to a casino when they aren’t allowed on the floor?), where I found a relaxing outdoor hot tub, that I kinda wish I was sitting in right now because that would be absolutely wonderful. Well, now that I think about it, maybe not in this disgusting humidity. There, the weather was perfect for it. We didn’t tour the town, I didn’t even leave the hotel. Eureka was pretty much the same thing. There was a pretty house in town that belonged to some important guy that got rich off the Gold Rush in the 1800′s but other than that, the town wasn’t supposed to be a point of interest on the tour. It was a place to stop for the driver to rest until our final destination. The house was stunningly beautiful though. It took this guy like 14 years to build it and send for his ever-trusting fiance, who lived in Boston at the time, but she came, they got married and lived there until they died. It was rather sweet.
San Francisco: This city was made for me. There is nothing way to put it. We got there and Thomas, who had been telling me about the auras he sensed throughout this entire trip, explained that this city’s aura sort of matched mine. We were there for two days…not long enough. We toured the pier, Chinatown, Japantown, saw the sea lions, the Golden Gate Bridge, saw Alcatraz (didn’t actually see it, like go over to it but we viewed it from shore), it was incredible. There are no words to describe how much I would have been willing to stay in that city. Then, things started heading downhill.
I don’t know if it was the exhaustion from being on the trip. I don’t know if it was being forced to spend so much time with the same amount of people in such a confined manner. I don’t know what it was. The first night in San Francisco, my father drank, what I considered, an excessive amount of wine. I got upset, he got upset, we all got upset, but the problem remained unspoken. No one said anything about it. It hung, like the stench of alcohol on a sleeping man’s breath. Stale and disgusting. We made it through the exhausting ordeal with our transfers being cancelled and then home, where my dad drank steadily throughout the day until we actually lost him. Thomas came downstairs and asked where he was. I found him outside, asleep, on the deck, in the dark. He was totally asleep. It took a lot of convincing, but I got him back inside and arranged on the couch to the point where he wasn’t going to roll off or anything. I don’t know what to do. As I write that sentence, it’s like the hallway clearing in high school just as the bell rings. Lockers echo as they slam shut, doors latch and papers scatter to settle in the emptiness that you’re left in. You’re alone, completely alone, and yet there are hundreds of people surrounding you at the exact same time. My father could be an alcoholic. I don’t want to say he is, because he doesn’t believe he is. I am so quick to label things, to put judgment and names to everything. Sometimes, I want that. Sometimes, I think with names and labels, it’s a little easier to manage because then I at least have a thing to address. I have something to talk about, even if it’s just a concept. It’s a concept with some sort of identity. When I put on a label that weighs 50 lbs. and my dad can’t swim, then drop him into a 300-ft. deep swimming pool, well, then labels become a problem. And this problem isn’t my own. It’s a communal problem. Like hepatitis in the local watering hole. This doesn’t just affect me, my parents, Thomas…it affects all of us. My dad is at an age where part of me feels like it isn’t worth doing anything. He’s comfortable, he doesn’t believe anything is wrong so just let him be. But I want my dad around. I want him to walk me down the aisle, I want him to kiss his grandchild on the forehead after the nurses clean all the birth goo off. I want him to be here. I mean, wasn’t that my biggest fear as a child? Wasn’t letting go and losing someone one of the hardest challenges I have ever faced? Oh, wait, I’m speaking in past tense. It is the hardest challenge I have to face. There isn’t a past tense of this. I am still randomly overwhelmed by moments where I remember that the greatest (and sometimes the worst) people in my life are mortal. We aren’t demi-gods, with a chance at immortality if we perform heroic acts. We aren’t going to live forever because that’s what we promised our daughters so they would stop crying for the millionth time. It doesn’t happen. Nope. False. Denied. Those Greeks, man. They knew what the hell they were doing when they wrote all those myths. They nailed humanity right on the head. I feel like Icarus, flying too close to the sun. I always make wings of wax, flying on the belief that things are fine and that my dad, hell, my whole family, everyone I love, is going to be okay, and then something dramatic happens, and my wings melt. This time, it was his drinking. I was coasting while we had a good vacation and then his sobriety brought me down to Earth once again. I can’t keep letting him, or myself, lie. There’s no point. I’m not fooling anyone. In the end, the wax will melt, and I will fall. I might as well pack a parachute.
I think my blog needs a little more action. Razzle dazzle. Flash. The reaction will be passionate, right? I know I am so why not? I want questions. I want thoughts, I want ideas. I’m also thinking of posting a creative writing blog to encourage myself to write. When people (even if they are imaginary) are reading my stuff, it forces me to actually continue to write. I love writing. There is no comparison to how easy it is for me to explain what I’m thinking or feeling to a computer screen or a piece of paper. I can’t do it to people. I sound like a Valley-Girl, I pause and awkwardly think in the middle of a sentence. It’s horrible. Seriously, just like my crying, I’m an ugly-explainer. But when I’m talking to the computer, when I’m safely wrapped in the lines of college-ruled paper or my notebook with the doodled owls in the margins, I’m untouchable. It doesn’t matter how weird, unique, beastly, absurd or any other adjective that is both strange and wonderful at the same time, I am. Because I’m just me and that’s it. That is my judgment-free zone. That is my white, padded room where I’m free to jump around and smash into stuff like a lunatic. Okay, a little sidetracked. What I was saying, is that I would love for you all to be more into my life, my blog, my thoughts. I want to know what you want to know. There’s this thing that people around me do called Thirsty Thursdays (I don’t know how widespread it is) but we’re going to do “Supposin’ Sundays.” I want your questions, I want your thoughts, I want your feedback. Tell me how I can make reading my crazy, in-and-out, I-don’t-really-understand-it-myself, thinking better for you.
Alright, now that that’s off my chest. I sit here, with a suitcase on my bed, Chicago playing in the background, growing sleepier by the second. I’m supposed to be packing for our big trip. This is our first “real” vacation in I don’t even know how long. Usually, we cheat. We go on vacation and stay with family, which means we stay at the same places every year. Vacation sort of becomes a chore. Well, even this is tiresome. My eyelids are drooping and I can’t get last night out of my head. I just want to curl up in my bed and take a nap. Last night, I went out with Allison and her friend, Bridget, who is now my friend, I guess. Well, I would like her to be. I got dressed up, since it was Saturday and we were planning on going to a bar, which we did. And when we did, no one…and I mean, no one was interested in me. Complain, complain, complain, right? That’s all I seem to do. Sometimes though, I feel like I have this big sign on my boobs, face and ass that says “oh, hey by the way, if you’re looking for a hit-it-and-quit-it, don’t call me!” Everyone seems to know that I am not to be messed with but last night, I wanted to be messed with. I liked flirting with Allison’s other friend’s boyfriend because he was flirting back. Obviously, it wasn’t anything serious because he’s already taken (though I don’t think she’s very serious about it) but both Bridget and I were getting vibes from him. He’s a flirt and you know what, I enjoyed it. I wanted to make out with a total stranger, to just randomly latch on to some guy, grind all up against him and really let loose. Even if I knew it wasn’t going to get past that, the physical attraction between the two of us, the passion and heat of that precise moment would be enough for me. I feel like a soda bottle that someone has been shaking for the last six months but is absolutely refusing to take the cap off. Eventually, the carbon will calm down. Somehow (and don’t ask me how, I have no idea where my science consultant is), the bubbles dissipate and everything is all good again. Your soda might be on the flatter side but it isn’t going to spray in your face. Whoa, let me clear this up first. I don’t mean this in like an “I-so-horny” type of way. That’s another matter entirely that might not be discussed in this episode. I mean it in the “I want to feel something other than this inward obsession.” Okay, that still sounds really conceited. Let me try again. I have passion, right? I’ve said it numerous times that my emotional capacity is that of a child, that I feel like either 360 mph or not at all, and lately, everything I feel has been consumed with my own life. Yes, I do other stuff for other people but in the end, it boils down to me. It’s about getting a job or figuring out school, all stuff that pertains to myself and my own future. For just a split second, for just that one moment in time, I would love to be interlocked with someone so tightly that our shadows can’t fit between us. I want to know that someone, anyone out there can, at least on a primal level, feel the same passion and drive as me. Thomas informed me today that if we could actually see genetic sequencing, women would be striped because of the X-chromosome patterns made throughout their DNA (he’s my science consultant, in case you couldn’t guess). I want to know that there is a guy out there, someone else in this entire universe that can see my stripes. He can see my stripes, can see how clashing and weird and strangely hard to look at they are, and still wants to stare at me. That’s what I want. Because I am invisible.
I came forward. I told the truth to Flower about my momentary lax moment. She was (obviously) concerned but didn’t want to make too big of a deal out of it. Heading out to California tomorrow is drawing my eyes closer and closer to my stomach. Scrutiny is getting harder and harder and I can feel how my shirt and shorts fit me now at every second of every minute of every hour. And I hate it. Sometimes, I can ignore it, and sort of be okay with the fact that my thighs are bulging a bit or that my calf sticks out funny when I cross my legs because I’m alone in my room, or I’m only around my family. But even now, that is ridiculously hard. And, as I was packing, I found an old, external hard drive that had literally 1,000′s of pictures on it. Some from high school, where I was smaller (but at the time believed way too big) and some were from a few months…well, I guess it’s been a year. It’s been a year since I’ve lost a dramatic amount of weight. And I’m not okay with that. The numbers haven’t moved since that lax moment and I don’t know how to get them started again. The girl Allison, Bridget and I met at the bar yesterday was whining about being in the low 100′s. I had to refrain from punching her in the face. She had no figure but I know if I looked like that, I would look amazing. I would be just trim, and fit and just amazing. I don’t know what to do with those pictures. I don’t want to keep them because most of them contain Mara…I know, a name that has not been mentioned in a long time! But, some of them are pleasant memories. To delete or not, that is the question!
Thomas has gotten no better at…adulthood.
I miss my dog.
West Coast bound. Will write when we land/unpack/whatever exactly you call settling down in the first city we’re not actually going to be settling in.
(Oh, and expect those updates I mentioned!)
Aha! I didn’t make myself out to be a liar, a cheat or a thief…well, I don’t really know what I would be stealing. Your faith? Your trust? Whatever, it doesn’t matter because I didn’t steal it. I’m here, just as promised! Not that anything I have to say will be Earth-shattering or sky-moving but hey, that’s not my call. Where did I leave off? Oh yes, eating…
My little laxative adventure has been lingering in my mind since that fateful weekend. Don’t worry, like I said, they remain untouched in my drawer, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think about them. I’ve kept to the schedule Flower (my nutritionist) recommended but sitting there, on a little rocking horse, like a kid in a horror movie, is this voice. And the voice is rocking back and forth on that stupid rocking horse, telling me over and over that I’m fat and that I eat way too much. It tells me that my thighs move too much when I walk, that there’s too much overhang on my gut and that my face is too round. I thought about jogging today. I can’t even begin to explain how weird that is for me. I never want to run. Anywhere. Ever. Unless I’m racing my dog. That’s usually fun, even though I usually lose. His little legs are fast as hell. I can feel those pills on my tongue. I hate the way my body feels during the process but afterwards I feel better. That’s what matters. And I look amazing in my clothes. That matters too. I need to figure this out. Quickly. Because if I don’t, I will grow. And being my age, that is not acceptable.
Workforce- I feel like a team should pop out of nowhere and we should all jump up like in Power Rangers and yell some team slogan in a power pose. “Workforce, go!” I was a big Power Rangers fan as a kid, okay? It was pretty awesome watching all those horribly fake explosions and puppet tricks. Now, I have been trying for a million and a half days (I can’t say years because it hasn’t been that long, I won’t say that. I feel like that would be an insult to people who are super unemployed) to get a job. I’ve been on all the sites, pulled out all the stops, dropped in everywhere I could and…nothing. Not a call, not a ring, nothing. It sucks ass. And I need a job. Yes, I’ve been volunteering at the library. And I’ve been able to hang out with people other than the four walls of my room and the dog (which is actually quite refreshing). But I can’t continue to hang out with said other non-wall-people if I can’t fund myself. It’s a cycle that I can’t break until someone cuts me a break. I’ve heard it all from just about everyone. “It’s hard when you first get out of college.” “Things get better in a few months.” I don’t have a few months. I need shit to start moving now! We’re expected to go through all this stuff in the airport: the ticket-buying, the jostling, the difficulty and wait of boarding and once we’re finally on the freaking plane, the captain wants to announce that we’re not moving anywhere for a while for one reason or another. School (at whatever level) is the airport. Life, you may have correctly assumed, is the plane. And yet again, you have correctly assumed, mine has not taken off. Oh, oh, but Thomas’s has skyrocketed. His broke the sound barrier the day he was born. Star Child. Always aimed up and out of this world. Me? Well, I was but at some point, my gaze dropped. Rather than blink, snap out of it, or yawn and turn my head back up to the clouds, I just kept staring at my feet instead. Look where that got me. Stuck with four walls as friends. Well, not any more. I’m busting out. Okay, not literally. That would cost thousands of dollars and haven’t we just spent much longer than even a generous paragraph explaining that I’m broke and jobless? That’s what I thought. I have friends. Good ones. I think they’re good people. My judge of character might be skewed but I think this time is different. Let’s just pray (frankly, for my sake), that I’m right. Do friends get me a job? No. Do friends help me afford a new car battery or pay for the speeding camera ticket I got a few weeks ago? Nope. But they let me feel a bit better about myself, and less fat when I try and say the car had to have more gas to move because I weighed so much. So, you see my problem? I’m getting a job. I know the phrase usually goes: “if it’s the last thing I do,” but it won’t be the last thing I do. Hell nah. I’ve got a long, long list and my lack of a job isn’t going to stop that.
*I would also like to save my Interwebs cred and note that I watched the original Power Rangers…as in Mighty Morphin’! None of this Mighty Force, Mystic Force, Ninja Force, Grandma Force, Culinary Force, Nazi Force — blah, blah, blah! It just happened to fit the reference! And you do know how I enjoy a good reference!
Graduation- Thomas graduated. Yup, my baby brother is, according to society, no longer a…wait, yes he is. Technically, he isn’t an adult. But he went through that ever so fun rite of passage that signals the transition from goofy kid without a care in the world to an adult who is suddenly struggling with the entire weight of the universe on their shoulders. The ceremony was nice enough, posted pictures on the stereotypical social media, relatives came, ate, and conquered. It was a nice, little weekend. At least, until I started having my moments of total self-destruction and inner chaos. Literally, the gates of Hell opened within my chest and started sucking me in from the inside. I was a total monster. I was pissed at everyone and everything. Thomas isn’t an adult. That statement is both legal and moral (is that the word I want to use?). Thomas doesn’t do anything around the house. Okay, wait, let me rephrase that statement. My shortcomings and failures as a person are being highlighted and noticed more that Thomas is home now. I have Younger Sibling Syndrome and I’m the older sibling. Everything is about where he’s going to school, where he’s going to work, what he’s doing for the summer. No one is interested in me. At all. I feel like I can’t be seen or heard by anyone, unless they need something. Lucy, I need you to sign for that delivery when it gets here. Lucy, I need you to go to the store. Lucy, I need you to take Thomas to blah, blah, blah. I’m like JARVIS or the Bionic Man in the weird Robin Williams movie that totally stomped on my heart. I’m a thruway for everyone. And to sort of cement those feelings that bubbled up throughout the week while sitting around and chauffeuring Thomas, I was roped into going to a graduation for a library employee. And that was like 100 times worse than Thomas’s graduation. At his, I was genuinely the proud sister, the family member that sort of sighs along with the graduate, like “we survived.” But at hers, there was no relation. She introduced all of her friends to each other, curiously skipping over me each time. I felt invisible. There’s no other analogy or way to describe it. I felt like I wasn’t there. And, of course, the after party was the same sort of thing, except it was coated with a layer of “what do you do? where do you go to school?” and other questions I couldn’t answer out of shame, or lack of answer, I really don’t know. I can’t figure this game out. Speeches were made at each graduation, reminding me that this is the time when they’re (I almost typed “we”, ha!) supposed to grow up. The fun’s over and now the world is at their feet (or crushing them, depends on how you look at it). Except, the “adults” lied. There was no truth to that. They were making it sound like they used to when we were kids. “You can be anything! You can become an astronaut, or a fighter pilot if you want!” Well, no, not if you’re color-blind or lack depth perception. “You could be a ballerina or a world-class gymnast!” Um, not if you turn out to be too tall or have weak knees. Why do they feed us so much bullshit and then when we fuck up, when we make mistakes, when we get to this age where we have no idea what we want to do, they grow frustrated and charge of hundreds of thousands of dollars to make that decision? The tide is set against us from birth by the very generation that put us in the waters. When it comes time to place the blame or figure out what went wrong, the kid is to blame. You’re expected to know who and what you are from the start. Brave New World Order, my friends. Welcome, aboard. We used to play a game when Thomas was a kid to figure out what he was going to be when he grew up. This was when he was just a baby, still in a high-chair and throwing spaghetti on the floor with his hands, rather than eating it. Drummer, firefighter, professional explosives handler were our top three. And look where he is now. None of those are even close. Well, both of us still really like explosions. Okay, I feel like I’m getting into the typical “kids need to be kids” spiel but there is some truth to that. Simple characters like Olaf in Frozen, Timon and Pumba in The Lion King and Donkey in Shrek are the ones we quote the most. There the ones that make us want to stick with the main character, even after they lose faith because they can see the good in them. There’s an urge in all of us for that feeling. That feeling like it doesn’t have to be so complicated and maybe, just maybe, if we roll the ball up the hill one more time, it won’t come back down. That‘s the lesson they need to be teaching kids. Hold on to that. Being a child. Now, don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean immaturity or irresponsibility but I mean deriving true emotions from things. And right now, that’s my problem. I feel like that when the rest of the world doesn’t so explaining myself is…eh.
Eating- During my little meltdown-graduation-uphill-dowhill fiasco, eating was tricky. My family eats…a lot. They like food. Even if it’s bad, they’ll usually keep eating it and just complain about it while they’re eating. So, I knew this was going to be a tough time. We didn’t have any sort of schedule with meals. People just ate whenever they wanted to. That’s usually my philosophy anyway, to eat when your body tells you and not when the clock says to, but when I’m around, that sort of thing doesn’t work. I managed the weekend okay but after they left and we were stuck with tons of food, empty boxes that once held food and ice cream (from the local dairy farm down the road. Homemade…so good!) It gets better though (and Allister is going to LOVE this, I can see his face now!). I was at the mall after making several important phone calls the following day when my doctor called and informed me it was safe to resume my birth control. I had stopped when I had my surgery but she said it was cool to start up again, so I did. Big mistake. I’ve never felt so bloated, fat and disgusting in my entire life. I seriously felt like I couldn’t breathe. In the back of my mind, it occurred to me that it could have been my birth control but it was such a small thought, I didn’t really pay it any mind. What did I do? I took some laxatives. Mind you, that sentence was plural. As in, more than one. Now, don’t get ahead of yourself. I didn’t go over the dose recommended on the package but I did take the highest I could. Timed it right, I mean, I knew what I was doing. I felt better too. It wasn’t a complete waste of time and energy. My waistline was smaller, I had space in my chest cavity and my pants fit a lot better too. Now, my ass didn’t feel very nice after all that (sorry if this is a little too candid, I usually forget that I’m hard to gross out!)! I got weighed the day after because I saw Dr. Glover and found out that I broke through the 170′s. I was back in the 160′s. Okay, can I just say I had to pause for like half an hour to actually write the local range of weight on the Internet? I’m not giving you specifics but just that little bit of information about how heavy I am…whoa, my heart is still pounding. But, I’m leaving it. I kept my little experiment to myself, mostly trying to convince myself that it was all in an effort to become less bloated. I don’t think it actually was. I think once I realized what was happening (as an added side effect), I had to bungee jump with myself. I would fall off the edge and be certain that this was my ticket, this was the way I could get those numbers down and make sure everything would stay slim and trim. Then, the cord would snap back and I would fly up and remember that this isn’t right. Logic would kick in. Something would tell me that it didn’t make sense for me to risk my health like that. It happened over and over again for the two days I spent running to the bathroom. Fast forward- bloating returns because I’m still taking The Pill and the dose is getting stronger and I’m getting fatter. Laxatives are still in my nightstand drawer, teasing me, but I haven’t touched them. Eating on the other hand, is weird…at best. Obsessive about certain kinds of foods (mostly Pringles and Lucky Charms) and weird schedules. I can’t survive this type of thing much longer. I do not want to gain weight. I can’t gain weight.
This post needs to be over. It needs to be finished. But there is so much more to say. There is so much more to talk about, to address, to refer to. For now though, I will leave you with this: tomorrow.