“Trust Me When I Say I Know the Pathway to Your Heart.” – R.E.M

Overall, I have been feeling really optimistic.  I’m encouraged by my progress so far and I know I have the right mindset to keep making good decisions for myself.  That does not mean I am 100% confident all the time or that I only make good decisions or that I don’t have moments of complete and total self-doubt. 
 
I admit I have been struggling a bit lately with my diet…..for the last month, at least, maybe more.  The scale hasn’t budged, although I continue to notice my body changing.   My shoulders are starting to emerge.  There is a definite…..”space” in my arms and thighs between the muscle and the fat and extra skin that continues to hang there.   I try to not be obsessed about it, to not study my body in the mirror and analyze what I see.  It is what it is and I have very little control over it.  I’m already doing what I can do…obsessing over the result of my work is not helpful.  Easy to say, not so easy to do.

I stopped going to the lifestyle manager I started to see in February.  I felt that perhaps he didn’t entirely understand the dietary needs of a bariatric patient….that he’s used to dealing with bodybuilders.  There is some crossover…nutrition is nutrition.  Clean eating is clean eating.  But weight loss surgery patients do have some unique needs.    More importantly, I could not afford him, my trainer and my gym membership so something had to go.  And I’m not giving up my trainer or gym membership. 
 
Sadly I have also cut nuts out of my diet.  I had been eating nuts as a snack every day.  I love them.  Even though they are good for you and the perfect food, I just cannot handle them right now.  They are so high in calories, and go down so easily that I found I was just consuming way too many calories by eating them on a daily basis.  I’m much better off with cottage cheese as a snack.  No one binges on cottage cheese.

Many bariatric patients struggle with hair loss a few months after surgery and I am now at that point.  I am seriously worried about how much hair I’m losing.  There’s hair everywhere I go…in the shower drain, in the sink, on the floor, all over my bed, on my desk at work, the whole garbage can in the bathroom is filled with my hair…. every time I brush my hair, my brush is full of hair;  every time I touch my head, a handful of hair comes out; it’s everywhere, and I am trying to not freak out about it but I wonder how much I can lose before it will start to show.  
 

I should not be freaking out.  I have already experienced this when I had my lap band.  And I knew it would happen again.  And, if I didn’t talk about it, no one would even know because, lucky for me, my hair is so insanely thick that I can afford to lose some hair.  But still, it is pretty scary.  Logically, I know it will stop sometime.  But I worry it won’t.

I’m also struggling with comparing myself to other weight loss surgery patients.  I know I should not, but there are people who had surgery at the same time as me who have already lost 100 pounds.  I’m nowhere near that yet.  I tell myself that I’m feeling great and making choices that have impacted how fast I would lose weight, and I did that intentionally…so how can I now compare myself to other people who made different choices?  Everything everyone else does just looks so easy.  You don’t get a sense of other people’s personal struggles, especially if they don’t talk about it.  So I wish people would talk about it. 
 
One thing I do know for sure is my sleeve honeymoon period – that time after surgery when you feel the most restriction, when you struggle to consume enough calories and protein to sustain life, when your new stomach probably won’t tolerate many different foods – was very short.  Almost as soon as I came off my liquid diet, I could eat anything.  My stomach tolerates everything.  I definitely get full much quicker than I did before surgery and I don’t get hungry as often, and it’s wonderful to actually experience feelings of “fullness” and “hunger”…….but I absolutely need to track my food every single meal otherwise I could easily eat 3000 calories/day even with the sleeve.  I have learned that if I eat over 1000 calories/day, even though I am working out several times a week, I am probably not going to lose (or gain) any weight that week.  Right now that seems to be my maintenance number.  I really like SparkPeople.com for tracking my food.

So I make sure I eat less than 1000 calories a day and I don’t stare at my body too much and I just accept the hair falling out as a fact that I can do nothing about and I don’t interact with other weight loss surgery patients when I’m feeling insecure.  I just go with the flow.  The old Laura never would have been so compliant, but something I said in one of my previous posts stuck with me:  I need to get out of my own way.
 
This means not fighting everything and everyone, including myself.  I’ve always been an impulsive person.  But I have also always let fear paralyze me.  And I tend to make a decision, act on it and then do something completely stupid to mess it all up.  At this point of my life, my challenge is to make thoughtful decisions that will get me where I want to be, and also not let fear block me from doing things that are scary but might be good for me.  I need to trust my instincts and not do something stupid that will cause me to self-destruct once I have made a decision.  I need to focus my energy where it will do me the most good and when I recognize fear or self-destruction, or impulsivity, I need to just step around it and keep moving on.

This idea of not fighting myself, of getting out of my own way, has to lead to some interesting results.    For example, as a testament to my overblown, recently re-found confidence, I offer this photographic evidence:

This, my friends, is my “racing” number for the JP Morgan Corporate Challenge.   Yes, I, Laura Lea Dennis, former goth girl, “I’m too cool to exercise” couch potato and the girl who would not walk around the block to save her life, have signed up to stroll (not race) through the Corporate Challenge.  3.5 miles.  5K.  Happening today.  At 7pm.

I don’t know who I think I am signing up for a 5K.  People don’t usually do this kind of stuff until after they’ve reached their goal weight.  It’s a common goal to strive for among WLS patients…..1 year post op, lost 100% of my excess weight so I think I’ll do a 5K to show myself and everyone else how far I’ve come. 

But not me.  No….I’m not even 5 months post op, have lost 34% of my excess weight, and am still not even close to being fit.  You probably can’t even see how far I’ve come yet.  If I squint, I can barely see how far I’ve come.  But a couple weeks ago the idea popped into my head that I should do it now…..to hell with waiting.  My company participates every year. At the very last minute, when the deadline for registering was upon me, I registered and that was it.  There was no time to back out. 

For the past three weeks, there has been a voice in my head throwing a temper tantrum and screaming at me, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING!??”…but I pretty much just ignore that voice.  Every once in a while, I’ll go…”what AM I doing?”  But I’m doing it anyway.  I’m doing it.

I have no idea if I can actually do it.  The longest distance I’ve walked on the treadmill at the gym so far has been 2 miles and it took me 45 minutes.  So I’ll probably be the last of 10,000 people who crosses the finish line but all I care about is that I do in fact cross the finish line.

Two weekends ago I went to my cousin’s wedding in New York City.  I’ve lost enough weight that I feel pretty good.  But I grossly overestimate what I am actually physically capable of most of the time.  So I headed to New York thinking I could conquer the city and do a million things while I was there.  I couldn’t do a million things.  But I could get a new dress and shoes that I liked, go to the wedding, have a great time, walk to the subway, the train, the hotel, stand around schmoozing at the wedding, and also do 10 other things, but not a million.  And I had a fantastic weekend and I’m glad I went.

Late Saturday night while I was there, I was flipping through channels on TV and happened across the movie “My Cousin Vinny”…just starting.  Some of you may recall that I mentioned in a previous post that this movie was on TV while I was being raped in 1994.  I had never seen it before that but I recognized Marisa Tomei’s and Joe Pesci’s voices and focused on them until it was over.  Afterwards, I found out what movie it was so I could avoid it like the plague.  I refused to watch it.   I left a party once because everyone at the party wanted to watch it. 

In my hotel, I was presented with the opportunity to watch it and I didn’t think about it….I just started watching.  And I kept watching.  I even laughed a few times. The voice in my head kept screaming, “QUICK, TURN IT OFF NOW!”, but again, I just ignored the voice.   It was a pretty good movie.  I did not burst into flames and I did not melt into a puddle of flashbacks.  I was fine.  It’s just a movie.  I went to bed afterwards and woke up the next day just like every other day.  My life went on.

My neighbor Pat has been going through her own journey of sorts since her husband Harold died last July.  A couple weeks ago she talked to me about how she always wanted to try horseback riding…she has never done it before.  I think I have mentioned before that getting back on a horse is one of my goals.  So I mentioned this to Pat and the idea of our doing it together was born.  She is going to wait for me to be ready and then we’ll go riding at a farm owned by friends of hers.  I think September has a nice ring to it.  (I just realized we didn’t talk about English/Western riding and I have no idea which one she meant.  I have no idea how to ride Western style…only English.  No matter…I’ll do it anyway.)

Granted, the riding thing hasn’t actually happened yet, but just the very idea of riding again makes me positively giddy.  I just know this is going to be another one of those things where the voice in my head is screaming and I just ignore it and I’m ready to do it much sooner than I thought I would be.  
  
I have started to nullify the idea that unless I get down to a certain weight, I can’t do the things I want to do.  I’m much much more willing to try.   I’m starting to realize that I know how to make myself happy.  I can do it right now….I don’t have to be miserable until I lose weight.  Being overweight is not a punishment I need to bestow on myself.    Or rather, denying myself the things that give me pleasure because I am overweight is not a punishment I need to bestow on myself.  I can live a whole life and be happy right now.   I owe it to myself to be happy right now.
 
So those are some of the things that have been happening by me simply just getting out of my own way.

In other news, the only response I’ve had to the posters about Felix so far – the ones I posted on the street by my gym -  has been one phone call from a woman who said she found a dead cat that looked just like Felix in her garage in March.  Obviously she doesn’t have the cat anymore so I can’t confirm one way or another.  She swears this cat looked just like Felix but many people have said that about many cats in the last year…and they are not wrong. 

However, the cat I saw a couple weeks ago was clearly not the one who died in this woman’s garage.  My trainer mentioned a couple nights ago that she saw a cat that could be mine just a few nights ago behind the gym.  So my hopes are still high. 
 
Another pretty exciting thing for me has been starting to take care of other areas of my health.  Sorry for the overshare, but hey, that's what a blog is for!  I have a new doctor and one of the first things she did was take me off Metformin (which I was taking for PCOS) and put me back on the Pill instead.  This makes me happy for multiple reasons, not the least of which is the Pill is a LOT smaller than Metformin.  You probably think the size of a pill makes no difference but let me tell you, for me it does.    Taking my meds every day is like a meal in and of itself.  Because of my sleeve and the number of pills I take, I am completely full by the time I have finished taking them all.

If you saw my morning pill-taking routine, you’d swear I am an 80 year old woman on the verge of death with only medicine keeping her alive.  I’ve got one of those ridiculous plastic daily pill dispensers and if I don’t use it, I sometimes forget to take my vitamins.  I have 8 different medications I take every single day….almost all of them are vitamin supplements.  Annoyingly, the FDA is so messed up that the 5mg Folic Acid tiny tiny tiny pill I used to take in Canada is not available in the US.  Since I moved to the States, I have to take 5 giant 1mg Folic Acid pills every day (which are ¾ sugar)…so it’s actually 15 pills I need to take every day. 

So replacing one very large pill with one very small pill is reason to be slightly excited.

On that note, I’m off to the Corporate Challenge!  Wish me luck…

 

Random Stuff:

·        I hate the word “Scranton”.  I don’t want to say it or hear someone else say it.  Like nails on a chalkboard.

·        I love original art.  I bought my first piece of original art on a trip to NYC when I was in high school from a guy on the street who painted street scenes.   The piece I want to acquire next is called “Dare to be Me” and as soon as I saw it, I knew it would provide a source of strength and inspiration for me to keep going with this "journey" I’m on. 

·        I’m not a huge fan of chocolate.  I like it, but I’d rather eat something caramel-y, nutty, salty or fruit-y than chocolate.  And I’d pick vanilla over chocolate any day of the week.

·        If I do eat chocolate, my fave chocolate bar is the Barcelona bar from Vosges.  Sea salt, almonds and dark chocolate…..so simple but amazing, and it reminds me of my first trip to Las Vegas ‘cos that’s where I discovered it.  So even though I can get it at Wegmans, there’s always something slightly exciting about getting one.

·        I am also excessively fond of Hedonist chocolates here in Rochester.  Their chocolates are so beautiful and delicious.  There’s something very special about choosing a box of 30 yourself.  Then when you get them home, you don’t want to eat them because they are just so beautiful to look at…like a collective work of many tiny pieces of art.

·        Cookies are my kryptonite.  I can’t keep cookies in the house or I’ll eat all the cookies until they’re gone.  And then I will immediately want some more.  So these days I try to pretend cookies don’t exist.  I do not go down the cookie aisle in the grocery store and I curse co-workers who bring cookies to work.

·        We never had traditional birthday cake while I was growing up.  My brother isn’t a fan of cake so my mom always made him chocolate pie for his birthday.  I love trifle so I always had a birthday trifle. 

 

“My Whole Existence is Flawed; You Get Me Closer to God.” – Nine Inch Nails

If you know me or have read my previous posts, you know that Sam and I are separating.  Romantically, we have been very distant from each other for quite some time, but we still live in the same house while we both figure out what each of us wants for our future and pay off our shared debt (ironically, our wedding, among other things).  We remain very good friends and have had many post-mortem conversations about our relationship, what went wrong and why and I think we are both at peace with it being over.

This whole post is about love and sex, and the thoughts in my head about these subjects.  It’s not meant as a commentary on Sam in any way.  Many people who have weight loss surgery find their relationships are changed after surgery.  Some people find it improves their relationship, many others find their relationship is over after the weight comes off.  For Sam and I, it happened before my surgery, probably because I had long term therapy for the year before surgery whereas most people don’t, so I think that hastened the process for me.

This post, just like all the others, is about me thinking critically about myself as I progress through the weight loss surgery experience.  Anything I say here is not a reflection of Sam’s shortcomings, but rather my own.  It’s just rather difficult to discuss sex and love without mentioning Sam in any way since he has been in my life for the last 7 years.  My relationship with him was only my second relationship that lasted more than 2 dates. 

He said something to me a while ago that has really haunted me these past few months and I’ve been thinking about it a lot.  He told me that I push everyone who loves me away because I think I’m not lovable. 

When he first said that, I really just kind of brushed it off.  I didn’t really think about it a lot but then one day, something happened and it was like a stone hitting the windshield.......you think it’s nothing but it completely cracks your window.  That insignificant thing that happened in my day suddenly made me realize there was something to what he said.  So I found myself re-examining my life, yet again, in this context.

When I was 14, I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome.  My family doctor had referred me to a specialist because I started to develop hair growth on my face.   The endocrinologist gave it to my mom and I straight:  I have too many male hormones;  will always have cysts on my ovaries which means I am probably infertile and probably won’t ever have kids;  I’ll need to be on birth control pills for the rest of my life to balance my hormones, and I will probably always struggle with my weight. 

So at the age of 14 I started on the pill and electrolysis treatments.  That also set the expectation that I carried with me throughout life that I wouldn’t have kids.  I never thought about whether or not I wanted them…I didn’t want to get excited about something that would never happen.

At this point in my life, several things were already true:  I already felt different than everyone else even before this, and even more so afterwards.  I already knew that other people thought I was fat and that it was a bad thing.  I had been on several diets, and generally felt that I was not acceptable the way I was.    Other people’s fear of my becoming fat leeched into me and started to shape how I felt about my body and myself. 

At the same time, I also became aware of how powerful my body was.   My classmates, my family members, advertising and media - everyone - seemed to have such strong reactions to and opinions of the female body and what was and wasn’t ok.  I mentioned previously that by the time I was 14, I looked 19.  I got a lot of attention from older guys.   I was already obsessed with sex and the attention I got was kind of scary to me.  I knew I was way too young for sex.  But still, I was curious so I would raid my dad’s porn stash and watch his VHS tapes until he’d realize one of his kids was seeing stuff they shouldn’t and try and hide them somewhere else, which didn’t work ‘cos I just found them again.  He probably thought it was my brother – not that he ever asked - but nope, it was me. 

I was confused by the dichotomy between being told I wasn’t good enough and all the attention I got.  It made sense to me that I wasn't good enough for love or real interest but I was good enough for sex.  Those guys probably gave that same attention to every girl, hoping someone would sleep with them, so I tried not to rely on it for my feelings of self-worth. I tried to not want that attention.  I tried to see it as not important.  Instead of trying to be sexy and attractive, I tried to focus on other things like being stylish, smart, mysterious, cool, a rebel.  In a previous post I mentioned how I had a lot of male friends in high school and how I thought dating was a big waste of time.  That’s all true, but the more complete story is, I didn’t think any guy could ever actually be interested me.  

I knew I didn’t want to ever get married.  I saw what being married looked like all around me and that wasn’t how I wanted to live, even as a kid.....that just wasn’t how I saw myself.  Being married seemed…….safe and "normal" I guess, to me. It just wasn't the kind of life I imagined for myself.  But I am a total romantic and wanted a relationship someday.  I just wanted the intense, passionate, transcendent, rock n roll, soul scorching kind of relationship poets write poems about and Led Zeppelin wrote songs about.  I wasn’t interested in a safe life…. I wanted a partner as tempestuous, irreverent and challenging as I was and our relationship to reflect that.

But I grew up hearing from everyone around me – especially from well meaning people who loved me - that I would be alone for the rest of my life unless I lost weight.  No man – certainly not the tall, fit, handsome men I was always attracted to - would want a fat girlfriend.  I grew up hearing I had such a beautiful face, which sounds like a compliment……. but the unspoken “but” is, “shame about the body”.  I grew up hearing, ‘you’d be perfect if only you lost weight’.  I grew up hearing that a woman is only worth something if she’s desirable to men and fat women are not desirable to men.  The conclusion I drew:  You are fat and don’t deserve to be loved or desired.

I wish I could go back and take that girl under my wing and tell her to not buy into the bullshit she’s hearing all around her….to REALLY not buy it.  I wish I could cover her ears and shout, “la la la, she can’t hear you and shame on you for being such an asshole!”  The awful thing is, you hear something often enough and you start to believe it and tell it to yourself over and over and pretty soon, it’s your truth.  All these years, I really believed I had ignored these messages.  But I can see now that was not the case.  Not only did I not ignore those messages but I absorbed them like a sponge.  I still don't believe anyone is ever actually attracted to me.  I always think there must be some other reason for their attention.

In the late 90's, I started to realize my 20's were almost over and the idea of turning 30 hit me HARD.  I had been living back at home at my parents' house after I was raped and had gained a lot of weight after trying to compulsively eat my anger away.   I had still never had consensual sex in my life and had still only ever been kissed by one guy.   It was depressing, embarrassing and I was tired of it, so I decided to start seeking out sex on the internet.  I don't remember the first guy I slept with.  I took what I could get.  Over the next several years, I would have long periods of total celibacy.  Then suddenly I’d get the itch to explore and would sleep with lots of people in a short time. I sometimes slept with several people a week and they were always one night stands.    None of those experiences were very satisfying.  Wars were waged on sex, myths were built on it…I was convinced there had to be more to it than what I was seeing and this thirst for the discovery of the magic I was sure existed drove me on to sleep with more and more people.

I was never really attracted to anyone I slept with.  What I mean is, they weren't physically my type.  But they were willing to sleep with me and that was all I thought I could hope for.  I didn't think anyone I wanted to have sex with with would ever want to have sex with me. I didn’t feel like I deserved to ask for what I really want.  I didn’t think I deserved to be loved or desired.  I didn’t think I was good enough to get the partner I want.  

I have no idea how many people I slept with.  I don't remember names, I don't remember faces (except the guy who used my toothbrush without asking...THAT guy I remember.  I was SO pissed.)  I put myself in some ridiculously dangerous situations.  I don't even know why I did all of this.....because I could?  Because I hated myself?  Because I was so numb and disconnected from my body that I wanted to feel something...anything?  Because I wanted control of my sex life back after having it taken away by the guy who raped me?  Because I was desperate for human contact?  Because I was just horny?  Maybe all of the above. 

Back to Sam's comment that I push everyone who loves me away because I think I’m not lovable. Honestly, I am not sure about the “pushing away” part yet.  There have not been that many people in my life who have loved me - in a romantic sense, I mean….two people.  And I’m not sure that’s enough to make it a pattern.   But I do think fear ultimately plays into this “pushing away” business. 

But do I think I’m unlovable?  The more I think about that, the more I know Sam is right.  I know I am terrible with money.  I am demanding and irresponsible.  I have a quick temper.   I’m impulsive and impatient.  I’m selfish.  I always try to be in charge and then resent my partner for not being strong enough to tame me.  In addition to everything else... my history, my obesity struggle, my medical issues….. who would want to put up with all that?  Who would want to love or have sex with someone like that? 

So yeah….I think I am pretty damaged and fucked up…….and unlovable.   I guess I have things to discuss in my next therapy session!

I just can’t believe I didn’t see all this myself years ago and do something to change it.  It took a passing comment from Sam, who obviously saw it so clearly, and an insignificant "stone" to make me stop and think about it.  Realizing all of this has helped me feel totally confident that Sam and I ending our marriage is absolutely the right thing for both of us.  Sam is a great guy and will make a great partner for someone else.  But I could never make him happy, and he could never make me happy......we both should have known that a long time ago.  Neither of us did anything wrong…we just need different things from our partner than the other is able to deliver.  We’re all looking for different things out of life, love, sex and a partner and what I wanted as a kid from a partner is what I still really want.  Splitting up doesn't mean “you suck and are unlovable”, it just means, “I don’t see what I’m looking for in you, but someone else will”.

Recently I read an article on Inc.com titled, “The One Behavior That Guarantees failure”.  Although the article was geared towards succeeding in business, the crux of the argument was this:  letting fear of failure stop you from asking for what you want ensures you won't get it. 

Yeah, I found this article helpful for me in my job, but more importantly, I found it really hit home when thinking about my personal life.  While I was reading, a fairly simple concept became clear to me - fear of failure holds people back and stops them from truly fulfilling who they are and getting what they want in life.  It certainly has done that to me in my life.  That has to change.  Starting now.

The interesting thing to me about this is I always thought it was love that holds people back and stops us from truly fulfilling who we are.  Clearly I have some work to do in this area.
 

“Give me therapy. I'm a walking travesty, But I'm smiling at everything.” – All Time Low

Months and months ago, on my way out of Dr. DiBenedetto’s office after making the decision to remove my lap band and have gastric sleeve surgery, I was handed the list of requirements I would need to fulfill before surgery would even be scheduled.  Call their nutritionist and have as many appointments as it takes for her to clear me.  Call their therapist and have as many appointments as it takes for her to clear me.  Make an appointment with my primary care doctor and have as many appointments as it takes for him to clear me.  Tests.  Appointments.  Results.  Adjust vitamins, deal with abnormal test results.  Re-test.  Another appointment.  Another test.  Another x-ray.  Support group meetings.  A lot of time away from work.  A lot of explaining to my boss and my boss’ boss.

This would be my life for more than a year.

I was nervous about the therapist.  I knew she was not going to clear me, and I didn’t think she should.   I mean, why would the gastric sleeve work for me long term when the lap band had not…what about me has changed in the last 10 years?  How would this time be different?  Sure, I could have the surgery and lose the weight and be happy for a few years just like I did with the lap band, but what was going to stop me from re-gaining weight again if I didn’t learn how to deal with food, life, people, myself.  And I definitely did not want that to happen again.  I caught a glimpse once of how fantastic my life could be and I want that.  Forever, until I die.

 Dr. D had made it pretty clear to me that if he took me on as a revision patient, I needed to be committed to changing ‘cos he was not going to ruin his record of excellence for me if I was not willing to work for success.  Tough love.  My favourite kind.

I was “willing to work for success”…but I had no idea how.  I didn’t know what or how to change.  And I am impatient…..I wanted to change NOW.  Snap my fingers and have it happen.

But I knew this was not something that happens overnight.  It’s something that requires moment-by-moment effort - chipping away at habits, addiction, and thoughts and replacing them with all new ones.  This is a major project.  The most important project I will ever have.  If I have any hope for long term happiness and fulfillment, I HAD to change, do the work, follow through with it and be patient.

But I was truly worried the therapist would not clear me “until I had changed” and so the long process of getting to my sleeve surgery would take even longer.  I worried they wouldn’t get how huge this is for me, and I’d be left on my own to find my way and I’d get lost like I always do and then this would be my life forever.  Still, I was not going to go in there and schmooze my way into clearance like I knew I could if I wanted to.  At this point, I was again at rock bottom and frankly, I was gagging on how badly I wanted to change.  So lying would not be the thing to do.

The therapist saw me, and as expected, she refused to clear me.  She very quickly started to explain her reasoning in a really sympathetic, patient voice and told me this does not mean I won’t be approved for surgery at a later time.  She looked at me like she expected me to be disappointed and upset and angry.   I told her she could stop explaining - I was not surprised and this is the right call….so what happens now? Tell me what I need to do.  She assigned me to another therapist who is trained to work with bariatric patients. 

But the in meantime, she told me to embrace what I already knew:  that this would not happen overnight.  I would not wake up one day and be “cured”.  I am reversing two decades of bad habits and damage to my body and it’s going to be hard and emotional and painful and I am going to want to give up. No one can do this work for me or force me to do it…. how and when it happens is up to me.  Instead of being overwhelmed by that, I start by putting one foot in front of the other.  I won’t see how far I’ve gone until I have taken many steps and made some progress.  I need to turn to my support people for guidance but they are only there to support me, not do it for me.

If you read my previous posts, you know that I had tried therapy before and had not found it, well…therapeutic.    But I decided to keep a very open mind and remember that this is a totally different time, a different situation, a different problem.    In our first session, Jessica, my therapist, referred me to a psychiatrist to rule out any chemical imbalances or undiagnosed mental health issues. 

I told the psychiatrist – a wonderful, South African woman I kept imaging having coffee with - I had battled depression on and off for years.  I was very clear I did not want to take drugs – I have tried many different types of anti-depressants already and honestly have never felt any different on any of them.  None of them had any effect on me – positive or negative – and it was just not a cycle I wanted to start again.  You start one med, you wait 3 months to see if anything happens, then you’ve gotta wean off it before you start another. 

The psychiatrist’s opinion was that I suffered from situational depression, not clinical depression so medication would not be useful anyway.  Phew.  Common sense prevails.

So, back to Jessica.  She was reassured by the psychiatrist’s report and we dug in.  We spent the first few sessions just talking about my history, my family, who I am, how I see myself, how I see others, what’s important to me, how I relate to the people in my life, what major life decisions I had made, what did I want out of life, what did I do to cope with stress, my history with my weight…..that kind of thing. 

I remember when talking about the rape being adamant that it had in no way affected me and I was completely over it since it happened 20 years ago.  It was just an unfortunate, insignificant thing that happened to me once.  And I meant it.  I honestly did feel that way.  I completely believed it.  I think I mistakenly thought that since I can enjoy sex, and be alone in the dark, go out at night by myself or that I don’t have flashbacks, that it didn’t affect me.  It’s a testament to the work we have done together that I can see things differently now and recognize how devastating that, and the events surrounding it, really was to me and be willing to admit that and talk about it.  It changed who I am as a person completely.  Changed how I felt about myself, changed how I felt about everyone in my life, changed what I looked for in a romantic partner, and changed how willing I was to open myself to anyone.  There’s no shame in that.  There’s only acceptance and moving forward.

About the third session in, I asked Jessica when she thought she might be able to clear me for surgery.  She said she was glad I brought it up because she sensed some tension between us because of this.  I wanted clearance, she could give it but she didn't want to give it to me and not have me do the work.  I told her I respected that and that I did want to do the work, but I also did not want to hold up the process of booking surgery.  Having weight loss surgery is not a straightforward process.  One step leads to the next.   Without the clearance letter, the process grinds to a halt.  I told her that even if I wasn't having surgery, I want to do this work.  I saw the value in it and thought it would save my life, that I was in it for as long as it takes.  But I don't want to wait forever to have surgery.  She gave me my clearance letter that day and I promised her I would come back.

And so I went back.  Over the year, we have talked a lot about Mindfulness, a practice inherited from Buddhist tradition.  Very basically, mindfulness is about being present in the moment and completely aware of what is happening in the moment.  Mindfulness can defeat delusion, and so it is considered powerful and takes constant practice to master it.  My homework was to read several books – two of which were specifically about mindfulness and eating - and start practicing being mindful in all different situations.  This is important for taking responsibility.  It’s also important to help eliminate overeating by paying attention to how, what, why and when I eat.  Finally, it’s important for helping me feel connected to my body. 

Another important piece to our time together involved exploring my emotions and the thoughts behind a feeling.  She taught me to stop and examine how it is I’m really feeling when I start to suddenly feel overwhelmed by any strong feeling at all.  Realizing that if I am angry (or happy or sad or irritated or anything at all), why I’m angry and finding an appropriate outlet for that other than self-destruction. 

We also talked a lot about what it means to me to be a feminist.  I felt like a fraud calling myself that because I was assaulted and raped, because my weight was so out of control, because I was making decisions from a place of weakness instead of strength, because I was so opposed to the idea of marriage and yet here I was, married.  But I still used that word to describe myself because it made me feel like I had a wall protecting me.  I had no idea who I was anymore, but I was sure I was a feminist.  It was the only strong thing about me…that word.  So if that is important to me, and is really a piece of my identity, then I need to define for myself what I am really saying and live it, not just say it.

I’ve been seeing Jessica twice a month for over a year.  In December she decided I was progressing so well that we only need to see each other once a month now.  How she has helped me, well there’s no easy answer.  It’s an ongoing process.  She didn’t “fix” me but she has provided me with insight, skills and strength that I can call on at any time and, my life has changed for the better because of her.  Because of her, I’m shedding this fake skin I’ve been wearing for 20 years and I am feeling more alive, more like myself than I have all this time and now I just cannot stop smiling.  Sometimes my time with her is truly profound, other times it is just simply revealing.  I have left her office with happy tears rolling down my face more than once. 

The work I do with her in session, and on my own as a result of our sessions, is one of the tools I need to beat obesity for good and allow the gastric sleeve to do its job.  It’s the silver bullet.  This emotional/psychological work I am doing is the piece that was missing with my lap band surgery.     I’m sure I will always struggle with my weight.  But now I feel capable of handling that and any other challenge life throws at me.  Bring it!

Random things:

·        I love insightful quotes

·        This is my fave Johnny Cash quote:  “I wore black because I liked it. I still do, and wearing it still means something to me. It's still my symbol of rebellion -- against a stagnant status quo, against our hypocritical houses of God, against people whose minds are closed to others' ideas.”

·        I feel most like myself when I wear black

·        I desperately want black hair.  I think women with black hair are  gorgeous.  I can’t pull it off.  I’ve tried three times and I just always look old.  The last time I had black hair, someone asked if I was Sam’s mother.  Ouch.

·        I absolutely detest black licorice.

"It's 1990 Now So School Can Fuck Off." - Robbie Williams

The 1990’s were a particularly bad decade for me. I was in my 20’s, had graduated high school a couple of years earlier and these were supposedly the best years of my life.  In reality, they were my lost years. 

Frankly, I have never wanted to reflect on that time.  I rarely look at old pictures from that time.  I only periodically stay in touch with two old friends from that time. I don’t go back to the city I lived in to visit.   Long ago, I packed up the 90’s in a little time capsule in my brain and sealed it with superglue.  I distanced myself as much as I could from that part of my history. I didn’t like who I was back then.  I was embarrassed and outraged by my experiences.  I was not proud of many decisions I made back then.  I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I didn’t. 

But now I need to stare the beast straight in the eye and acknowledge where my battle with obesity truly began and why. I’m not saying my struggle with weight started here…it didn’t.  But the 90’s pushed it from “struggle” to “out of control, free for all”.

I always got good grades in school but I was a terrible student.  I didn’t try very hard and I didn’t have to.  I got bored easily and would stop paying attention in class.  I have always interpreted words very literally, so I often got myself in trouble with teachers by correcting them, questioning them or doing what they said, not what they meant, even though I knew the difference. I thought I was smart.  In reality, I was a smart ass.  So, really, no different than I am today.

What I did love about school was the social part of it, although it didn’t always love me.  I always felt different than everyone else and, especially in grade school, I was not exactly popular but I was desperate to fit in.  Starting in grade two, I had ridiculously thick glasses.  I was always one of the tallest kids and developed at an embarrassingly early age.  I had a lisp and had to leave “regular” classes to attend speech therapy so I could lose my lisp. 

I was terrible in gym class.  I couldn’t run fast, I couldn’t jump high.   I couldn’t pull myself up a rope.  But it’s not like I was completely inactive.   I took Tap and Ballet lessons for 8 years.  I took horseback riding for 5.  I could roller skate all night, and my friends and I walked, rode our bikes and skateboarded everywhere.  I just wasn’t good at anything expected of me in gym class.   I did not see myself as fat.  Other people – kids and adults – did, and they made sure I knew it.

I went to Catholic school and I started asking questions.  I just couldn’t buy into the whole “God” idea.  It just did not make sense or feel right to me.  My mom asked one of the priests to talk to me and that just made the situation worse.  By the time I was in Grade 8, I decided I didn’t want to be Catholic so my speech for English class that year was about reincarnation….it was not well received.  Our Religion class that year was all about preparing to be Confirmed, a big deal in the Catholic faith.  I didn’t want to be Confirmed.  The school sent a note home to my parents.  I would not graduate to high school if I did not agree to be Confirmed.  I got into an argument with the Principal and the Bishop…a battle of wills really.  I lost.  I told them they were a bunch of fascists and got suspended until I apologized.

So, I was this weird kid with multiple targets on her back and of course I was bullied.  By the same people who acted like I was their friend. 

High school was better.  I got contact lenses and I looked 19 when I was 14.  I could get into clubs very easily and music became a huge thing for me.   I wasn’t into drinking but I was VERY into dancing.  I still had that feeling of being different than everyone else, but suddenly that was a good thing, not a weird thing.   I had lots of friends but I never dated and I always felt like my friends who did date were wasting their time.  I just didn’t get why they’d rather be alone with their girlfriend or boyfriend than go dancing or see a band with the rest of us.  The idea of sex always fascinated me but also completely freaked me out and, in my opinion, we were all WAY too young for it. I had a lot of male friends and I liked it that way….I loved hanging out with them but I had no interest in dating any of them.  We could talk about anything…..get into all kinds of crazy adventures, without any romantic crap to complicate everything.

By the time I hit grade 12, I knew I wanted out of my hometown.  I had dreams of moving to New York City.  My mom’s cousin and her family lived in Brooklyn for years and we had visited many times.  I fell in love with the City and desperately wanted to live there.   I wanted to live in an old warehouse building converted into a loft, start a band, have David Bowie and Robert Plant over for dinner and a jam and make my own cool clothes, have a farm outside the City and rescue horses.  In my spare time I would work for the CIA and as a cover I’d be a journalist so I could travel the world.  Lots of crazy dreams.

But I was afraid to follow any of my dreams or even try and come up with a more realistic plan that would make me happy.   Instead, I enrolled in an English Literature program at a school 2 hours way from my parents and friends. I didn’t really think about whether or not I wanted to go to university…I knew I didn’t want to.  But I applied anyway because I was supposed to…because that’s what people who get good grades do…..because that’s what everyone else in my class was doing.   And because I was ready to move out of my parents’ house and that was an easy way to do it.  But in my heart, I didn’t want to do more school and I didn’t realize how destructive it is when a person makes a life choice they really don’t believe in just because it’s easy.

I got into all three schools I applied to.  One was in my home area so I could live at home, the other two were both in Waterloo.  So there I was, in Waterloo, Ontario, away from home from the first time, getting to know my new town and discovering the joy of roommates ( I refused to live in a dorm or partake in “frosh” activities.)   At first I really, really tried to be a good student.  I expected to have to work harder for decent grades, I expected my fellow students to be smarter than me and the profs to be inspiring, fantastic teachers.  The reality was really disappointing. Incompetent, uninterested profs who had been there a million years and would be there until they die thanks to tenure.  Profs under pressure to publish once a year leaving no time to teach.  Outdated curriculums.  Students who never should have been admitted to university because they couldn’t read or write properly.  Frat boys and sorority girls making the campus a menace for everyone else.  Political crap that dictated which books got on the reading list and which didn’t.

My grades did not drop, they actually went up because I tried harder at first.  It sounds silly to say, but I was outraged when I took a 4^th year class in first year and got an A on a paper with no comments or corrections. Where was my opportunity to grow and learn?   It wasn’t very long before I realized I could go to the first class, get the booklist and the class requirements and only show up for the exam and still get an A.  So that’s what I did and I hated myself for doing it and the whole academia for letting me.

I dropped in and out of university several times in the 90’s and ultimately I did not go back. I lied about it to my parents because I didn’t want to face their disappointment.  I went to clubs five nights a week and danced my ass off.  I got a nose ring and 5 holes in my ears. I drank a lot. I experimented with drugs. I pissed off my roommates by waking them up at 8am for breakfast when we had only just gone to bed at 3am.  I racked up student loans with nothing to show for it.

Then crazy stuff started happening.

I felt a lump on the side of my throat.  I took a trip home to see my family doctor and he thought I was a hypochondriac…he didn’t see or feel anything, but I insisted there was something there.  He sent me to a specialist and the specialist also didn’t think there was anything but he did a needle biopsy.  Then another…three in total.  They all came back with different results.  He said if I was his kid, he would insist on exploratory surgery but there was no concrete reason for that, so it was up to me. 

My aunt, who lives in Toronto, got involved and insisted her physician neighbour refer me to the best endocrinologist in town.  I went to Toronto and had surgery.  During surgery, it was discovered I had a nodule on my thyroid beside the lump, but it was self-contained, primary cancer.  Easily treatable.  Half of my thyroid was removed and I started medication I need for the rest of my life.  I had a huge, red, thick, very noticeable scar across my throat and it took years of cortisone injections to flatten it out.  Every time I looked in the mirror I could imagine my throat being slit by the scalpel.  It freaked me out.

A year or so later, a close male friend of mine and I had a big argument.  I avoided his screaming phone calls and angry visits to my house at all hours of the night for a week and when I did finally see him at a club, he walked up to me, punched me in the face, pushed me down to the ground in front of everyone, then walked away.  The police spoke with him but did not press charges at my request. I knew this guy since we were little kids and I believed in him and trusted him, but it turned out I didn’t really know him. I later found out he had a violent history and that was not the first time he has assaulted a woman. The whole situation made me incredibly angry……the betrayal, the assault, his hidden past, my lack of action in pressing charges.

He called me afterwards – not to apologize but to say he did not want to speak to me ever again. I didn’t say much…I was enraged that he felt entitled to make that decision and announce it to me, as if it was his decision to make. Unfortunately, this proved to be a bigger problem for me. We both lived in Waterloo and had many of the same friends. He decided to fix this problem by telling them all what horrible person I was and how I had wronged him. Suddenly I had fewer friends and was very, very lonely.  And I never have spoken with him again but continued to see him around town at concerts, movies, parties...surrounded by my friends.  It was awkward and it hurt.

Very soon after, I was raped at a friend’s apartment. The guy had just flown into Canada that night.  He was here visiting his girlfriend (who was a friend of my friend) and my friend asked me to go to the airport with her and pick him up. Then the three of us were supposed to hang out at her place until his girlfriend finished her night shift at work.  They taught me how to play dominos; we drank until we all passed out.  My friend is wheelchair bound and needs help to do stuff so he helped her to bed.  I pulled out her couch and passed out on it.    

When I woke up, My Cousin Vinny was blasting in my ear, I was naked and he was on top of me, with a knife in his hand at my throat.  My friend knew what was happening but was in bed at the time and couldn’t help.  I heard her say that his girlfriend would be finished work soon.   When he was done, he got off me.   I stumbled around for my clothes and tried to get dressed but I was kind of in shock and still drunk.  He sat at the end of the bed with his head in his hands and tried to convince me how sorry he was.

I ignored him and walked out with a handful of clothes. It was 5am, end of November, and I finished getting dressed while I wandered the streets of what was then the outskirts of Kitchener (I lived in downtown Waterloo…about a 30 minute drive with no traffic) hoping for a bus, a taxi, a friendly face. I got to a bus stop and realized the buses didn’t start running until 6am. I had left my jacket with all my money and ID in it behind. I started walking and in a few minutes, a female cab driver stopped and asked me if I was ok, if I wanted a ride.  She took me to the hospital.  The hospital called the police and the sexual assault centre.   The police took my statement.  A nurse took care of the first round of tests and injections.  The peer counsellor from the sexual assault centre gave me a name of a therapist to call. 

When I got home, I stayed in my apartment for days and didn’t tell my 4 male roommates what had happened. They were like a band of brothers to me….I liked each and every one of them and I felt protected around them but I just didn’t want to tell them. I was still just trying to figure out what happened and why.  I didn’t treat that guy any differently, act any differently than I had around my many male friends.  I really didn’t think it was any big deal to fall asleep on the same bed with a guy and expect nothing to happen.  But was this my fault?  Could I have said or done something to make this happen?  All my women's studies classes and feminist ideals told me no, but I couldn't erase that  doubt.

The aftermath was brutal.  The police spoke with the guy and he didn’t deny there was sex, but he said it was consensual.  There was no hard evidence to prove otherwise (there rarely is in rape cases), except my friend’s account of what she heard.  She told the police she wasn’t sure what she heard.  If he had denied anything had happened, then there would be proof but because he admitted the act, the issue became consent, which really can’t be proven.  So the police told me the Crown Attorney declined to bring the case to court.  They then lectured me on drinking so much and “being more aware of my surroundings” and they "assured" me that they scared the guy and he won’t do anything like that again.

 

My friend in the wheelchair was initially supportive.  I know that she knew what really happened.  I tried to be ok with her lack of support with the police….I knew she was probably getting pressure from his girlfriend to not talk about it since he would get deported and probably banned from Canada if the truth came out.   But within a short time, I was a predator slut who seduced someone else’s man.  It didn’t matter that I was a 23 year old virgin who had never had a date and had only ever kissed one person in her life.  This was the story being passed along. 

I became very angry and withdrawn.  I just wanted to lash out.  I could barely stand myself or anyone else.  I hated everyone and everything.  Every time I needed to go for yet another STD test or get yet another vaccination (because of the country he was from), I felt like I would explode.  One of my friends told my parents what happened and it caused a lot of friction between all of us.  My parents wanted me to move home, protect me, wanted to know why I didn’t tell them.  I did not want to be taken care of, and I didn’t want anyone else to know.   I didn’t want to be a rape victim…that label completely clashed with how I saw myself and who I wanted to be and the more people knew, the less I could be myself.  I just wanted to pretend it never happened.  My brother demanded to know where he and his friends could find this guy so they could all make the 2 hour drive and beat the guy with a baseball bat.   I refused to tell him and made him promise not to tell anyone.  The truth is, I had no idea where to find him, otherwise I might have told him.

I sat in my therapist’s office several times and glared at her without saying a word. I did not see why I was sitting there. Clearly others should be sitting in that chair but not me. After a few silent sessions, she suggested doing something proactive, such as volunteering at the sexual assault centre.  It sounded like a plan to me so I showed up for orientation.  I was late and grabbed the last seat at the table.  There were about 20 women.  People were going around the table and introducing themselves.  Then I heard a vaguely familiar voice and tried to place who this person was.  I realized it was my rapist’s girlfriend.  I stared her down across the table until the facilitator finally took a break when she left and did not come back.

I dropped out of school again, went on welfare and started volunteering 40+ hours a week. I did this for three years.   I became obsessed with it.  I worked on the crisis line at all hours of the night, went to court with victims, worked in their office answering phones during the day, showed up at the hospital for initial contact with a victim....whatever needed to be done, I did it.  It was my life and it did help somewhat.  It gave me a purpose.  I knew what I was doing with my day, with my emotional resources.  I didn’t have to think about myself, I could focus on others.  But it didn’t address the problem.

Eventually I got burned out and quit volunteering.  I moved back in with my parents and, faced with that unresolved anger, I turned it inwards.  I had stopped drinking completely right after the rape, had lost most of my friends, hated myself and had no hope for my future.  So I started to eat.  Compulsively.  I became an absolute food addict, complete with all the addict behaviours like lying, stealing, hoarding.  I had a bunch of dead end jobs and felt like my life was over.  Within two years I gained 150 pounds and was completely unhappy until 2004 when I got my lap band. 

These things are true about me:

·        I don’t believe in the inherent goodness of people

·        I think love makes us weak and distracts us from truly fulfilling who we are

·        I don’t believe in monogamy or marriage

BUT…..

·        I fall in love with everyone all the time

·        I get jealous and possessive

·        I love poetry and candles

·        I trust everyone I fall in love with and open myself when I shouldn’t

·        I think this will all protect me from assholes but I am not surprised when it doesn’t

·        I want to be an intellectual philosopher but really I’m just a tender hearted mushball