Monday, September 24, 2007

Today, one of my customers threw something at me. When did this become appropriate behavior?

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Resident Evil: Extinction

Last night I went to the movies by myself and ended up meeting a stranger in the ladies room and then sitting with her and her husband. Hah. It all happened because I have this extreme inability to stay silent when other people are near enough to hear me. So, I said, "Hi!" as we both washed our hands and it ended up a few minutes later with, "You should come with with us!". And I did.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

I'm going to have gastric bypass surgery (roux en-y) in December.

This is how it is to be fat:

It lives under my skin like another being, its not me, but my prisoner, my prison, my pain. I can’t escape, now enslaved to the restrictions and the desires of my rolls. Eat more. Stop moving so much. Stop trying.

It is a lens in front of my eyes, making me look at the world, my friends, and myself differently. Is that chair big enough? Will it hold? I don’t want to go there, we might have to walk a lot. How can she complain about her size 8 jeans not fitting anymore? I must be worthless, no one asks me out. Sure, I’m nice but who could get past the double chin and the width of my hips? They must always say I’m “sweet” because they are too nice to say “fat”.

It is a leech, eating away at my body and my spirit. It steals my breath when I carry myself up the stairs. It consumes my energy when I dare go out to that festival or that amusement park. My self-confidence is swallowed whole by stretching skin and too much weight. Ambition and desire have long been devoured by the need to stay home and hide, where I feel less hideous.

It is my obvious secret. I can’t talk about these things with people who might care because I did this to myself. No one made me eat the way I do; no one else forced me to skip the exercise for a nap. How can I complain? This isn’t a disease, it is my own doing. How could I complain any more than the drug addict or the person facing bankruptcy because of gambling? This is self-induced.

It is the end of my dreams. I tell myself I don’t want to get married because I believe no one would ever be attracted to me. I’m not attracted to fat men, how could I expect any different? Even then, how would I find a dress big enough for me? This is why I didn’t go to prom. And then if I did get a dress, would the aisle be wide enough for both me and my father to walk down together? Suppose somehow someone does decide he loves me that much, I do find a GIANT dress and a church with wide enough aisle, what happens on the wedding night when he sees me naked? I don’t want to see me naked. And maybe I shouldn’t go to Europe because they aren’t overweight like Americans, it might be even worse over there. In fact, maybe I shouldn’t go out to eat with my friends because they might be thinking about how much I’m eating and not about what I’m saying to them. How could I face these challenges? I might as well give up hope altogether.

It is my constant torment. I diet and exercise enough to lose 20 pounds (which doesn’t feel any different at all to me, my jeans aren’t any looser) only to gain it back and more when I finally decide that effort isn’t worth the reward. I see no escape in this hopeless future of feeling tired and ugly and uncomfortable in my own skin. It is exhausting smiling so much when I just want to go hide and cry.

But let me tell you what it isn’t. It isn’t the death of hope or the only thing left for me. I’m going to have weight loss surgery.

So, understand why I get defensive when you say, “Doesn’t that surgery kill people?” Because, honestly, I would rather die trying than continue living this way; it is a half-life. Understand that, to me, twenty-five thousand dollars doesn’t sound like too much if insurance won’t cover it. I can’t put a price on what it feels like to even hope, let alone what it might feel like to experience freedom. Understand that I have tried other things, this is the only thing I think will work permanently. I didn’t just come to a snap decision, I’ve researched. I’ve studied. I’ve asked questions. I’m ready.

Finally, I just wanted to let you know that I don’t want to hear the horror stories you’ve heard from this or that person. I don’t want to hear that you are worried, that I should “be careful” or that maybe I should consider this or that alternative. I’m about to go through the most scary, exciting experience of my life this far. What I need is support and encouragement. What I need is to be honest about the biggest secret I’ve ever had.

Can you do this for me?

Friday, September 07, 2007

"Hey there Pumpkin!"

I hate it when I have something on my mind that I don't want to share with everyone. I wouldn't call it a secret, exactly, just one of those things that you only talk about with your close friends, and then when you feel comfortable, everyone else. But I'm not a very private person, so it feels strange not to share things.

In other news, so far, this semester is great. I only go to oxford two nights a week and I'm only taking thirteen credit hours and one of my classes actually has creative writing as the homework, so its amazing! Of course, when I'm turning things in I pay a bit more attention to things like sentence structure, grammar, and spelling.

I sure like the baby. I like to watch her sleep and hold her when she cries and hear the sounds she makes when she's eating. I like laying my hand on her back while she sleeps so I can feel her breathing in and out. I love the way her toes curl in and the way she grunts at me when I touch them. She sure doesn't like being messed with. Mostly, I haven't found anything I don't like about her except that nasty umbilical cord, but everyone assures me that it will fall off soon. *shudder*

Well, I'm going to go make that CD for Katie that I said I'd make several weeks ago. . .

Sarah Jo!

Take that!

I was reading the last chapter of the last Harry Potter book when it happened: the noise. It came from behind me, to my left. Soon, it became apparent that an insect has somehow infiltrated the sanctuary of my bedroom and was now hiding inside the lampshade. As I moved closer to investigate, the enemy dropped so quickly I only saw the black flash falling to the floor near my bed. I crawled across the bed and peered over its edges, trying to get a closer look at my adversary. As if anticipating my every move, it flew up, towards my face, circling my head before landing on the ceiling, mocking me. A wasp. Before I knew it, I was off the bed and running towards the doorway, casting a suspicious eye on my attacker. Too late, I realized my mistake. There, on the bed, still open and waiting, was my book. I couldn't just leave it there.

Now, the wasp was crawling down the wall, creeping closer to the doorway, to me. I had no choice. Cautiously, I crept into the room, leaving a wide berth between myself and the monster. As soon as my fingers touched the rough cover of the book, I was fleeing the room, swinging the door shut behind me. The battle was lost, but the enemy was trapped.

Finally, reinforcements (my father) arrived. He lead the front lines while I waited (cowered) outside the bedroom door. He checked the walls. He checked the ceiling. He checked the light. No wasp. In a desperate move, he pulled aside the curtain to reveal the breach that allowed the enemy to gain access; the window was open about two inches at the top. Clearly, this is how the battle began, but did the monster once again use this hidden portal to escape the battlefield, or was it lurking in some dark corner to catch me unawares. No, I couldn't allow this to happen.

While my father watched my back, I gathered clothing to dress in the bathroom. As I went to fetch a shirt off the floor, I was it. I spied the enemy. I sounded the alarm. Swiftly, my father brought fate to the sneaky little monster between a shoe and the carpet.

After some intense labor (no time at all), the corpse was disposed of and the battlements reinforced. Once again, the bedroom is safe.

Sunday, September 02, 2007

The story of a dream

The other day I had a horrible dream and woke up crying. Okay. That happens occasionally. But then today I had another dream that caused me to wake up crying. This is excessive. In this dream, my mother was having a baby and I was going to the hospital to visit her. On the way to the hospital, I met some cool girl with funky hair, piercings, and tattoos. She seemed really nice, but then when we got to the hospital, I found out it was a set-up and there was a shoot out! This person was shooting at me with some kind of automatic weapon and I was hiding but then one of the bullets hit me and bounced right off. It hurt, but I didn't die, which was good. So, I walked towards the person with the bullets flying at me and I reached up and broke the gun. The other person died, I guess. Finally, cops and paramedics showed up and I looked down at myself to see that I was covered in open wounds and it REALLY HURT. I started crying. I woke up. How terrible. Naps ARE evil.

Saturday, September 01, 2007


So I guess it happens that people aren’t always who they’ve always been, and things that you could always count on aren’t there anymore. So I guess it happens that things you expected to stay the same suddenly change. But here I am, and I don’t feel any different than before. Is there room for me now that everything is different, or will I remain part of the past with all those old memories and that box of photographs?