Weighty Decisions

So when I wrote my last blog post, I might have been (more than) slightly pissed.  After I calmed down, talked it out, reasoned with myself, thought about it, cried about it, etc., I've come to a conclusion.

I'm keeping the Lap Band.  Or rather, I'll be getting a full on replacement and hopefully keeping that one for a good long while.

I know.  I shouldn't.  I'm afraid of gaining back all of the weight (and then some!) if I have it fully removed.  So my vanity is most likely taking over my common sense.  Or has it?

I honestly don't know.  It may not be vanity so much as it is worry that I'll die young from obesity and it's complications.  Yet there is a part of me that feels this thing will kill me before the fat ever would.

I know the risks.  I know the complications.  My face may have even turned ghostly white when signing all the waivers and paperwork today.  Yet I know I can't live without this thing.  I don't stand a snowball's chance in hell of losing weight if I have it removed.  That is how weak I am.

I discussed all of this with my new surgeon.  He knows how I feel.  He's assured me that I am most likely the only person in the Lap Band population that has had this happen three times.  I fully expect to be written up in medical journals about this weirdness.  He's also assured me that it isn't anything I have done.  It is just an unfortunate circumstance that I have been blessed (cursed?) with.  I feel rather secure with his words and his knowledge.  I just hope that I'm right about it.

So now I wait.  My surgery is scheduled for the 20th.  That leaves me about eight days to fret and stew and worry about whether or not I'll wake up after the surgery.  Or if I'll have life threatening complications.  Or if it fails again.  Or so many other things......fuck, brain.  Give it a rest.

I hope I'm doing the right thing.

Revenge Of The Lap Band

If you've stuck around my madness for awhile, you may remember that I had Lap Band surgery done in April of 2010.  You may also remember when it fell apart and I had to have it repaired in August of that year.  Then it fell apart again, and they replaced it all in October of that same year.  Yes.  Three surgeries in a six month period.  Good times.  Not.

So guess what happened?  I went to have a fill yesterday (after a year and a half....lack of insurance and money sort of cuts into that), and it DIDN'T.  FUCKING.  TAKE.  Yes, because it decided to fuck up AGAIN.  I knew it when she stuck the needle in.  I knew it even before, on a subconscious level.  I think it got screwed up this past October.  I know I wrote about a ripping pain in my side then.  The pain has continued on.  I've blamed chronic appendicitis, menstrual cramps, even fucking gluten intolerance for that pain.  Looks like I was wrong.

You know, all I wanted to do was lose some fucking weight.  That's it.  And because I know myself well enough, I knew I couldn't do it without some sort of assistance.  Now it's all fucked up.

I have a lot of hate right now for a lot of people.  I hate the fucking manufacturers of such a shitty product.  I hate the people who have had success with it because I feel like a failure.  I hate the people who tout it as being easier than gastric bypass.  I hate my surgeon for not making sure that this would stay without falling apart.  I hate the physician's assistant who does the fills, because she gave me a verbal smackdown over everything before the fill, and then, oh look!  It's busted!  Most of all, I hate myself.

I hate that I can't do this on my own.  I hate that I have to have someone hold my hand over something so basic.  I hate that I can't just be magically smaller.  I hate that I hate exercise so much, that I love food so much, that I boredom eat, that I stress eat, that I just eat for the sake of eating.  I feel so disgusted with myself over my lack of control and the fact that I will not make a conscious effort to even try.  I hate that I've made so many promises in the past, so many bargains of, "Oh, I'll eat this today and then I'll start eating better tomorrow."  I hate every fucking inch of my body, every pound that clings to me, every ripple of cellulite.

At this point, I know I no longer want a Lap Band.  It is not worth it if I have to have surgery every other year.  I'm just waiting for the physician's assistant to call and get everything started.  I'm terrified though.  What if something goes wrong?  What if the band and everything else has become so fucking entangled with my insides that it takes forever to get it out?  What if I fucking die?  That's the big one.  I'm scared of dying.  No, it's not so much that.  I don't want to die and leave my family.

So all I can do now is wait and ask for your thoughts and, if you are a believer, prayers.  I'm not sure how much good those would do for someone who doesn't believe in anything, but it sure can't hurt.

Surprise! It's A Family!

You know, I had an entirely different blog post in mind about how I've been employed for a month, but that will be put on hold.

Something happened this week.  Nothing bad, but just sort of overwhelming and amazing.

I guess I can't even start with what happened this week.  It was things that happened years ago that need to be talked about first.

My maternal grandmother and the family she had before she met my grandfather.

Oh yes.

When she was 16, she had a daughter by her then husband.  Several years later, she had a son.  Then another son.  Then things happened, and that life just seemed to disappear.  She met and married my grandfather.  She had other kids.  Her former family was only mentioned vaguely.

Until this week.

On Tuesday, I received a text from my mom.  She said that my cousin had contacted her and told her to check her "other" folder on Facebook messages.  There was a message from a man.  He said that he might be her half-brother.

At first, I was skeptical.  I mean, seriously.  Random guy just contacts you on Facebook and says that.  Who wouldn't be laughing that off as a scam or prank?  Then things were mentioned.  Names were given.  Dates.  What was said clicked with what we knew, or could be verified with records.

Holy shit.  We have a whole other family.

Last night, I started a group with my new found uncle to bring all of the relatives together so we could talk about things and try to piece together a whole lifetime of memories.  Some of the stuff that is being said is hard to listen to, but it is just so completely my grandmother that I know that there is no way it is a hoax.

Then there are the pictures of the aunt/sister we never knew.  She died in 2008.

She looks exactly like my grandmother and my other aunt who died in 2010.  My jaw dropped when I saw the resemblance.

And my heart started hurting.

It's hurting for all these wasted years, for the fact that my grandmother never even told us that, hey!  You guys have other relatives!  It hurts for my new uncles and aunt who were just.....left.  I think I'm also enraged by that fact, and more than a little pissed that my grandmother did that.  I loved her, yes, but there is just no excuse for what happened.  I can only thank whatever cosmic spirit that is out there that they seemed to have had a happy life despite my grandmother being the way she was.  I also have to keep reminding myself that there may be other reasons she had for everything turning out like this.  I know her life and upbringing were not easy.

Still, this is a lot to take in.  This is shit you usually only see on talk shows.  Yet here we are.

I can't even put a permanent ending on this post, because this story is still unraveling.  Just keep all of us in your thoughts (and prayers, if you're so inclined) as we work through everything.

Losing Hope

Last week was the start of the application for public aid.  I did not want to fill it out.  I did not want to associate ourselves with the whole messy business of legally begging.

That is how twisted my thinking is.  I don't begrudge anyone help when they need it, but everyone knows the stigma attached to having that Link Card.  The judging of the items you're buying.  The looks you receive if you're not dressed like a fucking poor person.  I've seen and heard it all before.  Hell, I've even participated in it.  Peer pressure is a motherfucker.  Maybe this is Karma's way of getting me back.

Maybe I'm being too dramatic.  We probably won't qualify anyway.  As of right now, we're below the poverty level, but they are asking for pay stubs for the past two months.  Two months in which my husband was gainfully employed and making money that was above the poverty line.  I am supposed to take these and fifty million other documents to the appointment tomorrow.

The appointment.  What a joke.  I had questions that I needed answered.  I got the appointment letter on Saturday.  Knowing that they weren't open by the time I got that letter, I waited until this morning to call the local office.  The number was no longer in service.  What.  The.  Hell.  So I called the main help line.  Because everyone was busy, they automatically disconnect you instead of queuing up the calls.  So I emailed.  Nothing.  I tried the disconnected number again.  Got through......to a fucking voice mail.  I left a less than polite message.  Still nothing.  So tomorrow I trek down to the office and hope for the best.  I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to take deep cleansing breaths while waiting, lest I rip someone's head off.

This is just more stress on top of the stress pile I've already built up.  My husband is still working the part-time temp job.  No one else has called with magical job offers.  I went on an application spree two Sundays ago (after listening to some bullshit ass reaming that the in-laws laid down on my husband while Facetiming......seriously wanted to unhook the internet and I should have) and got one bite.  I have an interview on Wednesday.

And I'm scared shitless.  Since moving here, I have only had one other interview, and that was this past summer at a local produce store.  I flubbed that nicely because I cannot take the pressure of being so closely scrutinized and being asked direct questions.  This interview is going to involve improv and pointed questions.  It is a group interview.  My anxiety level is head explodingly high, and I feel like puking.  I just want Wednesday to come and go so I can get the failure out of the way.

There are so many other things I want to write, but I need to go shower and just try to calm down.  I was hoping that laying this out would help me some, but it is just making me feel even worse, so I'm going to stop before I give myself heart failure.

Addiction...

When you see that word, I bet you think of so many things.  Drugs.  Alcohol.  Sex.  Gambling.  Shopping.

This is not about any of those things.

This is about being addicted to food.

I was touched off by this article.  Where most people would be like, "EW, GROSS!  Why would he do that?!", I just felt pain.  I know what he went through.  I lived it.  I'm still living it.

I was never as big as this gentleman was, but I know the pain and the despair that are coupled with compulsive eating.  You just eat and eat and eat to cover up any number of problems or feelings.  Then after you eat yourself sick, you just feel even more horrible about yourself.  You watch the weight pile on, but eat more because you're disgusted with your body.  You cry because you want to do something about it, but can't because you are too heavy and too lethargic to exercise.  Then you eat and give up hope.  Your life basically revolves around food, and, much like any other addiction, you have to have the willpower to break it.

I don't have that willpower.

For most of my life, I have been morbidly obese.  For most of my life, I have had a food addiction.  It is not something that you can bring up like other addictions, mainly because people think that you can't be addicted to something that you need to live.  How wrong they are.  As I sit here thinking about my life, I can recall so many instances of eating because I felt ashamed or heartbroken or disgusted with myself.  I can recall secret midnight trips to the kitchen to eat until I was bloated.  I can recall the self-loathing, the promises of, "I will never do this again", and the memories of the next day and starting the cycle over.

I still sometimes do that.  And I hate myself so damned much for it.

That's not to say I'm gaining weight at an alarming rate.  I'm actually not gaining at all.  I have a Lap-Band, although it hasn't been filled in a good long while because I lack money or insurance to get it done.  So I do have some restriction.  However, I am still able to eat crap foods and whatever else my heart desires, but in a much smaller amount.  Couple that with complete apathy about exercising, and you have the makings of not losing weight.  So I'm just sort of on an unhealthy plateau of my own making.....and it is miserable and scary.

The worst part of all of this is that I know I should be eating better.  I said that after I had a sort of heart attack scare at the end of August.  I almost kept that promise.  Then it just fell away like all of the other BS promises that I made in my life.  Now I'm just standing at the point where I wonder if this addiction will kill me.  After every bite of food I know I shouldn't eat, I wonder if this will be the night that food does me in.  It is a horrifying thought, but still I eat.  And eat.

I don't know what the point of writing this is.  Maybe it was just something I needed to get out because I literally felt pain after reading the gentleman's story of his own struggle.  Maybe I'm hoping that other people out there with a food addiction will not feel so alone.  I honestly think that compulsive eating does not get enough help, time, or attention because it just seems like such a phony thing to "normal" people.  It is NOT.  I am living (for now) proof of that.

So as the old saying goes.....

My name is Jessica and I am addicted to food.

Eight.......EIGHT?!?!

Dear Jason,

Today is your eighth birthday!  I have sat here and typed and erased, typed and erased, typed and erased.  It seems like I've done that a thousand times because what I want to say won't come out right or sounds corny.  I guess all you really need to know is that I love you completely, even when you are acting like a fool.  Yes, you try my patience.  Yes, there are times when I'm short with you or ignore you.  But you need to know that no matter how badly I act up, I love you unconditionally.  I cherish every moment that we spend together.  I cherish your little quirks and your icky little boy sense of humor.

I only wish I was better at expressing myself around you and showing you how much I truly love and value our bond.  Maybe you sort of realized that today when we were outside throwing snowballs at each other and I was giggling like a five year old.  And hearing you laugh was a million times better than sitting in front of the computer (like I'm doing now!) and doing nothing.  I just felt so happy because I was able to share your joy in one little simple act.

I hope that in the coming year we are able to do more.  I hope I'm able to pull myself out of this weird apathy towards life and be a better mother to you.  I hope that we are able to give you a more stable future.

And I hope that you will forgive us for any crap that we pull that might potentially ruin your life.  Like our love for teasing you about your "girlfriend".  I know, I know.  I need to shut up now.  I still think it is cute, though.

I love you, my son.  Even if I'm unable to show it all the time, it is still there.

Always.

-Mommy

P.S.

And because you're a Beatles fan.....

Frustrations

Jobs shouldn't be this hard to find.

Every day that passes without either of us being gainfully employed just frustrates me to no end.  Well, not so much me being unemployed, because I know that I'm not suited for shit.  But my husband.  He's employable.  He's smart.  He knows what's up and how to get shit done.

I feel like we've exhausted every possible outlet.  I scour the want ads and fucking Craigslist every day.  Nothing.  What the fuck, people?  How the fuck are we supposed to get experience if you won't hire?

I guess this is the part where the mild panic starts to set in.  No immediate prospects of a full-time, permanent, living wage, insurance giving job.  Yes, there are opportunities, but they're all temporary.  They pay well, but they're not full-time.  None offer insurance, which is a very important part of all of this, since my husband has a gimp eye.  Yeah, that's probably not PC, but whatever.  It's fucked up.  It needs a shit ton of drops to be even 20% normal and not explode-y.

I just need something to give.  I can't keep going to bed with the thoughts of how the hell we're going to survive in my head.  I keep trying to tell myself that we're so much better off than a good portion of the population, but it doesn't help.  Yes, we have a guaranteed place to live.  We will have insurance soon, thanks to my in-laws.  We will probably be fine for bills and groceries and such, because we'll have unemployment and help from the state, I'm sure.  It's just fucking scary and frustrating.

I feel like I'm whining too much, but all of it is annoying.  No one should ever have to feel like this or freak out like this.  And it's not like my bills are magically going to go away because we don't have gainful employment.  I think that is a major part of my freaking out.  I know how much I have to pay in hospital bills and debt each month.  I know that we may not have enough to cover it.  I know that that will make our credit ratings go straight to the crapper.

There is also something else that is frustrating me beyond all measure, but I can't talk about it yet.  After the first of the month, then yes.  Open season, unless I get arrested for something.  Which is a possibility.

Oooooh, intrigue.

I'm drunk and going to go harass my friends now.