“We can rebuild her. We have the technology.”

As you may have noticed, I didn’t have a blog entry for last week. And it wasn’t because there wasn’t anything to talk about. I actually had a positive update, having lost nearly three pounds that week AND finally dipping under 290. You would have thought I’d have been shouting from the rooftops.

Instead I was unconscious on pain pills.

See, this is the main issue with my ongoing struggle with back pain. The “cure” often sidelines me every bit as much as the pain. Maybe more so, because it affects my very consciousness.

Those who know me know that I have two jobs: the nine-to-five that pays the bills and the writing career. It kills my soul daily that I have to regulate my dream to ‘hobby hours,’ just to be able to survive. It’s a compromise. It’s not the ideal. And this year, my opportunity to make inroads as a screenwriter has monopolized those few hours I do get to chase my dream, which means I have seriously neglected the part of my career that has made me the most money.

But whatever it takes, right? These are the perimeters in which I’m forced to operate, so I have to navigate these narrow corridors as best I can.

I can’t do that unconscious, which is where western medicine leaves me when my back decides to take a powder. The only thing they can do for me is A.) give me strong medication I’m loath to take and B.) steal all the rest of my precious time away on every new gamble that MAYBE this new thing will work longer than the old thing.

This week I had my first appointment with the physical medicine department. This was supposed to be for an epidural shot for the pain. My thought was, no – I don’t really want a shot in my back but if it gets me upright and stabilized, it’s worth it.

But remember in my last blog, when I said that going to the doctor again for my back meant I knew I was getting back on the merry-go-round with more tests to needle down the “cause” and the “cure”? Well, this appointment was that, even though he actually did a range of motion test and actually listened to me when I talked to him. When I told him what the previous doctor said about weight, he conceded that weight can be an issue but there are just simply folks who are going to suffer from chronic back pain, heavy or thin. He said weight management was something that they often discussed, but really the issue was strengthening the core muscles that surround the back to stabilize it.

His focus was my back, not my weight. It was refreshing. (I can ONLY hope it wasn’t because my husband was there at the appointment with me.)

Honestly I got the impression that the shot was really a small part in the overall cure, and I could pursue it if I wanted but isolating the root cause (which at this point really points to nerve pain since it radiates down through my hip and into my leg) and dealing with it through that strengthening of the core was really the bigger focus of the treatment.

This starts with an MRI to rule out that there isn’t any disc damage now that wasn’t there eleven years ago when I had the last one.

I haven’t scheduled it yet, mostly because I’m a big baby who is extraordinarily claustrophobic. The last time I had one, I nearly flipped out being slid into that silly machine. I will, don’t worry, I just need a little time to wrap my mind around it and gear up to it.

In the meantime he offered yet another pill to help deal this time with the nerve pain. It’s called Nortriptyline and it’s an anti-depressant, which was not good news for me. I hate anti-depressants because I have yet to take one that makes me feel legitimately better. Most either make me go numb or kill my creativity and steal away the parts that make me “me.” I’ve been on Paxil, on Wellbutrin, on Effexor – and none of them have ever made me feel “normal.” Much like the pain pills that steal precious hours away from me by knocking my ass out, they steal so much more from me than they give. Considering my past history with suicide, I want nothing – NOTHING – to do with anything that could exacerbate that risk.

Both Chris Cornell and Robin Williams were being treated for their depression with medication, and still succumbed to the unthinkable. That scares the shit out of me. I’m barely holding on sometimes as it is. I don’t want the very life-saver I’m clutching to turn into pure led and drag me down to the depths as I struggle to keep afloat.

He explained that this wouldn’t work like that because at such a small dose (10mg,) it would work on the nerve pain when taken nightly with the Tramadol I was already taking. I just couldn’t take it during the day because it would make me sleepy (big FUCKING surprise) and he advised NOT to take it with the  muscle relaxer.

So I was like, fine. Whatever. Get me mobile, doc. Then we can worry about the “real” cure – which essentially means I’m going to have to devote my precious time and attention to working on my back. I just need to get past the acute stage of pain first.

The second warning bell went off at the pharmacy, when I experienced a delay getting the prescription filled because the pharmacy needed the doctor himself to clear it, considering there was an issue with taking Tramadol and Nortriptyline together.

But I have to trust the doctor, right? So did the pharmacy, apparently, who filled the order finally. They gave me a box of pills set up with weekly therapy: one pill a night for the first week and if that wasn’t effective, I could increase it to two doses a night for the next week. If that didn’t work, go to three for week three, four to week four or finally five doses on week five – with a maximum dose of 50mg nightly as needed for pain. I was told, however, to take the lowest effective dosage, which was fine with me considering I didn’t really want to take this new pill at all.

But desperate times called for desperate measures.

I did tell my husband, my bestie and my kids, though – if you see me demonstrate ANY questionable behavior, please say something. DO something. Don’t let this new fucking pill gaily trip along my subconscious, turning off every filter that keeps me in what narrow control I currently have.

That first night I took the first pill with my Tramadol and still had a helluva time letting myself fall asleep. The whole thing at the pharmacy really fucked with my head. IS this safe to take together? I mean, yes, a guy in a white coat assured me it was fine, but the one and only time I had a hallucination was on prescribed medicine, under a doctor’s advice. I was taking Tramadol that time too, and my doc prescribed Ambien to help me sleep. You wouldn’t think I’d need it on such heavy pain medication, but after a while, it doesn’t make you sleep anymore, and I had been on it for a good little bit by that point. I made the mistake of taking the two together and whoa, nelly. It was a wild ride. I gave up on the Ambien a week into taking it, which resulted in one of the worst panic attacks of my life.

I hate, hate, hate pills. Hate em. HATE.

But, to my delight and surprise, the pills actually started to work this time around. I felt better. I slept better. I was moving with very little thought, which meant the pain was actually, finally, inhibited.

For two days anyway.

By Day Three, I started experiencing troubling side effects. I was at work that morning and I was getting dizzier by the minute, which made me nauseated. My heart started to race and I knew that a panic attack was setting in, which makes it hard as hell to work when you’re spending 100% of your energy trying to normalize. I made the HUGE mistake of going online to figure out if these were side effects of the new medication. Why was the pharmacy so reticent to fill this prescription?

As anyone in a post Internet world knows, if you already feel bad and you start to self-diagnose with what you find on the web, you’re going to convince yourself that you’re gonna die. This is never a good idea when you’re on the verge of a panic attack. By the time I got to “serotonin syndrome,” I was freaking the fuck out. This condition can occur thanks to certain medication that causes serotonin to accumulate in your brain, kinda like, oh… Nortriptyline AND Tramadol, and symptoms run the gamut from nausea/vomiting to seizures and DEATH.

Panic attack mode: secured.

Unlike the panicky feeling I would get on certain strains/dosages of cannabis, where I was secure in the knowledge that no one had actually ever DIED from it, I no longer had that assurance. Now I had this potentially fatal cocktail coursing through my body and nothing to do but read the signs and pray it on the more benign side of the side effects scale.

Quite a gamble if you ask me, and an expensive one at that. Hence my biggest issue about Big Pharma and cannabis prohibition.

So that night I didn’t take either pill. Fuck all that noise. I’m not going to get killed by the cure. The very day I went to the new doctor I nearly passed out at work because of this toxic mix of man-made chemicals screwing up my body chemistry – and I was still in pain on top of it all.

The new meds helped with the pain, finally, but I’m not sure that it’s worth wondering if every little twinge I get is something significantly worse than any other normal twinge. I’ve never had a seizure, but they don’t look like a whole lot of fun.

So what’s the answer? Well, the doc gave me the answer. It’s not in a pill, or a shot. I have a bad back and it sucks to be me, but them’s just the cards I was dealt. And wouldn’t you know it, everything I want is on the other side of pain and I have to do – big surprise – whatever it takes to get to the other side of it. So I’m going to have to do the exercises, the stretches, the physical therapy to strengthen the core, even when I have to fight through excruciating pain to do it. There is no shortcut, much as I would like there to be.

I do, however, think there is something to my theory that it might involve something in my reproductive system. When my period hit this past week, it was another hellish one. I was passing 3-inch clots and experiencing such horrendous cramps that, with combined with the back pain, put me at a steady “9” on the pain scale, just one hair away from unbearable. I cruise normally around 2 or 3, but with back pain it can go as high as 7 or 8.

If I’m sobbing in my husband’s arms for ten minutes straight, just because I can’t handle one more moment of pain, I’d say that there’s a major fucking problem. I’ve been dealing with this shit for more than a decade. I barely break.

This is breaking me, which is why I reached out for help in the first fucking place.

And the Internet sources agree. “Talk to your doctor,” they said, if a clot is bigger than a quarter.

Yeah, I tried that. She told me I was too fat and this was normal lady stuff. But, you know. Whatever.

I did file a grievance with this particular doctor and asked to get another provider. Now it looks like I have to pay yet ANOTHER co-pay (along with what I paid the doc in physical medicine and probably the MRI too) to go see an OB/GYN just to get my issues addressed.

Getting nickled and dimed while I’m strung along for weeks, and still nothing is getting fixed?

Sounds like western medicine to me.

Fuck the system. That’s all I’m saying.

I can’t be unconscious for weeks and I refuse to live in a constant state of panic. I’ve got shit to do. I’ve got a final rewrite to do on this script, which I haven’t even been able to address because I’ve been in too much pain or medicated into a coma. After that, I need to – absolutely and positively NEED to – write another book. My career is flat-lining and my creative soul is gasping its final, dying breath to express itself.

If I don’t get back to “me” – and soon – there may not be anything left.

It’s not going to be easy, and I know it’s going to hurt like a mother, but I have to fix this the old fashioned way. I’ve got to grit my teeth and do whatever it takes to make my incredible body as strong as it can be. Because it can be. I can make it so.

I can do this. Whatever it takes.

Just… don’t judge me if I cry, okay?

 

Diagnosis: Fat

Yesterday I went to the doctor for two things: my ongoing and increasing back pain and horrendous menstrual periods, which I wanted to ensure didn’t have anything to do with each other. The reason for this was because I had started to see some progress with my back, but another hellish cycle struck and I was sidelined again by the back pain – to the point I had to call out from work.

So I did a little research to see if the two things might be related, and in doing so I realized that the kinds of heavy, painful periods I have been having, which I chalked up to aging, aren’t necessarily perimenopausal like I had previously thought. Instead I was reading about fibroid cysts (which my mother had) and how the pressure of large cysts could cause back pain.

Seemed plausible, but I’d need a doctor to confirm so I made an appointment. I thought maybe if THAT was the cause of my current back pain, then perhaps that was a treatment I hadn’t considered, one that could make a dramatic improvement in my current health.

I wasn’t looking forward to it. The sketchy thing about back pain is that it’s one of those diagnose by process of elimination things. I’ve been through it all. MRIs, physical therapy, chiropractors, etc. I figured with the possibility of a cyst, I’d probably have to get another ultrasound.

I was about to climb yet another mountain, and I wasn’t particularly excited about it, but I had no choice. It’s everything I can do to get through an eight-hour shift. I’m not sleeping well, obviously, and by the time I go to work I’m already tired. I sit at a desk for eight hours, which, as expected, sends my sciatica through the roof. I try to walk it out, like I had in months past, trying to limber up and get moving at least twice a day with a ten minute jaunt around the complex where I work. If I can make just three of those laps, I easily make my 10K steps.

Recently, I’m lucky to make it once. By the time I drag myself home in the evening, I’m done. I’m doner than done. There is no cleaning, no errands being done – like grocery shopping, for instance, which has thrown my diet out of whack because we’re grabbing things out more often than not. This includes lunch and dinner, which spells disaster for what I’m trying to do to lose weight.

I thought if nothing else, I’ll get the standard prescription treatment for my back, the narcotic/anti-inflammatory/muscle relaxer, and I’d take this weekend just to medicate the hell out of myself and try to get past this acute episode.

This ain’t my first rodeo. This has been the protocol towards “fixing” my back since 2006. Only it never fixes anything, it just keeps me a faithful customer to Big Pharma.

When I wasn’t working, I could medicate with cannabis and saw much better results. But because of the stigma that goes along with the use of cannabis, not to mention the legal ramifications even now that it’s “technically” legal in the state of California, that’s not the go-to option anymore. When I applied for my job, I was given a drug test. Since I had worked with employee files up till then, I knew what the perimeters were to pass. I could have 1000mg of cocaine, but 25mg of THC would have given me a hard stop.

Cocaine – acceptable. A plant that has been used medicinally for ten thousand years (and never killed one person) – not.

It’s frustrating. Every bit as fucking frustrating as my weight being the sole focus of any and all doctor’s appointments.

I mean, I must be one of the easiest patients for doctors to see. Instead of probing and getting to the root cause, they can just look at me and make an instant diagnosis. Oh, your back hurts? Well, you’re fat. Case closed, moving on, next patient.

I spent maybe ten minutes talking to my doctor about the issues that brought me into the office. She dismissed immediately that cysts might be my problem, and shrugged off my hellish periods as just a woman thang, even when I told her that (TMI alert) I have horrendous flooding that will have me going through every protective barrier known to (wo)man within an hour. Seriously, I’ve almost passed out before from the blood loss. I have gone from the bathroom five steps to my bed and collapsed in a heap, hoping Steven didn’t come in the room before I could pull myself together in order to clean up the mess so he wouldn’t think someone had tried to murder me.

Those are the days I barely even want to leave the house because movement = flooding, which means I have to change three times a day. But she just smirked and said every woman feels that way.

chandlerreally

Basically none of what I told her registered to the doc, who expects me to trust her when she was absolutely not going to trust me when I was telling her what was wrong. That flooding thing is new within the last few years. It’s not “just a woman thing” or me being a baby about my period. I’ve had my period since I was nine, just like I’ve had this back pain since 2006. I KNOW when something is up. I DON’T just go bug her for nothing.

Instead she pushed around on my back for a whole thirty seconds, nearly sending me flying off of the exam table in the process. Within those thirty seconds, she decided it was completely muscular and declared I needed to lose weight “yesterday” to avoid the weight compressing my discs in such a way that I’m virtually crippled by the pain in a decade.

All she saw was the weight. That’s all any of them see. And they won’t take my complaints seriously as a result.

judgemebymysize

She made the same snap judgment everyone else does: I’m fat so I’m clearly not doing anything about it. If I did, it would fix all my woes. I explained to her I was currently trying to lose weight for that very reason, because I’m tired of my life being so fucking limited, but without the ability to exercise I’m between a rock and a hard place. She told me that I could technically do it diet alone, but I told her I’ve been gaining and losing the same ten pounds for the last four months. The diet thing works for about a week and then if I don’t add exercise into it, it stalls.

I mean, I’m 47 years old and I’ve been fat since I was a child. I know my body pretty well by this point. I know what works and what doesn’t. I have gained and lost hundreds of pounds over the years. I’ve tried almost everything, except maybe for surgery. When I was a kid, there was a diet aid literally called “Ayds” (this was before the 1980s.) They were these little pieces of chocolate that were supposed to curb my appetite.

By the mid-eighties I went on Nutrisystem and stayed on that as long as we could afford. Back in 1984, it was $90 a week for both my mom and me, not including all the fresh food you had to buy (not to mention all the other non-food grocery needs.) To put that in perspective, my weekly grocery budget in 2017 is $100-150 to feed a family of FIVE. As a single mother in 1984, working for barely over minimum wage, Mom simply couldn’t afford us to stay on it, and so I capped out at 36 pounds lost in six weeks. Yay! Magic! It works… as long as you’re chained to the program.

And yes, THAT I did without exercise, if you don’t count P.E., but it was the only time that worked.

After Scott was born and I had forty pounds of pregnancy fat to lose, I created my own system that alternated between fasting and limited calories, as well as walking at least thirty minutes a day. Today they call these things intermittent fasting and the 10,000-step plan to walk yourself thin. (I was so ahead of my time.) I lost enough weight to get down to my pre-pregnancy weight, but I was still fat. It didn’t go any lower.

Out of desperation I tried the Mayo Clinic* Diet (misleadingly named after the medical institute,) where I was supposed to drop 10 pounds in a week if I ate certain foods on certain days in certain combinations. It worked, I lost 10 pounds… of water weight. The next week it was back, even though I kept using the plan.

When I was homeless in LA I lost quite a bit of weight quite dramatically – but it wasn’t just from lack of food. Whether we were at the beach or at Griffith Park, we walked everywhere we could just to have something to do that didn’t cost any money.

Then I got pregnant and, well, I went back to old habits.

Over the years I’ve tried all sorts of things. I’ve tried Slim-Fast, I’ve gone on the Richard Simmons plan (which helped me lose thirty pounds in time for my wedding to Steven, dropping me from a scary 350 to 320 and size 32.) I did the Cabbage Soup diet until I couldn’t even look a head of cabbage in the face. I lost 70lbs using SparkPeople, but, again, I had to have an exercise plan to go along with or else it would stagnate and frustrate the hell out of me. I’ve gone vegan, I’ve gone low carb, I’ve gone sugarless. In each and every experience, if I didn’t add physical activity onto it, my body stopped losing weight once it became accustomed to the new eating plan.

This is what has happened now with my intermittent fasting. I still only eat about eight hours a day (this week being the exception to that rule,) but without the physical activity I add to it, either using my stationary bike at home or walking whenever I can fit it in, it really doesn’t do much to help me move the scale.

Hence why I’ve been stuck between 290-297 for the last four months of weekly weigh-ins.

I know my body. The diet, though they say it’s 70% of the battle, only takes me so far. I need to add exercise. And yet every single time I add exercise, I end up throwing out my back and it undoes all the progress.

So I tell her this, and just like the whole period thing she dismisses it. “So you’re telling me there’s nothing you can do about your weight.”

No. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying I need help. She said that Kaiser Permanente offers food plans much like Weight Watchers. And like WW, I have pay by the week for a sixteen-week program AND I have to show up to weekly meetings.

If that was what I wanted, I’d have joined WW. (Actually, no I wouldn’t – because I abhor any kind of weight loss program that makes a profit off of desperate fat people. I won’t buy pills, I won’t buy pre-packaged foods. These companies don’t protect their bottom line by helping you succeed – and I don’t want to be stuck on a program the rest of my life. I’m not trading one set of shackles for another, thank you very much.)

She gave me the standard prescription protocol for my back, with an order for steroid injections – since that’s the only thing I haven’t tried to help me stay upright, rather than flat on my back, doped out of my mind for days at a time.

But I still woke up three times in the night with white hot pain radiating down my leg. I face another day of poor sleep and relentless pain.

Yay.

It dawned on me fairly quickly yesterday that despite reaching out for help, I’m alone in this. And I guess I always have been. People look at me and make their assumptions, which is nothing new. Back in Texas, I had a doc tell me in our first meeting together that I was diabetic. This was without any kind of symptoms, this was without any kind of blood work. This was her looking at me and deciding since I’m “morbidly obese” I must have diabetes. I told her no, I’m not diabetic. That’s the first thing any doc ever tests me for, even when I was pregnant. I’ve done the fasting blood tests, I’ve been checked consistently for years and *knock on wood* it’s the one thing I’ve managed to avoid. Yet she didn’t hear any of that. She insisted I was. It took the blood work coming back to convince her, because my word CLEARLY wasn’t enough.

(Which, by the way, I got my results back from my blood work yesterday. My A1C is 5.3. The normal range is 4.8 – 5.6. In 2012, the last time I had my blood drawn, it was 5.1. Please stop assuming I have diabetes because I’m fat, k?)

In fact, all my tests came back fine and in normal ranges. The only thing that was a bit high was my RDW blood test showed 15.1 when the normal range caps off at 14.5. I immediately researched to find out what this means.

This is what I found:

When your red cells have a lot of variation in their size then you will see higher RDW values in your test. If your rdw blood test is high then there could be a few reasons for the cause.

A common cause of high RDW values is Vitamin b12 deficiency or Folate deficiency. This can lead to macrocytic anemia (or large cell anemia). People with macrocytic anemia almost always suffer from elevated RDW levels.

Hum. Would you look at that. Anemia. Blood. Why did I go to the doctor again?

But…. FAT. FATTIE FAT FAT FAT. FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT.

My blood pressure was slightly elevated at 135/69, but I was also in a lot of pain. I’ll take it again with my own machine later to monitor. After last year’s scary episode, I don’t play around.

See, people will think to look at me I don’t care about my health, when in fact I’m rather obsessed about it. Just because I’m fat doesn’t mean I’m not doing something about it every single day.

It’s just taking a slow ass time, made even slower by the fact I. Can’t. MOVE.

Basically I paid $70 to find out things I already knew. I’m on my own in this, and I’m the one that is going to have to fix it because I’m the expert when it comes to my own body.

I’ve had to be. Everyone else just sees the fat, not anything that is going on underneath it.

So glad I’ve paid nearly $3000 so far this year for this kind of stellar health coverage.

princesideeye

So. What’s my plan?

Well, I’m going to have to do as the doc says. I’m going to concentrate on my diet, rather than the exercise, simply because I have no choice. I can’t walk right now and if I try, I’ll end up hobbled again and missing work, which I can’t afford to do. The only thing I can control is what I put into my face. I only have two rules for a “diet”: One, it can’t cost me money, i.e. Slim-Fast, WW, Nutrisystem, fat burning pills, etc. (See above.) Two, it has to be health-based. I want whole foods, real foods, not processed junk that is marketed to a multi-billion dollar weight loss industry, whose profit margins have raised right along with the skyrocketing obesity rate. No Lean Cuisine. No Diet Coke. No low-fat, sugar-free, fad o’ the moment quick fix.

Unfortunately for me, this is still going to cost me. I’m going to have to bite the bullet and spend a little more on groceries to split apart from my family. Of the five people in my household, only two of us aren’t picky eaters. My husband is the pickiest, he hates most fruits and vegetables (it’s a texture thing,) and is a carb junkie despite being diabetic. (Did I mention he’s 100lbs lighter than me? He eats junk, I don’t. He has diabetes, I don’t. Fuck anyone who makes this trigger judgment of me as a result, especially if you’re a goddamned doctor.)

My future daughter-in-law comes in second-pickiest. She eats more foods than my oldest son Tim, BUT it’s HOW she eats them. She’s virtually Sally from When Harry Met Sally:

She’s not an experimental eater. She reluctantly tries new things. Here’s our biggest Food Tug-of-War at the moment: I want her to branch out and eat different kinds of salads. She’s a HUGE salad eater, but it has to come with specific ingredients that can work well with ranch dressing. If there’s no ranch dressing, there’s no salad. Period. Honestly, I think salads are basically her ranch delivery service, but that’s typical of a lot of people from Texas. I am trying, now, to get her to try salads that incorporate fruit and nuts but she’s thrown on the brakes because she can’t imagine that level of experimentation. She can’t have a salad without ranch dressing, and fruit with ranch dressing?

liarliarpuke

This, to me, was my favorite part of going vegan. I tried all kinds of new combinations AND new veggies. I love food, y’all. Let me play with it. I went to Pinterest last night to see what kind of foods I could eat instead of the standard family friendly fare we normally get, and I pinned dozens and dozens and dozens of new recipes. It amped me up. I got excited. I couldn’t wait to try new things.

Not her. She would rather go without than eat something she doesn’t want to eat, even if she’s hungry.

I don’t quite grasp this concept. Obviously.

She likes her deep fried stuff, her alfredo sauces, all the things I can’t eat because of a tricky gallbladder. And, like me, she’s been gaining and losing the same ten pounds for three whole years – the only difference is she’s seriously UNDER-weight. She can afford the junk. She can indulge the sweet tooth, which is a daily requirement for her and, as such, a daily temptation for me. And I don’t deny them, I just fit them in to everything else, making my compromises elsewhere.

But, for the next week or month at least, I have to split apart from this because our goals are diametrically opposed. I’m going no sugar again… and I apologize ahead of time for the massive bitch this is going to turn me into.

My older son is attempting a health regimen himself and, as his father’s son, he has some opinions about what I’m doing wrong. (Don’t they all?) But he’s on my side with the no soda, no processed sugar thing, so I have his support. He also told me I need to be more compassionate of myself whenever I succumb to temptation… like this week when I kept hopping on and off the wagon.

People love me and want to take care of me, which so often times includes food. This week a nurse left an egg roll for me, which was very sweet of her. It was also at 9am, way before I allow myself to eat. The next day there was red velvet cake, because life is just that cruel. The next day was a goodbye brunch, ALSO way before my eating time frame.

If I try to muster any will at all to say no, I always hear the same thing: “Just one bite won’t hurt you.”

Like I need a lot of convincing… especially when I’m in the kind of pain I’ve been in lately. I just want to feel good and we all know by now food is my vice of choice, especially at work where my other vices are limited.

I even succumbed to the rare Diet Coke (blame the cake.) Within minutes Hal posted a link on how Diet Coke contributes to weight gain.

It was like he KNEW. My one and only coke and he freaking knew.

Despite these setbacks, I kept mostly with the plan, and my 100+ ounce of water consumption. We still ate out a lot this week, mostly because no one felt up to cooking. The fam has been battling some stomach bug and my back has been breaking to the point I don’t do ANYTHING when I get home.

It’s going to be a(nother) disappointing weigh in. And I’m just going to have to forgive myself and move on with a plan that I’m going to have to follow solo. Steven has offered to throw himself on the grenade, learning how to eat more plant-based foods (which I truly believe is the key to better health – and one of the reasons I think that, despite the inability to exercise, I am in mostly good health except for the back thing.) But he’s so picky that I know I’ll be tempted to come up with stuff that will appeal to both of us, and – quite frankly – I can’t be held down by that limitation. I’m going to get what I like, what I’ll eat, what I know is good for me. I can eat nothing but salad for a week straight, limiting my sugar to fresh fruit. Steve? Not so much. And I can’t allow that to be yet another stumbling block. I have to be a little selfish here, a little rude, a little impolite.

I’ll make what I want, what I know is good and right for me. He has to decide if he will like it or not. Or else he can eat what the family eats.

Because that’s the way it’s just going to have to be. I’m done compromising, because I always end up on the losing end of that. Just like right now, Brit texted because she’s just now getting off of work and wants lunch while they’re out. That means fast food. That means more junk. She asked if I was hungry, which I am, but I said no, I’m good.

If I’m in this alone, I have to do what’s best for me. Same thing when I went vegan all those years ago. I have to look out for myself because no one in my family can or will join me. I’m in the fight for my life now, particularly in terms of my mobility. I may be like a stallion locked up in the starting gate, but let’s face it – I’m used to things being difficult.

It’s going to take some time, much longer than I want it to be, mostly because fat is the only thing people see when they look at me. The doc said I have to lose weight “yesterday” and she’s not wrong. In order to fit in with her and with everyone else, I have to have the “After” body, not the “Before” and certainly not the “During.” I’m fighting my way out from behind my body for the kind of value that other people take for granted. They can go to the doctor and be heard about their concerns. They can walk down the street without people assuming they’re lazy and don’t give a shit about themselves. Despite the fact I eat much healthier than she does, Brit turns heads when she walks down the street. Men want to get to know her. She’s a smoker, she eats crap, but she’s got the “After” body, even when she’s in the “During” process to get to a healthier weight.

But she can be seen and accepted and heard, just like everyone else who doesn’t commit the high crime of being fat. They can be seen for who they are instead of what they weigh, and I’m going to have to wait a helluva long time for that, made longer still by the limitation of my back pain.

I’m just going to have to make peace with that, which, frankly, is harder than losing the weight. It’s going to take time before people will hear me, or see me, or recognize anything that I’m doing that’s good. They’re going to make their assumptions. They’re doing to diagnosis me with terminal fatness.

But they don’t count. They can’t. In order to claim my value I must first find it in myself. Here’s what I know:

I’m not a bad person.

I’m not a failure.

I’m not careless about my health.

I’m not lazy.

I’m not weak.

I have a specific challenge to fight, but I’m strong enough to beat it. It may not happen in a year, but like any war it is won one battle at a time, one day at a time.

Time to make this a good day.

Suicidal tendencies; dancing with the devil that lives inside your mind.

On May 18, 2017 we lost Chris Cornell, the legendary alt-rock singer whose sudden, shocking death left a wide path of mourning in its wake. I saw the tweet almost immediately and I knew it was going to be a tough one for his fans. Since he died so young, and these days 52 is pretty young to shuffle off one’s mortal coil, we waited for the cause. When it finally came, I knew it would be an even tougher blow for people.

Whenever someone commits suicide, it shades the mourning into something akin to anger at the person who died. Let’s face it. Losing someone is hard. You have a lot of powerful emotions and they can be very hard to manage. Nobody wants to feel despondent. Rage at least gives you some illusion of control over the whole thing. Anger puts you back into a position of power when the choices of someone else pull the emotional rug out from under you. You hear words like “selfish,” or “cowardly,” thrown around, mostly because it’s easier. It’s also more socially acceptable. If someone buries a 500-lb person, you’d never go up to the person’s family and say anything negative about the choices that brought him or her to her end. You show sympathy.

Direct suicide, however, comes with a much more visceral reaction, even though – technically speaking – they sort of come from the same place. One’s just a hell of a lot faster.

I never get angry. I know all too well the seductive lure of suicide. I know what it feels like to be so overwhelmed you just want the pain to *end*, right now, no waiting. I’ve thought about the unthinkable more than once.

I’ve thought about it recently.

Part of it stems from the depression and mental health issues I’ve had all my life, I’m sure. At least I hope so. I hope that it’s not normal to contemplate such a horrible thing, even when things aren’t going well. Even if things never seem to go well.

To me, the presence of suicide is the absence of hope, and that is a bleak, bleak place to be.

Whenever I hear of someone who has died this way, my heart immediately breaks for them. I think about their final moments that they had to spend alone, with this monster in their mind, a lying, seductive devil that convinces them there is only one option left.

I have wrestled more than once with this darkness. It’s terrifying.

And every time I hear about someone losing their battle to that monster, it fills me with my own terror. I’ve been where they were. I fear I will be again. And I worry that one day all hope will run out for me and I’ll do the unthinkable, because it is by the hair of my chinny chin chin that I made it through those scary times at all.

So what brings someone to such a desperate end?

Lots of things. We all have different thresholds of what we’re willing to endure to survive. Pain. Trauma. Financial worry. Sickness. Fear. Exhaustion. The option to punch your own ticket sometimes seems preferable than living on under the weight of such overwhelming conditions. Sometimes we as humans feel painted in a corner and it’s just easier to check out than to keep fighting a losing battle one more day.

And sometimes the thoughts are fleeting. Like, “Jesus, I should just fucking down a bottle of pills and get it over with,” but you keep going, one foot after the other, trying to find your way to some sort of break that will help you recharge your batteries. You know you only think these things in a weak moment, when you’re feeling particularly drained, but you don’t *really* mean it. It just gives you some sort of sense of control to say it, which is important when everything in your life is whirling around out of your control.

Other times, the scarier times, you begin to plan. You start to think about how you will do it, and maybe even arrange your life in such a way that it could accommodate such plans. Maybe you start to give away things that matter to you, or write your goodbye letters. Maybe you talk about it more, and people who know you dismiss is as some “cry for attention,” because they just can’t see someone so strong, someone who has so much to live for, doing such a “selfish”, “cowardly” thing.

It is in this period we need your compassion and your help most of all. It is in these moments that we feel selfish and cowardly, and such dismissal reinforces those negative, bleak feelings. If talk of suicide is someone’s “cry for attention” – GIVE IT TO THEM. They’re still in the planning stages at this point, and in that stage their mind is a war zone trying to list all the reasons to stay and all the reasons to leave.

If people heap onto their shame and their own feelings of low self-worth and failure, it can give a lot of ammo to that monster that resides inside their brains, who tells them things *regularly* – like, “You’re such a burden. The people you love would be so much better off without you.” “You’re such a fuck-up. Just end it already.”

People will say it’s selfish for someone to consider suicide, and maybe it is – but these are vulnerable people who are under the influence of the worst kind of liar that hides in the shadowy places in their mind, who convinces them a selfish act would actually be a loving one.

And they’re so out of gas at the moment, they’re ripe to believe it.

The first time I contemplated suicide was when I was thirteen years old. I was only 13, but it was the fourth time I had dealt with the fear of sexual abuse. I was raped at four as most know, but I had two near brushes with nefarious types before I turned twelve, which set off my radar that I was in trouble. One was with a preacher, who sat me down in an empty church to talk about my faith. I remember two things: the blue leisure suit he wore (I think this was probably mid-70s) and the gawdy gold ring he wore on his pinky finger.

He laid his arm on the pew behind me, leaning in close, with that seductive tone in his voice, as he spoke about his concern for my soul.

All sorts of alarms went off and I was glad that I got the heck out of there. I don’t even remember how I escaped, but I assume my parents probably came to get me to take me home.

Thank God. Literally.

The next brush was some stranger in a car, who tried to pick me up as I was heading home from school. He drove slow enough to keep up with me while I was walking, not saying anything at first, and then finally rolling down the window to offer me a ride. I shook my head vigorously and all but ran home.

So when my friend decided to take a guy we had both met to court for raping her, I kinda felt at that point that this was my lot in life, to forever run from these kinds of men who only set out to hurt me. Maybe you don’t know what it’s like to feel that hunted, but it’s fucking terrifying. When I heard that this guy kept a gun in his glove box, in a car I had ridden in, the terror became unbearable.

Imagine the feeling of having zero control over your body, up to losing your very own life. The powerlessness that comes with that is crushing.

And keep in mind that this emotional baggage was something I shouldered all alone. There was so much shame heaped onto my young shoulders, thanks in large part to the way our society views women and how my religion viewed sex in general. I had yet to tell ANYONE what I had gone through. There was no other voice to combat the monster in my head, who used my own religious upbringing against me. I was damaged goods. Corrupted. Unlovable.

What. Was. The. Point?

So I sat at my kitchen table with a knife to my wrist and I thought about the long road ahead of me, one I walked alone, confused and afraid. I was going to have to face this guy in court, and likely be the thing that ensured he’d face legal consequences for fucking around with a fourteen-year-old girl. That’s what they told me anyway. It was more than just “he said/she said,” with my testimony. I could prove that he was lying when he said he had never met us or taken us for a ride one afternoon at lunch at school.

I could prove that I saw him drive off with her in the car that day in question.

That’s a lot of weight for a thirteen-year-old girl to carry all by herself. Finding out he had a gun, and I might be the thing that jeopardized his very freedom, put me in a precarious situation. I felt like I was teetering on the edge of the abyss, with life on one side and men in general on the other side, playing this tug of war with me and my sanity hanging in the balance.

When you feel that powerless, you’ll do anything to seize control of something, of anything, even if it’s ensuring no one would ever be able to hurt you again, even if it means you have to hurt yourself first.

And so I was over it. I sat there at that table, tears running down my face, as I tried to end it before life ended me, without my choice, as was the pattern of my entire life up till that point.

At least this time, for once in my fucking life, I’d have control over my pain and of my fear.

Then the phone rang. It was my best friend Jeff, in a rare long-distance phone call that his mother usually never let him make. This was back in 1983 when there were no cell phones, no Internet, no Facetime or Skype. If I wanted to communicate with my bestie, I had to sit, write a letter, mail it out and wait for about four days to get a response. Long distance phone calls were expensive, and neither one of us had a job. We were at the mercy of what our parents could and would afford. When we lived in the same town, we talked every day on the phone. His was the lone voice that helped me through the dark silence that followed my dad’s death. After I moved away, I held on for deal life thanks to weekly letters that came addressed solely to me, that made me feel special, like someone in the world gave a damn about me.

Turn that feeling up to 11 and you have the joy I felt when I could talk to him in “real time” on the phone, even when he was 300 miles away.

I picked up the phone and was greeted by his cheery voice, so happy that we could chat for real instead of just exchange letters back and forth like we had done for the year or so before then.

I burst into tears, unable to hide the pain anymore. When he asked me what was wrong I finally told him. Likewise he burst into tears, to tell me that he couldn’t imagine life without me, and that he needed me. As a gay teen in Texas in the middle of the 1980s, he was going through so much he couldn’t even tell me at the time. So I had no way of knowing what a lifeline I was to him, even though I totally was.

But the lying monster in my brain had never let me consider that, because it was too busy keeping my focus pointed inward towards the abyss. I was stunned when he said these things to me.

It was enough to put down the knife. Just knowing someone gave a damn, and – the really important part – didn’t stop loving me when I told him my greatest shame, literally saved my life.

I credit this to divine intervention. I don’t share my faith a lot, but this one event convinced me that not only is there a God, but he/she/it cares what happens to me.

Thanks to that phone call, I once again had hope where there was none.

I didn’t seriously contemplate suicide again until sixteen years later, when I faced yet another overwhelming crisis, one that involved my kids.

And this was even after I lost my newborn son to a fatal heart malformation when he was nine days old. When the paramedic came into the bedroom where I waited with Tim (who was a day short of five years) and Jer (who was three), he broke the news to me as gently as one could tell a young mother that her beautiful baby was, simply, gone. I felt the will to breathe leave me and started to sink to my knees. This man grabbed me by both shoulders and held me up, forcing me to look him straight in the eye. He reminded me that I still had two other children who needed their mother to be strong.

It wasn’t hope necessarily, but it was purpose, much like being there for my bestie who needed me back in the 80s – and that was just as powerful a motivation.

Those two children became my reason to live. And I struggled with every decision after that to give them what I thought they needed. Dan finally got diagnosed and treated for his bipolar disorder. I worked hard to support the family as the sole breadwinner, while managing the new complications that came with living with the disorder, and all the treatment options we had to work through to get to ANYTHING that might help.

But the damage for my young sons was already done in all those dark years before we understood what demons drove my first husband. Thanks to Dan’s illness, my two remaining children ended up removed from the home, with never-ending hurdles I had to jump in order to get them back. The harder I fought, the more life pushed back. I was powerless and in pain, once again. Only this time I felt I had lost every single thing left to live for. I started the planning stage in January of 1999. I couldn’t bear facing the anniversary of Brandon’s death without my other two children. I decided to steal a bottle of Dan’s powerful pills, go to my youngest son’s grave and just go into eternal sleep like he did.

Even with a success story, even after I soundly beat the devil before, it’s amazing how long suicide lingered in the back of my brain as some sort of escape hatch if life gets to be too much.

A stranger I met through the internet picked up on my defeatist dialogue and spent an entire night on the phone with me to remind me how many things there were still left to fight for, including my two kids who, even though the state of California may not have agreed, still needed me to fight for them.

He barely knew me from Eve and we’d never meet face to face, but this angel didn’t get off the line until he was sure I was okay.

He restored my hope so that I was able to keep fighting. Within a year I had made the hard choices the courts demanded of me, which included dissolving my first marriage. By 2000 I got my kids back.

Someone refilled my tank. It wouldn’t empty again, for real, until 2015.

There were moments of weakness, though. When my chronic back pain threatened yet ANOTHER job because I just couldn’t make it to work regularly, I remember vividly sitting on the edge of my bed, in the nagging awful pain that had become the norm for me, thinking what was the point? I was a burden to those I loved, who virtually had to take care of me.

As fiercely independent as I was, that was a very hard pill for me to swallow.

The Mind Monster whispered constantly how much better off my family would be without me. I had worked tirelessly for years to ensure the survival of my family, and I couldn’t work anymore. That fucked with my identity.

And the pain I was in was relentless, shading everything in black tones as I struggled just to get through any part of the day I was conscious enough to muddle through.

The rest of the time I was out on heavy narcotic medication – missing out on my marriage and my kids… and my life.

But I was able to talk about it, to avoid the planning stages for the most part. I maintained my hope. I found reasons, no matter how small, to keep going.

Suicide still lingered in the back of my mind though, as the ultimate “break glass in case of emergency” option. If things got a little hairy, I still had access to pills that would help me check completely out, painlessly and efficiently.

It helped me maintain that illusion of control I’ve always wrestled with. If things got too bad, I knew what to do.

In 2015, things got “too bad.” I had a mental collapse of sorts, the worst one I had ever had. Depression and anxiety are no joke. They have leveled me in the past, starting after my dad died and I skipped school for ten days, hiding away in my bathroom day after day, in the warm womb of a bathtub as I struggled to find SOME way to comfort myself and heal, when I felt as bereft as an eleven-year-old girl could possibly feel.

Fast-forward thirty-four years and I found myself unable to handle life again, despite being a 45-year-old. My promising writing career had flat-lined. I went from making more money than I had ever made in my life back to struggling for each and every goddamned penny again. And it was completely out of my control. There was nothing I could do. So I relented and considered Plan B, because being homeless again was NOT an option. After being out of work for four years, I couldn’t find a job to help my family. Our economic situation was dire, struggling each and every month to pay the rent and keep our fragile little house of matchsticks from being blown over by the hungry wolf at the door.

I felt once again powerless, out of control and without hope. I lived my whole life for the dream of being a successful writer, and that success felt like it was over in a minute. The Mind Monster had a fucking field day with that. I truly felt that no matter what glimmer of happiness I could wrestle from the greedy hands of fate wasn’t ever going to be enough to justify all the days, months and years of pain, fear and hopelessness I’d endured.

It just never felt like it was going to stop. The liar that lives in my brain whispered in my ear that I had failed at everything and had a purpose for nothing. I disappeared into my room for about three days solid, even throughout Mother’s Day. I didn’t get out of bed. I cried a lot, almost anytime anyone would talk to me. As a result I didn’t talk to anyone, which was the scariest moment for me. I didn’t talk to my family. I didn’t open up to my husband, who had no clue how to handle my breakdown. I probably could have sent Hal a message and he would have been kind enough to talk me down from the ledge, but that wasn’t what I wanted. Not only had I run out of hope, I wasn’t interested in anyone renewing it. I knew the drill by this point. Yeah, it got better. And then it got bad again. And then it got worse, the price my Mind Monster always told me that I had to pay for any little morsel of happiness.

I wasn’t worth a good life. Clearly. Every good thing that happened would last a minute, and then I got thrown back into the wood chipper to tear up any idea that I was special.

That was why I lost my dad, remember.

It was a tough, tough period. Once again Jeff called me, worried because I hadn’t been online to talk to him every day like I have always done since 1995. It was no longer the 1980s. We could communicate in real time all the time, even with phone calls that became a lot less random the older, and more financially independent, we both got.

But this time I couldn’t bring myself to answer the phone. How could I face him 34 years after he had saved my life and tell him it had all been for nothing?

(And yes, I know after all those years, raising my kids, loving my husbands, creating my career out of thin air, that it wasn’t “nothing.” But that’s the lie. And it’s running fucking non-stop in those dark bleak moments.)

I got myself out of it that time, but it was a freaking miracle. I was as close to dancing with the devil as I had ever been. I’m reminded with every death by suicide that getting that close and still beating that sonofabitch is not a given.

So I feel nothing but sympathy for the person who falls to their Mind Monster, the one that convinces them of all the lies, that they have nothing to live for, to just end it – even if it is just to make the pain of the moment stop because it’s just too fucking much to bear.

I hate that they went through that alone.

I hate that they succumbed to the lie.

And I hate, most of all, how fucking seductive that lie can be.

That Chris’s death came at the expense of drugs that were supposed to heal him makes the loss even more acute. He was doing all the right things, and yet…

So I don’t know what the answer is. I just know we have to keep talking. And those who love us have to keep listening, *especially* when there’s a cry for help.

And we can’t give up. Because it is in that bleak, black moment of hopelessness where our control will slip and we can do unthinkable damage not only to ourselves, but to the people who love us most – even when we can’t seem to love ourselves.

If you’re thinking about suicide, it is my hope that you reach out and talk to someone. It does get better. Sometimes it even gets great.

And it’ll probably suck again too. Such is life for everyone. No matter what your Mind Monster says, it is not because you are a bad person. It is not because you are worthless. It isn’t because the world would somehow be better off without you. It is because we are all fighting our own type of battle, to varying degrees of success.

But you still matter.

To someone out there, you may be their lifeline helping THEM to hold onto hope. To someone else, you may be the very moon and stars, even if you don’t know it.

Even if your Mind Monster won’t let you see that.

But you still matter.

You really are here for a purpose and a reason. Life is about finding out what both of those mean to you and the people around you.

So if you’re hurting, if you’re feeling powerless and hopeless and vulnerable, if you’re feeling like the only person in the world who can touch the depths of those things, reach out to someone. It’ll be the hardest, bravest, most important decision you will ever make.

And one day, maybe you’ll help someone else who is feeling powerless and alone. You’ll give them strength. You’ll renew their hope.

And what greater purpose is there than that?

****

I wrote the above blog post several weeks ago, but I stopped myself from publishing it. I thought maybe it was too late to say these words. It no longer felt like posting a virtual life jacket that might have stopped just one person from drowning. Instead talking so frankly about the lure of this devil felt like an homage to suicide itself.

“You’re weak,” the devil whispered. “And now everyone will know.”

So I backed away from it. I justified it that the Mind Monster needs no foothold and I wasn’t about to give him one.

It was yet another lie.

This week I was faced with being on the OTHER side of the glass, with someone who was going through their own personal crisis, a single mom whose life was imploding around her with a failed relationship and a crushing economic downturn. “I just want to die,” she sobbed. And I totally fucking believed her. I stopped everything that I was doing to  share my story, weak or not, and to take her into a hug and hold her up when she wanted to fall – just like that paramedic did for me all those years ago.

I knew in that moment THAT was my purpose. It made the pain I’d been through matter, and there’s nothing more empowering than that.

But then, by Thursday, when I heard about another artist losing his battle with the Mind Monster, and I realized that maybe I’m strong and okay now – but remaining that way is not a given.

Remember, I told you I had thought about breaking the glass even recently, during my own devastating economic downturn. What others consider an unthinkable option still sits there in the back of my brain like the ultimate escape hatch.

So I’m posting this. With any hope at all, this will replace the seductive lure of suicide as my “break glass in case of emergency” option. Not just for someone else out there, but for me as well.

Because that’s what we need most to win our own private wars. We need any hope at all.

When you feel hope is just beyond your grasp… keep reaching until someone reaches back. Because they will if you just give them a chance. It is the hardest, most terrifying , most powerful thing you can do to defeat that Mind Monster, even if it is one hairy, scary battle at a time.

That’s how wars are won.

Let’s win this one.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline1-800-273-8255 – available 24 hours a day

Patience is a virtue… that I don’t have.

It should probably go without saying that I like things done. I like to cross things off lists. I like to shift things from the To Do pile to the Done pile with relative speed and efficiency. It’s one of the things that make me such a prolific writer, having completed 33 novels, 28 of those in the past six years. It’s one of the things that make me so good at my 9-5 job, a virtual task master of whipping my department into shape, by chasing after other departments to do the same.

I. Like. Things. Done.

Like Sheldon, remember?

Is it compulsive? Um, yeah. Do I become obsessed to the point of physical and emotional discomfort?

duh-hayac2

Even in projects where I know it’s going to take some time to get from Point A to Point B, I can be satisfied simply seeing progress in the right direction.

Hence one of the bigger challenges of weight loss, particularly as I’m getting older.

When I was young, I could drop pounds easily in the beginning. When I was 16 and my mother got us on Nutri-System, I lost 36 pounds in six weeks – with cheating.

Of course, most of that weight was in the wallet… hence why we didn’t stay on the program more than six weeks.

When I created my own fasting diet in 1987, I lost 40 pounds from July to November. In 2001, as I was preparing for my wedding, I lost about 30 pounds over a summer. In 2003, when I started my post-Dan desperation diet, I lost 15 pounds the first two weeks just eliminating carbs.

I was an expert, I thought, in losing weight. It’s one of the few benefits of being so heavy. It’s just simply easier to shed those pounds. At first, anyway, then it would slow down and frustrate me to the point of throwing in the towel and going back to the way things were.

This time? I’m not even getting the initial success.

As we get ever nearer to the end of Month Two, I feel like I’m in the exact same spot I was two months ago. In fact, I’d even say I feel worse. I haven’t cracked the ten pounds lost mark in two whole months, when it used to only take a couple of weeks to get that far down the trail. And I’m in even worse physical shape trying to get active. I don’t feel stronger or more conditioned. I’m crawling along over glass and it just seems like I’m stuck in the same place I was.

Even last year, after my health scare, it seemed I was seeing legitimate results right away from the intermittent fasting, dropping a size in a month. And that was without caloric restriction. I simply crammed all my eating into an eight-hour window, stuffing my gullet as much as I pleased – with healthier food, granted – but I never *ever* felt denied. And in no time everyone was telling me how great I looked, even when the scale hardly budged.

Now, nothing is budging. My inches are staying the same. My weight reminds + or – the same five or so pounds. If I didn’t have a scale that showed me that I was at least exchanging fat for muscle, I’d be a basket case that would be impossible to live with.

I’ve shunned dairy. I’ve eliminated sodas. I’ve cut down on sugar and cut calories. I’ve walked, even when it was physically painful to do it, and every step felt (and feels) like torture.

It’s very frustrating that the effort isn’t translating into results I can “see.” Even my clothes are still ill-fitting.

So… I’m at a loss of how to fix this – which is more upsetting to me than the not being done thing. It makes me feel powerless, and I don’t handle that feeling all that well. This is what lends to the binge-eating and reliance on stimulants in the food (sugar/caffeine) to make me feel, for lack of a better word, normal.

I’ve been studying somewhat on fibroid cysts, due to some other concerning symptoms affecting my daily life once a month, so I’ve made a doctor’s appointment next month to rule that out (or do something about it because I’ve no patience to deal with that either.) Surprisingly I found out that it could not only account for some of the more distressing reproductive issues I’ve been having, but could result in weight gain and back pain.

So rather than drive myself crazy, I’ve decided to take action.

Because I have no patience.

And two months is two months too long to see the results I know I’ve been working to achieve.

Thankfully I have a fancy schmancy scale that gives me more info than just a number for my weight, and I see that I’ve been gaining muscle, about four pounds this month alone. So that helps a little that the Big Number, the one by which all my value for some is based, isn’t budging.

But trust… though it looks like I’m not doing anything to anyone who passes me in the street, I’m fighting every goddamned inch up this mountain… through the pain, through the frustration… even when the person I fight most lives in my own head.

So I guess that means my detractors and critics are just going to have to have a little patience too.

Recalculating the only way I can, with knowledge/research.

Since my doctor’s appointment is July 21st, which puts me well into Month Three, I’ve decided to proceed following some of the health advice for PCOS/estrogen dominance/fibroid cysts anyway, since some of them are just general common sense approaches to a healthier diet in general:

  1. Cutting dairy. I’m going to have to make this one official now, though it pains me. I love cheese as much as the next person but every time I eat it, I feel it working against me. I’ve cut a lot lately, in regards to yogurt and cheese eaten as a snack, but I have to pull the trigger and just eliminate milk, added cheese and *gulp* ice cream. Lord be with me… (and my poor family that has to live with me.)
  2. Drinking more water. The advice I saw repeated throughout the research I did was 1/2 my body weight. So instead of the 64oz I was aspiring to reach (and often failing,) I’m aiming now for 147. If I slosh as I walk past, kindly ignore.
  3. Promote liver health with natural dietary changes, like more plant-based options, incorporating veggies like sweet potatoes and broccoli into the diet, using apples and lemons, and employing some turmeric/ginger tea I bought an age ago but haven’t yet had the motivation to “acquire” the taste of it.
  4. S-s-s-s-ugar. As you know from reading along so far, Sugar is my biggest vice. Given I live with someone who is underweight, who actually wants to gain pounds, I’ve used this as an excuse to indulge with desserts and goodies that, once they enter my house, conquer me on a weekly basis, even if – technically anyway – I can “fit” it into my plan. For my sake, and the sake of my husband, I’m going to have to find healthier ways to satisfy the sweet tooth. For this, Lord, I pray fervently for strength.

So this is my plan going forward until I can speak with my doctor and get better insight into what’s going on with my body. It’ll be my first doctor’s appointment in roughly 3 or 4 years, so I’m a little nervous. At my size, it feels a bit like Russian Roulette, where I’m just waiting to hear those diagnoses that everyone tells me I’m at so much more risk to get than my thinner counterparts. But I need all the help I can get. If I get to the end of July still teetering in the mid 290s, I’m terrified what it will do for my mental health.

lord-give-me-patience-because-if-you-give-me-strength-11526203

I need help, y’all. Most of all, I need patience. I just wish it would hurry up and get here already. :/

Weigh-In: 294.6 (same as last week) Fat %: 64.2% – down from 66.5% last month. Muscle: 59.8 lbs, up from 55lbs last month.

progress

 

 

 

Limitations are not my favorite.

So yesterday was my weigh-in. I actually debated long and hard about doing a weekly or a monthly weigh-in, but weekly weigh-ins, though frustrating, keep me more on track than letting things go for a month. If a weigh-in looms, the Good Girl in me wants to make sure that the numbers go down instead of up, which helps me make better choices than I would if I could “put off” that scary marker of progress for another three weeks.

It keeps me accountable, and that’s what I need right now. I may need you all to talk me down from a ledge here and there when hormonal stuff and life in general don’t yield the results I want. As I already told you, if I’m aiming for two pounds, I really want it to be anything over that.

Some weeks that just won’t happen.

This week was one of those weeks.

I lost 1.4lbs so I’m down to 295. I’m actually surprised it was anything at all. My workout regimen at the moment is walking during my two 10-minute breaks at work, and then on one weekend day, I walk at one of my favorite spots in the world, Mile Square Park. It is my place of zen, where I can walk 4-5 miles in a stretch and barely feel the pain.

To me, this was slow. Apparently it wasn’t slow enough.

Lately I’ve been feeling the pain. I start nothing easily. We’ve all heard “no pain, no gain,” and that’s how my brain was wired. I want to see drastic results so I feel like I need to make drastic changes, which is always, always, always how I start out.

Unfortunately, though I did start doing this about a month or so ago, I wasn’t able to keep up with that kind of workout regimen. About three weeks ago I hurt my knee. Not sure how, but it was pretty debilitating for about a week. So I took some days off and went right back to it. Not so surprisingly, the pain returned, adding back pain to the mix for all the compensating I was doing to go easy on my knee.

As some of you might well know, back pain has become my nemesis these last eleven years and will sideline me quicker than anything – especially since the only real thing that ever worked to control it was medicinal marijuana and I’m a respectable working woman these days. I’m not going to go to work “high,” just like I never wrote high.

My son Tim cautioned that I take it easy and give myself a chance to heal. I’m not one to relax and take it easy, and going slow is not in my playbook. For anything. Not being able to walk every break like I was doing, or going to my favorite park for a big weekend tally of about 4-5 miles, was difficult. It’s a glacial pace that feels like I’m not moving at all.

But what was more difficult was losing sleep because of the pain I’ve been in. Limping around my office because everything just hurt so bad, and still pretending I was operating at 100%, doing everything I normally do and jumping in to do more cuz, that’s just me. But it’s left me feeling even older than my 47 years, which is depressing as hell.

Limitations are not my favorite. I don’t like being told no, or that I can’t do something. Unless it’s something I don’t want to do and then whatever, but most of the time I want to power through and impress the bejeezus out of everyone – including me.

I’m hard as fuck to impress, at least when it comes to me. But we already went over that. I also don’t forgive myself easily, so this chatterbox has had a field day whispering in my ear that I was going to embarrass myself with a public weigh-in that didn’t show a loss, or worse. Showed a gain. I had to make peace despite the chaos that this week hasn’t been so much about losing weight as it is compromising with what I was willing to do in order to meet my goal. So I couldn’t walk? What else could I do?

My main goal this week was ditching Diet Coke. Has not been easy, but has not been as hard as I thought either. I didn’t have the normal raging headache withdrawal, thanks to drinking more water. And it’s not that I don’t like water. I don’t put anything in it, I just ice it up and go and usually I’m good.

It just doesn’t do a whole lot to turn me on. It’s kinda boring, especially when you have to drink so freaking much of it a day. Fortunately at work they gave us a pretty cool insulated cup for Administrative Professional’s Day, and it keeps water pretty cold, which works out well for a sipper like me. Because of this I’m drinking more, which means I’m less tempted to reach for a Diet Coke.

Extremely good news for Goal #1.

It helps that the vending machine at my office has been possessed by the spirit of Hal Sparks, who regards Diet Coke as “the devil’s ass sweat.” (He’s not far wrong.) Even if I put in my 85 cents in that dumb machine in a moment of weakness, whether I get my fix or not is like a pull on a slot machine. And, just like a slot machine, I wind up putting in more than I take out.

I also went back to ordering tea when I got lunch out. Since I broke my addiction to sweet tea in the 80s, it’s my go-to drink if I don’t want to drink water. A shout-out to all restaurants who provide a flavored tea that doesn’t include sugar. Y’all come through in a clutch, I’m just saying.

To ease myself off of sodas, I’ve been drinking Diet Ginger Ale instead. It’s a caffeine-free option that includes ginger, which they tell me is good for me, especially when it comes to controlling inflammation.

Either way I don’t care, give me some damn bubbles dammit.

For food, I’m doing the intermittent fasting – mostly. This means I typically eat between 1pm and 10pm, but life will occasionally throw a wrench in my plans. As long as I do it every other day, I feel like I’m getting some benefit out of it. (I do prefer to do it daily, though.) (Working on it.)

The next challenge will be watching my calories, which I’m kinda doing now, opting for foods that have a lower caloric value rather than the cheapest option. Anyone can tell you those are usually NOT one in the same.

One of the appeals of intermittent fasting is that I didn’t have to strictly police my  caloric intake to lose weight. I could eat bigger meals less frequently, but I was able to make it work for me a long time by eating whenever I was hungry and stopping whenever I was full, as long as it was in the time frame of the Eating Zone.

I need to read more about it to really get the most out of it, and now that I have finally finished the rewrite on my script yesterday (YAY) I should have some downtime at last to concentrate on all of these other goals.

I think that was part of my overall happy problem, I was hitting life full-throttle every day of every week for the past few months. Probably the five months, really. I haven’t had a whole lot of downtime to relax and recharge, and I kinda need that to avoid those deprivation triggers that whisper in my ear, “Go ahead. Do it. You deserve it.”

Creating more life/work balance is on the agenda for this reason. This has been very difficult to do balancing my writing career on top of a full-time job. Why? Because I don’t like limitations. If I have something I want to write, I don’t want to limit it to a few hours a week. I want to sit down and write till I’m done. So carving out an hour before work, then having to stop what I’m doing to do something else, will vex my muse like a MF, which will frustrate me to the point of uselessness.

Basically everything needs reevaluating. I’ve been weighing my needs against my desires and my (gack) current limitations, which hasn’t been fun-time for Ginger.

But the best news of the week is that I’ve been able to mostly keep the emotional eating under control, even with some not-so-nice stuff going on at the 9-5. Change is coming one way or the other and I’m kinda freaking out about it. I’m just so grateful every single day that I have such support from some incredible friends, who give me the courage to face scary changes head on. So even though there have been an occasional binge or two, and a happy hour where I probably indulged a little more than I needed to, I feel like I’m on the upswing of this particular cycle.

I’m not there yet. I’m climbing out of the fog, but new storms loom. I just have to figure out what I can do because even one step in the right direction is progress.

As someone once told me:

Chin up
Knockers out
Bitchface on
Fuck the Haters.

Even if that includes me.

Day One: I am not okay.

It dawned on me this morning that much of my life I’ve spent pretending things are okay when they weren’t okay. It probably started when I was four, when I had a pretty big secret to hide. I go over that quite a bit, so I won’t rehash it here, but suffice it to say, I started pretending at a very early age that things were okay and I was normal.

And you simply cannot be normal if you’re not okay. That’s the narrative we all perpetuate, right? It’s not a hero’s journey unless there’s a happily ever after. That’s the only thing that can make not being okay, well, okay.

Needless to say, I got used to hiding behind my shell very early in my life. To me, this represented strength. Never let ’em see you sweat. You’ll never see me cry. If I get knocked down, I’ll get back up on my own, thank you VERY much. I don’t want help. I don’t want pity. No before and during pictures for me, buddy. You’ll only see my successes, because THAT, my friend, is how I validate my existence.

Yet, things have rarely ever been okay for me. I can think of maybe one six-month span in my 47 years that felt “right”, without that much of a struggle. Everything else? I’m in the deep end of the pool, fighting not to go under.

Most of that has been because of financial instability, which I’m sure I don’t have to tell you is the pits. You don’t get a lot of peace when you’re beating off wolves at the door, and I’ve never really been ahead of the wolves – except for 2014, which I finally got a little bit of a foothold.

That wouldn’t last, which made all the other crap even crappier. Struggling relationships, a brutally low self-esteem and, well, life, would remind me yet again that I wasn’t meant for the easy life, no matter how hard I worked for it. Something somewhere had to go awry to remind me, again and again, I wasn’t okay. I wasn’t normal.

But you never saw me sweat. You never saw me cry. You saw what everyone around me has always seen. I come back swinging, because fighting is easier. I get mad, because I never want to show how vulnerable I feel deep down. I’ll pull myself up by the bootstraps, broken and bloody, and keep on keepin’ on, because that’s what I do. I’ll show up for work. I’ll take care of my family. I’ll meet and crush deadlines. I’ll wow people who’ll never know how fucking hard it was to leave the house, or to smile when I really wanted to cry. They’ll never know my first impulse has always been to hide. They’ll never know how seriously I’ve contemplated giving up entirely, cuz GODDAMN it’s exhausting running a race when the finish line keeps moving.

I’m not okay. Okay?

In fact, I have to wonder if I’ve ever been okay. All my life I’ve had this nagging thought that this isn’t the life I’m supposed to be living. It doesn’t fit. Like a shoe a size too small. I can get by, of course, but I’m not fully comfortable. I know down deep in my soul it could be better. *I* could be better.

Getting from here to there, however, has been a magic trick I haven’t yet mastered.

I follow self-help gurus. I listen to all my smart friends. I pray. I meditate. I can spew positive affirmations like a demented parrot. And generally I put good advice into motion. I do the work. I’ve never been afraid or unwilling to do the work.

Yet here I am, spitting distance from Year 5-0, and I feel like it’ll *never* be okay because the span of not-okay-ness has lasted for so long.

And yes, I know what you’re thinking. Happiness isn’t a feeling, it’s a choice. Don’t sweat the petty stuff and don’t pet the sweaty stuff. If your life is so dissatisfying, change it for fuck’s sake.

This ain’t my first meltdown. I’ve had some humdingers. I got through those, I’ll get through this. I’m just tired of pretending things are okay when they’re not. I’m tired of keeping up my “image”, whatever the hell that means, when the whole reason I was able to step into the lane of what my life SHOULD look like was by ripping open scars and bleeding for the world to see.

I’m not the only one who feels like this. I’m not the only one who sells 40 hours of their life away, on the treadmill of life with obligations and ruts galore, who eats a freaking cheesecake by themselves every now and again, or drinks wine by the gallon, or spends way more money than they make just to indulge in a little retail therapy so they can finally capture some kind of bliss. Everyone wants to feel okay even when things aren’t okay.

I’m not alone. Somewhere out there is someone just as unhappy as I am, aching for someone brave enough to change the narrative so that they can feel okay even if they’re not okay.

So I think it’s time to rip open some scars. I think it’s time that I admit things aren’t great. I’m unhappy. I’m nowhere near “normal.” That doesn’t mean I’m not working on it. It doesn’t mean I’m giving up on it. It just means I’m not there yet and I recognize that.

And hopefully…. hopefully… I’ll find that secret hidden door that will lead me back to the life I know I’m supposed to be living.

I’m going to be blogging more often. Not a lot, because right now I’m working a full-time “regular” job as well as writing on nights and weekends. Though my dream abandoned me like a newborn on a firehouse stoop, I haven’t given up on it. There have been some significant strides forward as a matter of fact, in ways I didn’t see coming. I was recently hired to write a screenplay based on a real story, and it was the first “real” money I’ve made in my screenwriting career. No $10 option, we’re talking a five-figure paycheck.

The wolves took most of it, which was depressing beyond belief. I vault back and forth between, “Glad I had it or else we’d have been SO SCREWED” to “Really? This is all I get to enjoy from the biggest ‘win’ of my movie career?” No paying down bills or buying all those things we’ve been putting off, no breathing room – just paying down a handful of predatory loans that had been eating up almost all of every paycheck, essentially making sure I work for free despite being paid well above minimum wage.

The day after I got hired to write the script my car got towed, sinking me a couple thousand more dollars into debt before I could even get the first check. This has been my life the last couple of years. (And it SUUUUUUUCCCKKKSSS.)

Worse, it doesn’t matter how hard I work trying to correct it, I keep getting sent back to poverty jail – do not pass Go, do not collect $200. I work my ASS off, both the 9-5 and my writing career, and I’m still fighting for every single dime. I need to make more. I work hard enough to earn more. Yet, life. Hard choices. Sacrifices. Endless, endless compromises. Yet no matter what I do or don’t do, the wolves breathe down my neck.

And I’m not okay.

Recently my son Jeremiah got engaged. It was the one thing I could wrangle out of my windfall and I made damned sure I made it happen. We went to Vegas. We had a good time. We didn’t go crazy. We were modest spenders. But we got to “live” a little bit. We got to “be normal” for a few days. I know how to make Vegas happen on a shoestring, I’ve done it enough in my life – including my very own wedding there in 2001.

Because of this we’ve decided to go back on the year anniversary of their engagement for their wedding. I found a great deal. Totally workable. Totally doable. I can make the dreams come true for BOTH my kids, both Jer and Brit, his fiance. (I’ll never get tired of saying that.)

But I want to make some changes, obviously. Not just with the money, which has to happen in order to fund the nuptials, but I also want to gain some mobility. I’m tired of being limited by what my larger body can (and can’t) do. I may never be a supermodel. I wouldn’t even want that job. I just want to be able to walk and stand and, y’know, live. I’m okay with getting older, but I really resist the idea of getting old. I want to be the kind of mother and grandmother who can jump right in there with her kids and grandkids, who will ride the rollercoasters and do the ziplines and stay out all night, matching them moment for moment.

I don’t want to miss a thing.

I can’t do that at my size. My body has been working against me for more than a decade now, and I’m tired of the aches and the pains that sideline me. I’m alive for a reason, I want to live, and this ain’t livin’. This is getting by, while putting on a brave face that I’m okay with all the new limitations being this age and this size has put on me. I can’t sleep at night because of the discomfort. All the activity I try to include in my life leaves me feeling more tired and older and less mobile. I get sick way too often. I hit walls and barely have any stamina left to scale them.

I’m not okay.

I’m not asking for help here, by the way. I’m not waiting for a hero to fix it. *I* am that hero. *I* can change it. Despite starting and stopping the weight loss thing quite a bit, the successes I’ve stacked up in my life are impressive, especially since it’s never really been “okay.” From the time I taught myself how to ride a bike when I was nine, I’ve beaten every limitation between me and what I wanted. I went from straight F’s to straight A’s in six weeks, just to earn an album. I wrote a book when I was 14, just because I wanted to prove I could. I wanted to live in Southern California since “Three’s Company,” and here I am. I’m barely holding it together some days, but I’m here. I wanted to be a published writer and I made that happen, too. I took a blank screen and created almost thirty published novels, which people have bought and people have loved despite being overlooked by an industry that didn’t think I had anything to say.

I wanted to write movies and I was just paid a nice little check to do that very thing, impressing those “in the biz” with my skill to bring a shared vision to life.

In fact, as I see it, the only thing holding me back from true success is, well, staying hidden. If people can see what I can do, they’re blown away. I don’t impress people by being “normal.” I impress people by being extraordinary. The fact that I can pull ANY of this off when NOTHING else seems to go right is freaking amazing.

This next year is a work in progress, not just in my career, not just in my personal relationships, but in my overall health and well-being. I’ve decided to show this journey, mistakes, missteps and mishaps and all. I’m going to be vulnerable, because there’s nothing wrong with being imperfect. It’s perfectly human. In fact, we’re way more imperfect than we could ever be normal.

Normal is the illusion that everything is okay. And it’s not okay.

But that’s okay.

This is Day One. I’m only aiming up from here.

 

 

 

 

2013: The year of rebirth.

“2013 has your name written all over it, Scorpio. Thirteen is the number of the Death archetype in the tarot card attributed to your sign. It’s about the death of the outworn aspects of yourself and your life, while the sunrise of rebirth is always waiting on the horizon. Transformation, metamorphosis, passion and sexuality are all heavily pronounced this year for you. Saturn, the great taskmaster, has taken up long-term residency in your stars until 2015 to give you and your life a complete makeover. Add to this the fact that your ruler, Pluto, is in what is known as a ‘mutual reception’ with Saturn (mutual influence by means of swapping signs) and the force for rebuilding your life from its very foundation is doubled. This is a year for uncovering your greatest resourcefulness, and relinquishing any skeletons from your psychic closet. Death and rebirth become daily themes as you shed layers upon layers of the former you.”

This is my horoscope for the year. Normally I take such things with a grain of salt, but this particular prediction sounds really good to me. This is mostly because I have completely control over making it happen, which was already a big goal for the new year anyway. There is no more sitting idly by and allowing yet another year to pass without seizing every opportunity to make my dreams realities. I have to boldly claim my right to do so.

It occurs to me that I kinda hafta bury the old Ginger in order for that to happen.

Death has always scared me. I mean, I know it scares most people… which is why we all walk around in complete denial that it will ever happen to us. We make plans, we talk about the future, we dream; all with the hope we’ll have time to make it all happen.

Ten years ago I realized that time is not guaranteed to us. My first husband, Dan, died at age 43 of a massive heart attack. It was such a shock to lose such a strong person so quickly and so young. I personally thought he was invincible. He had lived through so much that the ongoing joke was he’d stub his toe and drop over dead.

I just never expected it to happen at age 43. There was still so much he had left to do. He had kids he had to see into adulthood (and grandkids beyond.) He had never made some of his life goals a reality, though he did slay some pretty big demons in preparation of such.

It just shocked the mortality right into me that we are not guaranteed a long life, or the realization of our dreams just because we have them. It’s put me on a bit of a deadline since then. I made a bunch of promises to myself what I wanted to do by the time I was 43 so that – if fate should strike a similar blow to me – I would not die unfulfilled.

That year after his death I made a pretty impressive transformation. I lost over 70 pounds, despite some really big pit falls. But then I got complacent again. I got distracted again. The corpse of who I was still hung on my back, weighing me down, and I fell into the same old bad habits and allowed the years to linger. It took my having some serious health issues that removed the status quo of working at a menial job for me to finally make some serious inroads in my career.

There’s nothing like having no plan B to keep you motivated and innovative. In ways I couldn’t expect back in 2003, I managed to find a way to write full time and still bring in a paycheck WITH the writing.

It’s interesting how that happens. If you simply change your perspective, you can turn the negatives into positives. You can find those little hidden pathways in the giant maze of disappointment and discouragement to lead you right back to where you go in ways you never could have foreseen. Miracles lay in wait all around us, all we have to do is pay attention to the opportunities, rather than the problems.

Watching how that has happened in the past few years especially has been pretty cool. Last year was the coolest of all as my writing finally started to build a small but significant audience.

But 43 still loomed. In the back of my mind it was going to be a benchmark year. If I could live through it, I could bypass the curse that had befallen Dan. And I’d never be able to rest easy until November 21, 2013, when I hit the magical age of 44 alive and kicking.

It took reading that horoscope to realize I’ve been looking at death the wrong way. I have been fighting death (and loss) tooth and nail since 1980, when I lost my dad. I don’t like things being over. I cling to things far beyond their usefulness because nothing is sadder to me than finality. And nothing is more final than death.

Yet the only way I can truly give way into this new life is to die to the old one. That girl may be really and truly gone, but a new, stronger, braver woman is born in her place. I can burn those old fears and traumas to the ground and explode from the ashes as a beautiful, new phoenix.

I never have to be over as long as I can be renewed.

I just have to be willing to lay to rest all that I used to be to become what I want to be. To hear, from any source, that this year can be one of transformation to do that – was life-affirming. Instead of worrying about how things will end, I need to focus on how things will start. I need to take that picture of who I want to be and make her happen. No excuses, we’ve already done the emotional work to figure out why I do what I do. I need to make better choices, and that’s all on me now. No more beating myself up for not being someone else, when who I am is pretty darn cool.

Where I am is pretty darn cool. Where I’m headed, cooler still.

When my family headed into 2012, we were in for a rocky year. We flew into it on a wing and a prayer, and the first few months were tough. There were some devastating lows and too many losses to count. Looking back I see the problem. The old life was shaking free, but we were still trying to navigate the future on past failures. It took some pretty big changes, in attitude and behavior, to set us on the right course. I learned how to set boundaries and accept others for who they were (and who they could never be.) As a result, I lost some so-called friends, but the friendships I kept grew stronger and closer in ways I never thought possible.

We were in flux with finances, but once we got real about money and what we needed to do with it, Steven got promoted and I saw my first significant success as a published writer.

If 2012 was a cocoon year, then 2013 can be nothing more than the transformation. Old habits are dead… old expectations are dead… there is nothing to do but emerge a beautiful butterfly ready to stretch her wings.

It’s really hard to do that with a bum back and that same old dead corpse around my neck in the shape of 100 extra pounds.

For me, this year will shed who I was in many ways. And it’s more than time to lay that part of my life to rest. Instead of dreading death, I’m embracing rebirth.

There’s no more wishing, waiting, hoping or fearing. I’m going to make 2013 my year.

This phoenix is ready to rise.

A Lifetime Love Affair

In the last six weeks I’ve begun a new fitness routine where I walk at least 4 – 5 days a week, 5 – 7 miles a stretch per day. I did this because I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. I wanted to be stronger, to make my body bend to my will instead of the other way around. I’m tired of feeling browbeaten and scared of truly living life because of the limitations that come from being my size. The only way to beat this insecurity is to do the things that will build confidence. For me, this is tackling my body issues from the inside out.

Instead of starting with food, which is my normal routine, I began with the part of the healthy journey that intimidates me the most: physical activity. Obviously I’ve never been a big fan of exercise, but I need to get over that if I want a stronger back that doesn’t go out on me every time I turn around in bed or take a deep breath. (Which mine was.)

I had to start slow and do something that I knew wouldn’t hurt me. Walking is the best exercise for anyone because it requires no extra expense, no expert training and no equipment. You can walk anywhere, which rids you of any and all excuses. Though I never get bored, walking a treadmill is a chore I dread – so instead I find interesting places to walk. I go to the beach, or beautiful parks, or large malls. Inside or outside, good weather or not – I have places where I can get off my butt and go walk. I bought season passes to big amusement parks so we can make being upright and walking around part of our fun family time rather than sitting on the sofa watching TV, going out to eat or going to the movies.

We’re in California now. There’s too much to see and do to be confined in a house. And my family is thinner than I am so in order to keep up with them I gotta get in better shape. If I want to share the experience of hiking up hills with my boys like I did with their father, I gotta shed some of the extra weight and build my endurance.

My whole life is now revolving around this full time job of getting healthier inside and out. In the past six weeks of this new lifestyle I’ve seen dramatic changes which give me a new sense of pride in myself.

I like that. This is so much better for me than starting a journey because I demonized the fat. I’ve made it a matter of choice. I’ve turned it into a plan, a strategy even, to build something rather than just get to some standard goal weight.

If I truly want to live the life I moved to California to live, then I have to be physically strong. There’s no getting around that. In order to be physically strong, I have to exercise. I’m lucky in the sense that I do not have any real health problems except for a bad back, so I am able to do what needs to be done to make that healthier. It takes time and patience and endurance – but that’s not a chore if you’re doing those things for someone you truly love.

After 42 years of taking care of others I love, I finally decided to turn that love inward.

I’m not going to beat myself up anymore for being where I am now. That’s self-defeating. I made these choices that got me where I am. If I don’t like it, I have the power to change it by making different choices. Hating myself is how I ended up this way and why it’s never been able to change. So I have to fall in love with the one person who, beyond any other relationship, will be with me from birth until death.

Instead of looking at my body with disgust, I am filled with respect how strong it is to survive the damage that has been done to it. It craves the change, which is why I feel so spiritually and emotionally centered after a 7 mile walk. My feet complain, my calves try to bitch and moan, but inside I feel *right* – and it allows me to make all my emotional and spiritual decisions more positive and proactive.

I’m able to spread the happy. And there’s nothing I love more.

Where there is insecurity I am building boldness. I’m turning every ounce of frustration into determination. And where there is self-loathing I am putting forgiveness and love like I would give any random person off the street.

I’m not a bad person because I’m fat. I’m not ugly, lazy, stupid or weak. I’m not waiting on some magic number on a scale to consider myself lovable or worthwhile – I’m all those things RIGHT NOW.

What I am doing is refining myself. That’s a lifelong goal for anyone, to constantly improve. It’s the reason we exist at all, IMO. It doesn’t mean you’re horrible, just that you could be better – and that applies to EVERYONE. No one is done improving themselves until they cross over the finish line on their death bed. There is always one more lesson to learn, one more way to evolve.

So, like anything else in my life, I’m focused on progress. I’m fixing what can be fixed to make things a better version of me. I exercise not to get down to a size 0 (that ain’t gonna happen.) I exercise so that I can be physically stronger and do those things I never thought I could do, whether that’s a size 20 or size 10. (I will run a mile. That CAN and will happen.)

In doing so I am building confidence that says I don’t need the approval of anyone else to love me or honor who I am and what I can do. My body will change but that’s no longer the turning point. Emotionally it has to happen NOW so that I want to do those things that make me healthier and stronger. There’s no lofty goal size or weight. My body will figure out eventually where it wants to be. I’m perfectly content with getting down to a size 12 or 14 and leveling off there where I don’t have to be worried about the medical complications of obesity. But I’m not starving myself to look like everyone else so the world around me can finally give me their seal of approval.

Their seal of approval doesn’t mean SQUAT. Just as easily as someone can accept me they can reject me, it has nothing to do with my value.

I’m not meant to be like everyone else. And that’s okay. As long as I’m healthy and can do the things I want to do for the next 42 years of my life (and beyond) that’s enough for me.

My goals are much too big for me to die off in another 15 years because my body buckled under the strain.

So I’m going to treat my on body like anyone else I truly love. I’m going to support it, encourage it and reward it for its steadfast devotion in taking care of me all these years.

It no longer has to wait and earn my validation simply because the world around me thinks I need to do so. I didn’t do that to my kids, my friends or the people I truly loved so I’m no longer going to do that to myself.

Body, you are beautiful NOW. We’re not going to strive for perfection, we’re going to strive for excellence.

Body, you are sexy NOW. Sexiness is an attitude and girl you got plenty of that.

Body, you are loved NOW. I’m shunning the idea that loving you is conceit or egotism. You deserve to be loved. YOU’RE AWESOME. Look at what all you’ve done and been through and you’re still standing. You’re more than a warrior, you’re a champion.

So that means it is now my job – my honor – to make you stronger so we’re together for a long, long time. You haven’t let me down and I refuse to let you down.

We’re in this together, baby. Now let’s go walk.

If You Don’t Have Your Health…

This year has been a crazy, unstoppable year that has brought me to places professionally I didn’t think I’d get. I’ve taken what I started last year and put more control in my own hands about my content, and this is an amazing thing for which I’m extremely grateful.

Sure I’ve let some goals take a backseat to the crazy busy schedule I’ve tried to maintain, which included writing a 100K word novel in the space of a month, but I felt that the writing was a priority because that was how I would make my income and ultimately use as building blocks once I moved to the L.A. area at the end of the year.

Plus there were plenty of excuses why I could let things like my health goals slide off the radar. My body revolted from the schedule, which kept me battling my long term health problems like my back. The more tired I was from how full I filled my day the easier it was to buy fast food so I didn’t have to spend a whole lot of prep time making the healthier (and let’s face it, cheaper) stuff.

When we weren’t eating out we were getting unhealthy cheap food that was as simple as sticking in the oven or microwave for a fast, easy meal.

There was time to get it all right.

Sure I watched enviously while my younger son Jeremiah worked hard to meet his health goals. He’s lost 60 pounds since January by making the commitment to be under 200 pounds by his 19th birthday. I wish I had that determination when I was 18 and had the cooperation of a younger body to meet those goals… but I decided fat was okay.

That’s the dirty little secret we whiny fat people don’t want you to know. Sure we bitch and moan about how much we’d LIKE to be thinner, or how much we HATE the way we are, but the fact is Dr. Phil was right. We get something out of being fat (even if it’s just the right to bitch and have people feel sorry for us – which, btw, they don’t) or else we’d do the work to change it.

Like Jeremiah did.

Well my body has officially decided to take matters into its own hands.

When you’re morbidly obese you are told at every turn how you are at higher risk for certain health problems. This includes the idea you could drop dead of a heart attack because your body simply ceases being able to function because of the enormous stresses it’s under.

So in the early 2000s when I started having chest pain and pressure, I started to panic that I was at risk for a heart attack – that I had waited too long and done too much damage. I was at the ER once a month for about a four month stretch, and every time I went in and they did an EKG I felt like a hopeless hypochondriac that I always was released with a clean bill of health. My heart was strong, my blood pressure was normal and even my blood sugar was great.

I think they thought I was a hypochondriac too, especially the way the doctor’s would look at you like you’d just wasted their precious time when they could have been helping a legitimately sick person.

By month five of this craziness the triage nurse finally asked me if anyone checked my gallbladder and I said no. She asked me where the pain was and I showed her and she just smiled and nodded – as if she smugly knew that doctors were so concerned with one thing they didn’t even bother to look at anything else. It took a nurse to figure out the mystery.

And she was exactly right. Once the doctors pinpointed the gallbladder everything fell into place. They said I had two options: I could have surgery to have the gallbladder removed or I could drastically change my diet.

Back in the early 2000s I was still a true-blue Texan who would eat deep-fried anything. A basket of fried *insert meat of your choice* and fries? More please. And super-size.

With gravy.

BUT… I was also someone who had recently undergone an appendectomy where I was warned that because of my size there was an increased risk with the surgery, specifically the anesthesia. Because of my weight they had to give me more to perform the surgery, and with that variable it meant I could actually be more at risk from the anesthesia than the surgery itself.

But the situation was an emergency so I had to go through with it.

I remember VIVIDLY the nurse trying to wake me when it was over and I was struggling to come out from under the anesthesia, and how scared I felt – like I was slipping under water.

It reminded me of my near-drowning experience when I was a teenager and I pretty much decided then and there I would avoid surgery if at all possible.

The doctor who took out my appendix said he thought about taking the gallbladder too because he worried I’d have trouble with it eventually. So I was annoyed then that he hadn’t, and I might have to face another scary surgery to deal with the problem eventually.

Instead I ditched the fried foods. It’s amazing how much you’re willing to part with those things you love when you fear mortality.

And of course the diet change fixed the problem.

Fast forward to about four days ago when I started to have the same sort of chest pain/back pain/indigestion. Immediately I started to police again what I ate and immediately I saw a difference.

So even though *I* might have believed I could put my diet/health on the back burner, my body had other ideas. It’s tired of waiting around and has slipped into self-preservation mode, and it’s not afraid to make me hurt (or fear death) to get its point across.

It’s about time I start listening to it. It’s going to be very hard to accomplish this growing list of epic goals if I’m dead.

The good news is in the past week or so I’ve lost five pounds already. So I’ve decided to take a page from my wonderful son’s book and just take it small changes at a time and get there whenever I get there.

It’s not about being thin anymore. It’s about being healthy. And being alive.

Because if you don’t have your health, you don’t have anything.

Quiet, but Unstoppable.

Just a post to let you all know that despite the health problems I’ve had in recent months, particularly my ongoing, recurring and all-too-often acute back problem, progress is still being made. It may be incremental, but I’m perfectly okay with that. I see the effects of things for which I laid the foundation in nothing but pure faith, and that keeps me going.

As you may or may not know I’ve published a number of my books which are now available for your Kindle, Sony eBook reader, iPad, Nook, etc, as well as in print. Most notably you can find me on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and All Romance Ebooks/Omni Lit, although if you Google me you’ll find scads more links for my work. Things got off to a slow start, which was frustrating, but this month seems to have turned a major corner and for that I am both extremely excited and profoundly grateful.

But this has been a lot of work, and the load is increasing by the day with new ideas, new projects and new marketing ideas that keep me working on this part of my writing career a good portion of my week. I can hardly complain about that, nor would I.

The drawback is that my freelance career took a bit of a backseat and I wasn’t making as much immediate money while I set up everything for my books to take off. This threw our relocation plans to California into question a couple of times but about three months ago I just decided to do whatever need be done to make it happen. That’s how I’ve always lived my life, and how I will continue to do so (only this time with an eye on success.)

This means of my time the majority goes to the career. “Fun” writing has to take a number. This also means my social interaction on the web goes down a whole lot too, and if I have any friends out there feeling slighted I’m sorry I haven’t been able to be more interactive. But this comes first.

There were also immediate needs from a drama that arose at the beginning of the year, which took up a huge chunk of my time and couldn’t really be discussed for legal reasons (not my own.) So I’ve had to be quiet for a variety of reasons, or speak in code. Needless to say, that doesn’t bode well for a public blog.

The weight thing has also been put into a holding pattern. In March I think it was I went to a gym for the first time and it did not go well at all. In fact, it threw my back problems into overdrive and I’ve had frequent bouts of acute back spasms that have interfered greatly with my being active.

The traditional wisdom is that when your back is in that onset of acute symptoms (which in my case is paralyzing back spasms) you don’t overexert yourself. You rest for a day or two, employ heat or ice, and take anti-inflammatory medicine (and muscle relaxers if need be.) I still have to take care of a lot of stuff and can’t be *too* bedridden, since Steven is gone 12 hours a day and tasks need to be taken care of when he’s away. This makes these acute stages linger OR they come back more quickly than I’d like.

I’ve been trying to muscle through it all without complaining *too* much – but if someone asks me how I’m doing I am going to tell you the truth.

And the truth is, right now, I’m paying a huge price for getting some outside errands done yesterday. Just this past week the pain has been so intense that I’ve been waking up nauseated, which is never fun. Ultimately I will probably have to go to the doctor again, this time for more conclusive examinations like an MRI (BLECH) to see if the bone spurs are causing the problems.

I’m holding out because after this month I should have some insurance options open to me, and I don’t want to have to pay full price for an MRI. That would carve a huge chunk out of my moving budget.

So I’m muscling through and just gritting my teeth as I build the foundation for my new life in California.

The bad part is I’ve been resorting to food for comfort. I’m nowhere near where I’d like to be for the move that is coming up at breakneck speed.

But like you get through anything in life you handle what you can in the immediate… and that’s what I’ve been doing. How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.

So I bought tons of veggies to detox myself off of the Take Out Diet we’ve resorted to in the last couple of months thanks to my limited physical activity and Steven’s heavy workload. I think that will help me feel better, at least healthier, while I wait out the back thing.

The weight thing has to take a backseat to the money thing and the health thing. And all it really means is that when I get to LA I’m going to have to network whether I like the way I look or not.

Scary, scary stuff…. but perhaps really necessary to be *truly* unstoppable.

Until then I just take one step in front of the other.

As long as I’m still moving, whether it be a foot or an inch, I’m okay.