The F Word - Fat Fat Fatty Fat

***WARNING: this post will not be fun or light, and the language used may be offensive to some, but is necessary for me to write authentically on this topic. It's also a little word vomity...***

Despite the name of my blog, I have really avoided writing about my weight, because that is not even a little bit fun. But, alas, the time has come.

Some background: I have struggled with my weight and self-esteem issues for as long as I can remember. I gained a significant chunk in college, and then a REALLY significant chunk post-college. This is me, a year and a half ago, at my heaviest:

I literally have no words for how damn hard it is for me to post that picture.

Close to when that picture was taken I decided my life needed a dramatic change, for my health and sanity, and I started at Slimgenics. Over the last year I've lost weight with Slimgenics, had major life crises that derailed my weight loss, and rejoined Slimgenics. At the end of the day, I can now say that since that picture was taken I am 55 pounds lighter, like so:

Huzzah! I'm proud of myself. Let's bask in that for a moment.

Basking aside, I still have about 30 pounds to lose. And this last 30 pounds SUCKS. It is an epic, clawing battle every single day. Some days I do awesome and some days I set myself back, but I'm still fighting. Emphasis on the word fight.

Last night at Slimgenics I had an experience that really rattled my brain. One of the "counselors" (my irritation for them using that word is a whole separate blog), who is a friend and genuinely cares about me, got very upset with me. Monday I ate some nachos at school and my weight was two pounds up. Yeah, that sucks, but I still went in and wanted to talk about moving forward. To summarize, this is what he told me - "I'm just so worried about you because you still have so much weight to lose and you are so young to be out of control of your weight and I don't think you will ever be healthy if you can't win this battle and I don't think you care about losing weight or your health." There were more points made along these lines, but you get the gist. By the time I left, I was hysterically crying.

Side note: I'm a big crier, so that doesn't actual mean a ton.

I could NOT pull myself together. I sat in my car for twenty minuets bawling before I could even drive home. I then proceeded to cry for two hours while writing a paper, and then two more hours while I sat in the bathtub. I was so upset that I couldn't even tell my husband why I was crying because the words kept sticking in my throat.

"GOOD HEAVENS. What the heck am I so upset about??" - that's the question I tossed and turned about all night.     

There was truth in what he  had said (and he was truly trying to speak in love) - I still do have a long road ahead of me and I have been more complacent recently.

But I'm finally beginning to process why I was so devastated, and it was not from the truth in his words.

First of all, it does not acknowledge the hard work that I've done. My last 30 pounds are more because of appearances than health. My pulse and blood pressure are at an all time low. My glucose levels are fantastic. My waist is smaller than the recommended 35 inches for gut health. My cholesterol has dropped 100 points. I am healthy, especially when compared to where I came from.

Second, and more importantly, shame is not a motivator. Being overweight for most of my life, I've shamed myself until it's part of my constant inner dialogue. Common place thoughts I have/had because of my body:

"No one could truly love you when you look like a whale."
"You are disgusting and not worthy of anyone's time, you will never make anything of yourself in life."
"What the hell is wrong with you? You are such a useless piece of fat shit."
"All of your friends are thin, and then there's you, you nasty pile of garbage."

And honestly these are the nicer thoughts. And where do these shameful thoughts come from? Satan. He's an asshole. He wants me to dwell on my weight and body, and to feel like scum all the time. How can I be glorifying God when I'm busy obsessing over how I look and feel?

As I've started to feel better about myself he has to use new tactics to get me down, bringing in people with good intentions to make me feel like a failure and worthless. Last night I let him win. I cried in my bathroom and spent hours thinking about how I suck at everything and I will never make anything of myself, all because I ate some nachos.

But. He isn't the winner. Christ is. Christ died for me and loves me so much. ALL OF ME. Even when I was the girl in that first picture, he loved me just as much as he loves me today, and just as much as he will love me when I get to my goal weight. I carry his spirit in my. I am made in his image. That doesn't change with my appearance, ever. I will continue to work on being healthy, not because I want to wear a certain size, but because my body is a temple and I want to honor God in all aspects of my life.

And sometimes, I will eat nachos. And it'll be glorious, not shameful.

God created me. Christ died for me. The Holy Spirit is in me. I WIN SATAN, HA! As one of my all time favorite lines in a song says, "'...I've told you once - you son of a bitch - I'm the best that's ever been!"

When I grow up I want to be Tolkien. Or a potato. It's hard to tell.

Getting my master's degree in counseling has thus far involved a painful amount of personal reflection, self-examination,  deep thinking, analyzing all emotional baggage, frequent torture, occasional exorcisms... ::cough:: ... anyway, it's been quite an adventure. I'm pretty much a hobbit with a ring on a death march to an evil volcano, but sassier.

On this perilous journey, I have to take a large amount of standardized tests that examine different parts of my personhood, ponder on the results, and thoughtfully write about what I have learned and how it will help me be the best counselor I can be... Frodo is lucky he only had to face Mordor, Orcs have nothing on falling outside the standard deviation.

A picture of my soul in it's current state.

One such test I took this past semester was about what careers would be best for me. My number one was mental health counselor. Blech. How boring. I hate being predictable.

Reflecting on my completely unshocking answers, I couldn't help but think that the test would be much more exciting if the suggested careers were less... attainable? That's just a nice way of me saying imaginary and/or delusional.

I present my results of a career inventory, if I was allowed to write standardized tests:

5. Hobbit. I initially wrote this as a joke because this post has become weirdly Lord of the Rings themed but then I realized I like food, sleeping, food, socializing, food, hobbit-holes, food... So, yeah. I totally want to be a hobbit. I might already be one?

4. Pre and Post Anesthesia Pep Talk Giver.  This has nothing to do with wanting to help people or make them feel better. This is based purely on the fact that funniest stories in the whole world stem from anesthesia. It's a win-win. They won't remember at all if I actually do my job (all though I give a heck of a pep talk) and I will just laugh at people all day. With people. Laugh with people. Laughing at them would be rude.

3. Fancy Hotel Tester. There is literally nothing I love more in the world than staying at a hotel. I turn in to a crazy hermit person when a hotel is involved. I use all the tiny toiletries, I wear the robe, I order room service, sometimes I take up ironing (I don't even own an iron at home) because it's there. I'd be the BEST hotel tester ever. Built a new luxury resort? Not sure if it's up to par? Call me! On second thought, all my reviews would be along the lines of, "IT'S AMAZING! BEST EVER! SIXTY-SEVEN GOLD STARS TO ALL OF YOU!"

2. Celebrity Baby Namer. First of all, I've totally named a baby before. A human being is permanently labeled because of my skills. Thus, I'm qualified. I can picture it now - sitting on my naming throne, surrounded by blue and pink storks, famous people lining up to meet me, weeping in gratitude when I pass on my genius... AND, to boot, never again will something like North West happen. You're welcome America.

1. Queen of England. Always and for ever this will be my life goal. The end.

Who Invited Mel Gibson to Christmas?

'Twas the night before Christmas,

And all through the fog,

All the creatures were stirring,

Including my dog...

::PAUSE::

This needs an introduction. And less rhyming.

INTRODUCTION: Marriage is wonderful. You get to share everything, you always have someone to make you smile, you get to be a human boot check because your wife is too stupid to get cowboy boots off on her own .... What bliss! Sometimes you are so finely in tune with each other that you don't even need words to communicate, and that beautiful exemplar of matrimonial harmony is where this story is headed.
 

::AND UNPAUSE (minus rewriting any beloved classics)::

It really was the night before Christmas and John and I were packing up the car to head to my parents' house for Christmas Eve festivities. Part of the preparation was me shoving Razzie into a Santa dress with a giant tutu. I am only allowed to dress her up once a year, so I make it count. It's adorable! And mildly abusive! And because I am an equal opportunity humiliater, I had put on my annual Christmas adornment, antlers. Because, antlers.

Anyway, John was upstairs and I walked out the front door with Razzie, in all our festive glory. Alas, as soon as she scampered down the stairs her collar popped off. If you have ever owned a small dog who is part hellhound, you know what moment came next. The frozen-no breathing-praying that she won't notice-shuffling forward-talking in high pitched voice-reaching forward slowly moment. You also know what moment followed. Razzie turned to me, we locked eyes, and then:

She was off like a bat out of hell. Now, Razzie loves to run. And if she is chased IT'STHATMUCHMOREFUNMUSTRUNFASTER!!!! Knowing this, I though to myself, "self, you will never catch her. If you go get John or your car keys you won't know where she went. BUT if you chase her and scream really, really loudly John can figure out what's happening, get in the car, and follow your yelling and flailing and catch her." Genius. Fool proof.

So. I ran. Take a moment to take in the visual: I am wearing antlers, holding a leash with an empty collar, chasing a thirteen pound dog wearing a tutu, and screaming like a maniac. You're welcome.

BUT. THE POINT OF MY STORY. Five minutes later, as I'm gasping for air watching Razzie have a grand old time two blocks away, John drove past me and Razzie got in the car.

The conversation that followed:

John: "You know chasing her just makes her run faster."

Me: "....nerfgghhblar.... heeeeeeegah...."

John: "I heard you screaming and figured out that Razzie had gotten out."

Me: "ghhheee.... graphelgasp."

John: "I finished loading the car since I knew you'd know which way she went and I'd be able to catch her even though you were egging her own. I followed your yelling. You're welcome."

Me: "gasp...that was... a good... plan."

BAM. MARRIAGE.

And to all a good night. 

 

Grief

My mother-in-law passed away unexpectedly last week at the painfully young age of 62 and our lives have been forever changed.

Up until this event I thought I knew what heartbreak was. I've had boys hurt me and make me feel worthless. I've had friends stab knives into my back. I've lost grandparents whom I loved. I've been deeply in pain. But until Saturday October 12th, 2013 I had never truly felt my heart break. When we got that awful phone call, it felt like my heart shattered into a million pieces, and it will never be the same.

There is a gaping hole when we look at our future now. My husband and sister-in-laws have lost the woman who raised them. My father-in-law has lost his soul-mate far sooner than he should have. My niece and our future children have lost their caring Gigi. It is truly a devastation.

Over the last week I've seen many facets of grief. Grief can be deep, dark, and lonely. It can be helpless and debilitating. It can be frantic and busy. At times it can be comforting as you lean on loved ones and pull together to survive. There are moments where you share warm memories and laughter. There are also much darker moments when fairness is questioned and anger wells up.

Through it all, there is also hope. Comfort knowing that she is in a better place. The thought that she is looking down on us with pride of how we are honoring her memory and is reveling in the wonderful family she helped create. Hope based on the fact that Jesus' sacrifice made it so that this is not the end.

We are broken and lost without the matriarch of our family. But we are also capable of healing through the love of God and each other.

I was reading a book today, a book I've been anxiously awaiting for months, called Allegiant (if you are planning on reading the final installment of this amazing trilogy STOP READING THIS POST RIGHT NOW, TOTAL SPOILERS AHEAD. You've been warned).

Trough the series I became attached to the main character, and at the end she dies leaving the love of her life devastated and broken. It's heartbreaking and I cried like a weenie. And truth be told, not what I was looking for the week after such a major loss.

But, as I process the book I realize the beauty that the author is portraying through the crushing pain and it resonates with where I am right now. The final line of her book reads as follows:

 "Since I was young, I have known this: Life damages us, every one. We can't escape that damage. But now, I am also learning this: We can be mended. We mend each other." Quote from Allegiant by Veronica Roth.

Susan, we will mend each other. You leave behind a legacy of love and strength. Your family will take care of each other and will remember you always. We love you and you will be missed more than words can say.

 

If You're Perfect... Come Back Another Day.

I can be a very strange person. Here are some examples just from the last week:

I often wear children shoes because I like sparkles too much to be satisfied with adult shoes and I have weirdly small feet. Yesterday, it was purple, sparkly Toms.

John found me watching Doctor Who on the Ipad propped up in the sink - I was watching the entire time I was getting ready to go out, including while I was in the shower.

I get nightmares just from commercials of scary movies, this one in particular was about a sloth (the nightmare, not the commercial). This was my second nightmare recently about sloths.

If you ask me what my dream job is, without fail I answer “Queen of England,” and I mean it every, single time. For example, when I was asked this question this week in a graduate level class.

Every night I sleep with a one-eyed teddy bear who is 22 years-old… all though Snowball and I are going to need to have a talk about the sloths and how they are NOT invited to the party.   

However, there are some things that aren’t strange about me. I struggle with anxiety, anger, and over-eating, just to mention a few. Why isn’t this strange? Because we all have struggles, every freakin’ day of our lives.

I’m often followed by a cloud of worry that settles in my chest and makes me feel like I’m being ripped apart slowly. I’ve gotten so angry that I’ve said and done things that would make Charlie Sheen blush. When I started my weight loss journey I was 75 pounds overweight, because I like food. A lot. Obviously.

These are all things that society tells me to keep to myself or to magically fix so no one ever needs to see my dirty laundry. Well, I have heaps and heaps of dirty laundry (literally and figuratively – did I mention I’m lazy?). It sucks, but it’s the truth and it’s my reality that I have to work on these things constantly (seriously, does laundry ever end?).

I’m not saying this in a pity-party way or woe-is-me-I’m-all-broke-someone-fix-me way. I’m saying it because there is NOTHING weird about imperfection. Jesus’ sacrifice sure would have been pointless if we were all shiny, pristine examples of awesomeness. We are not Stepford people – no one has it all together. There are seven billion people on this planet who are a mess, in one way or another   

I think we all need to hear sometimes about how damn hard life can  be – for everyone. You are not alone, you are not more colossally messed up then all of humanity. Don’t believe the lies Satan is selling. He knows that isolation and embarrassment make any situation ten times worse (that’s a true statistic, I read it on the Internet).

Will I always be an angsty, irritable woman with self-control issues? Yeah, probably. But I will not be a shame-filled lonely one, by the grace of God.

Why yes, I would care to dance.

A few posts back I wrote about how I have an all encompassing taste in books and thus my opinion on fine literature is rendered useless. This trait extends to other areas of my life - in this case music. However, what I lack in discretion I make up for in gusto. Sometimes this blind passion oozes out of me in the form of dance... and by sometimes I mean there are very few scenarios in life that aren't made better by dance.*

*five second dance parties are my favorite.

You might be thinking to yourself, oh, she's a dancer - that's loverly and sophisticated.

You'd be incorrect. My dancing involves flailing arms, whiplash inducing head bopping, and for some reason duck lips. It's extraordinarily unattractive. And wild good fun.

Tuesday I was in fine form because I had just finished a REALLY hard semester of graduate school (huzzah!) and a particular jazzy tune came on the radio while I was driving home.

What can I say, the music moved me. It started with a jaunty head bop, with obligatory duck lips. Then came the lifting of the hands, which evolved rapidly into waving them frantically while hopping in my seat. Amidst the grooving I happened to notice a stunned old lady watching me from her car.*

*Don't worry, it didn't phase me. I have that affect on people on a pretty regular basis so it rarely slows me down.

But then something new happened - the old woman started dancing too! I was suddenly having an inter lane dance party with an itty bitty gray haired lady. And I have to say, few people can match my dance abilities when measured on an enthusiasm scale but she gave my Kermit moves a run for their money.

I like to think of it as the universe celebrating with me, like how the weather matches Peter Pan's mood, but I think it was probably just an old woman with a bee in her car.

NONE THE LESS, it was one of the highlights of my summer.*

*True story, the song was playing in a commercial while I was writing this post. Double points.  

YOU GET A SINKHOLE! YOU GET A SINKHOLE! EVERYBODY GETS A SINKHOLE!

IMPORTANT INTRODUCTION INFORMATION:

1.  My parents have a timeshare in Orlando that we’ve been going to for the last ten years. 
2.  I really, REALLY love that place (Orlando and the condo). Really.

So, with that in mind, let’s commence this post.

I got home from school last night around ten o’clock and dragged my weary self into bed (I’m running on fumes these days). As I was slowly going comatose John started a conversation:

“Hey, what’s the name of the resort where your parents’ condo is?”

“Harumph. Erm, gurgle.” Sigh. “Uh… I don’t know.”  

“Is it Summer Bay?”

“Mmhmm. Yeah. That’s it.”

“Well. I have something to tell you. It’s been sucked into a sinkhole.”

::PAUSE::

Yes. Yes. You read that right. A sinkhole. Our condo was sucked into a sinkhole.  

 

A SINKHOLE.

 

I immediately went into what I call "Anna Insta Freak Out Mood." I'm slightly embarrassed by how often this term can be applied.

 

 

Let's look at the stages of AIFOM.

 

::PLAY::

 

STAGE 1: SHRILL SHRIEKING

 

"What? WHAT? WHAT?!?! THAT'S THE CONDO! THAT'S OUR CONDO! IT'S IN A SINKHOLE! OUR CONDO IS IN A SINKHOLE! WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING, JOHN?? OUR CONDO!!!!!!!!!! WHY?!?!?!? I DON'T UNDERSTAND!!!!!!!!!! IT'S NOT FUNNY! COOOONNNNDDDOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!" All of this said at a very high octave. 

 

STAGE 2: GENERAL FLAILING

 

More of the shrieking from above but with wild turning, covering and uncovering myself with the blanket, sitting up, laying back down, getting out of bed, turning around, sitting back down on the bed, smacking John on the arm, shaking Razzie (our pupper-noodle), throwing Snowball (my teddy bear), standing back up, etc.

 

STAGE 3: FRANTIC SHARING OF INFORMATION

 

I texted my mom. Waited two seconds. I texted my dad. Waited 1.5 seconds. I texted my brother. I then called my brother.

 

"Did you see what happened to the condo? IT'S HORRIFYING! THE CONDO! IN A SINKHOLE! YOU ALREADY KNEW?? WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING, TOO? YOU PEOPLE!"

 

STAGE 4: INCOMPLETE SENTENCES

 

Post phone call.

 

"Well... I just... I can't... sinkhole... The condo... I can't... I don't... sinkhole..."

 

STAGE 5: DECOMPRESSING

 

John's final comment: "Yup. Yeah. Should have told you in the morning."

 

I think I finally fell asleep around two. It's really difficult spontaneously combusting and it has a long recovery time.