Holy Shit

I posted this on Obesity Help this evening....but wanna put it here so in 10 years I can look back on this (from the moon. We'll be living on the moon by then, right?) and regret not buying those boots...

************

So sometimes we need a slap in the face, right? Or, in my case, a smack upside the head. And I assure you, there's a line for it.

Story time!

The other day at DSW (because shoes are my friend), I spied a gorgeous pair of boots. Now, I've been able to avoid purchasing any crazy pairs of boots because my calves have always been a bit big for 'em. But for some reason, the structured grey leather called to me. And on they went, smooth as could be. No, I didn't buy them, because that money has to go towards bills and student loans, but hey, I was fascinated. How could I...was I still SHRINKING?

So you know it, out came the tape measure.

Now, I had a Lower Body Lift/Abdominoplasty in March, and Brachioplasty/Breast Augmentation 3 weeks ago, so I'm still swollen. Oh, and while I figured my plastic surgeon took what seems like 3,000 inches off my body, in reality, he's responsible for about 4.5 on my lower body, and 3 inches per arm. So that's 10.5 inches, nothing to sneeze at. THANK YOU, Dr. Aboolian.

Anyway, I decided it was measurement time.

I've lost 1.5 inches on my left calf, and 1.75 inches on my right. In 6 months. And last I checked, I didn't have my calves suctioned off.

I guess this is what people mean when the say you "even out".

According to today's scale, I've only lost 8 lbs in 6 months, but I lost 20 inches off my body. Yeah, another 9.5 came off by itself. Who would've thought?!

Oh, so how many inches total? I know, you're DYING to know. And I made you read through ALL my babbling...

86.25 inches, baby. 86.25. That's my height (64 inches) + another...toddler me?

86.25. I'm flabbergasted, folks.

So here's my evening wisdom. 8 lbs, but 20 inches. Because the scale isn't ALWAYS right.

(And yes, I plan on being hypocritical when I post next week about why I'm technically overweight, the scale can kiss my ass, and I feel fat).

Inches Lost 13-Jul-07 (3 Days Post RNY)
Arm, Right 16
Arm, Left 16.5
Thighs 30
Waist 48
Hips 55
Calves, Right 16.5
Calves, Left 16.5
Neck 16
Underbreast 45

Inches Lost 30-Jul-09
Arm, Right 11
Arm, Left 11
Thighs 21 R, 21 L
Waist 31.5
Hips 36
Calves, Right 13
Calves, Left 12.75
Neck 12
Underbreast 33

Budgets and Biceps

Here's to hoping Uncle Sam doesn't take TOO much out of my newfound paycheck. I think I'm gonna need it. I just did some quick monthly budget table...um, help? And my phone bill? Ha, not the biggest part, thankyoudaddyfornotpayingmyhealthinsurancelikeyoupromised.

In other news...I just showered. I know anyone could probably smell me clear across the country, but it ain't been my fault. I mean, I got clearance on Tuesday but I don't shower really until my hair needs it...and the effort, well, yeah. I do good hair though!

Anywho, in order to shower, have to take off the arm compression/ace-type bandages. Um, my, what small arms we have! Never thought I'd see that in a million years. The boobs need to, um, settle. I know they will, and the swelling needs to go down and such but right now, to me, I look weird. I think I'm also adjusting to what my body looks like, period.

I can tell ya this. Whether or not I'd ever become obese, I'd NEVER have become a model. I have a rather short torso. I don't think I'm particularly pretty, and since I didn't do it when I was 16 like all the other girls in my grade, doesn't look like I'll ever get a nose job. At least until my midlife crisis, which is currently being planned for 32, normal being 35. I figure if I start Botox 3 years early, I'll never GET those wrinkles. Kill the nerves with botulism while you can, right gals? (Okay, so I'm HALF-kidding myself).

Tomorrow is the engagement party, and we'll have between 70-100 people here throughout the day. When I said it was a production, I meant it. And while we all know this for my bro and Tamar, the fact is, half these people haven't seen me in awhile, and we all know what happens post WLS. The "oohs" and the "aaaahs" and all that. And while it is lovely, and I'm not one to deny attention, it's also...well, I don't know. It's nice to have it recognized, but while it recognizes the achievement of weight-loss it also says "Gosh, you were fat before". I dunno, I'm iffy tonight.

It doesn't help that I had bad thai food PLUS a protein bar that I found out had maltitol AND corn syrup. Thankfully, the corn syrup a) isn't High Fructose (meaning less concentrated), and b) is so way down the ingredient line, it's practically next to the salt. So I'll survive, had mild "huh, I feel funny" moment, but nothing NEAR as bad as my usual "who's up for nausea, sweats, and a hangover" reaction to HFCS.

And now it's bedtime.

That's What You Get For Waking Up In Vegas...

Thank you Katy Perry, for the indelible images of you in a dice tube dress.

Oh, in others news, there really is none. Bro and Fiancee whom I love dearly just arrived at LAX, and so far, no mention of the shit-that-was. I'm hoping he doesn't bring it up, but you never know with him.

I pulled a pectoral muscle the other day, that was a joy. Timeline, yes.

Overdo it Tuesday/Wednesday (moving out because brain overdoes drama? Yes please), and by mid-Wednesday I'm on "shallow breathing". Don't sleep Wednesday night, and Thursday is spent DYING. I mean, I'm stuck in traffic because of an interview clear across Los Angeles, I'm exhausted, I'm in pain, and I'm cranky. Oh, and some homeless guy told me to "smile" outside the 7-11. Sorry, if I see you're ready with the "spare some change" line, I put on my 'New York Scowl'. So no, I won't smile.

The Smartfood cheese popcorn, however, did make me smile.

The interviews went well, and I got the call this afternoon that I did indeed GET THE JOB that I wanted. Teaching 5th and 6th grade together, Hebrew and Judaic studies. I really love teaching, and being a part of a community again just makes me happy, darnnit! Yay! The pay is good, so between that and the farm, I can pay my bills. Won't be makin' much extra, but that's fine. I'll be independent if I have to. Um, right?

So I crashed last night at 10:30 pm, woke up at 9:30 a.m., had a protein shake, 1/2 a luna bar, and went back to bed. Up again at 12:30, where I ate some more, then read some MarieClaire, watched some "Weeds" (Season 3), and went BACK to bed. Then off to dinner at the neighbors and back home.

There I learned about Ivo Pitanguy who is apparently the guru developer of plastic surgery. How AMAZING! He would fly people to his own private island!

http://www.pitanguy.com.br/index.htm

And bed. My pec muscle is healing, tenderly but well, so I'll have to be good a while. C'est la vie.

La Dee Da

All is well as it can be now, all blew over, the usual. I'm too tired to type details, and my body wants to kill me right now for "overdoing it". Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's when I get the "fake pulmonary embolism" feeling I had after my RNY that I know its resting time. Not fun.

Saw Bruno tonight. Eh. Not my thing.

Ate today. Neat to eat more.

Wow, my blog is boring. Good night!

"He's Only 50% Prick"

So I'm not being kicked out as unceremoniously as I have thought. Good to know my brain's still got the ability to take anything out of perspective. I'm still hurt, I'm still pissy, and as much as I HATE to do it, I'll be making....ammends.

Well, not quite ammends. More like "I'm still pissed, but I love you and blah blah blah", because someone has to be the bigger person, or this will never blow over. When it comes to who's more stubborn and pigheaded, my Dad and I are pretty much equal. Only I admit it. So in the end, I'm right. And frankly, isn't that all that matters? Please tell me we read my sarcasm and inflection?

And Then There Were Two

It just so happens I'm a "selfish, spoiled, bitch".

Honestly, I've been called worse. I think. They might have been drunk. Hell, I might have been. Actually, I think I need to be right now.

Where was I? Vodka? No....

Oh yeah. Two of 'em. My brother is convinced that I'm being a spoiled brat.

Fine. So I'm a spoiled brat. He's telling me this is all happening because I pitched a fit when my Dad said I couldn't get my surgery. Well, yeah. That's a definite possibility. I've definitely been known for my, er, histrionic behavior, and I would certainly not put it past me to throw one HELL of a fit if I didn't get my way. But that was in the past.

I repeat: In The Past.

Bro says I called him crying hysterically over not getting my surgery. While I don't think that happened (crying hysterically? Probably. Calling my BROTHER? Um, no.), let us say it did. Let's flow chart.

Dad says no surgery --> Shira cries hysterically and threatens suicide (hey, if I'm gonna go all the way, I'm gonna go all the way for this theorum) --> Dad gives in and signs a contract for surgery.

And...back up. Since when did my throwing fits in the past get me anywhere? Please. It took years to get him to not hate that I went to NYU, because "its an uppity East Coast school". I've cried hysterically over not being able to have my way on many, MANY occasions, absolutely none of which come to mind. He refused to pay for my apartment in NY (though he helped out in other ways), and hell, he's been an asshole about many things in my life. I pitched a fit, I cried it out, I was angry, I got over it, and no, I didn't always get what I wanted.

Wait. Hold on. In the words of my mother, "You usually get what you want". That's true. I've been very very lucky, and I'm grateful for it.

I had come to terms that I might not have my LBL and stuff like that after I graduated college. It sucked, but I had found a job, and blah blah blah, I was moving on. I'd like to think, that when my Dad said "No surgery", I didn't throw a fit. I imagine I bitched, moaned, told him he's an ass, and pointed out that he himself had said it's important and whatever. I'm sure I did my part to sway him, it's what we DO in the world when we don't get our way. That being said, after so many years of fit-pitching and bitching and NOT getting my way, how is it possible that a few tears and "sure, Shira, you can have surgery". Um, not the way it works in my household.

That being said, what my brother needs to understand is that its OVER. Done. We're not putting my arm fat back on, kthx.

What pisses me off is not at this point the disgusting actions of my father, but the way I've been treated since. He hasn't called. (Fine, I haven't called him either).

You are now emancipated and I have no more money to pay your bills.

Fine, so tell me to get a job like most people. Does he have a CLUE what the word "emancipation" means? Let's consult the dictionary:

e·man·ci·pate (-mns-pt)

tr.v. e·man·ci·pat·ed, e·man·ci·pat·ing, e·man·ci·pates

1. To free from bondage, oppression, or restraint; liberate.

2. Law To release (a child) from the control of parents or a guardian.

Hmm, maybe I should say thanks? In vernacular, I believe it has come to mean "wash your hands of". Either way, it hurts.

So, essentially, my brother's trying to keep peace, I'm a spoiled brat (hey, I'll bite!), and I have a pastrami waiting.

F.M.L.

I never really cared for the term, "FML". When I hear it, I think of 15 year-olds going "Ohmigod, Mrs. Danson assigned 6 pages of homework, Ef-Em-EL!". Don't ask, just let my brain go where it may.

However, in terms of its actual term and not abbreviation, it seems highly appropriate for me, to at this point say, FUCK. MY. LIFE. No, seriously. FUCK MY LIFE.

There's always been the knowledge of severe emotional abuse in regards to the relationship between me and my Dad. I know I have an adopted half-sister named Liza that my father abandoned years ago. I just never thought he would abandon me. I figured at the very least, I had the whole "flesh and blood" thing.

A few days ago, I got a call from Dr. Aboolian. My father's check has bounced, and he is refusing to pay. Literally. Like, "No, I will not pay you". That's what he says, as if it's a perfectly acceptable, logical, and most of all, not-at-all-immoral thing to do. Nevermind that he signed a contract. Nevermind that he has an obligation. He flat-out says he won't pay. That, I'm afraid, will have to be worked out in a lawsuit, because my father is officially insane. Sociopathic, in fact.

I always defended my Dad against my Mom's anger, "You're father's an insane sociopath", because I didn't believe it. My Dad had to have a modicum of conscience, right? I mean, he's not FULLY pathological, RIGHT?!

And that is where we go wrong.

I explained to my father that I could not continue to speak with him if he did not fulfill his legal and moral (emphasis on moral) obligation.

He kicked me out. Well, not quite like that. He simply explained that "he doesn't wanna" and if I have a problem with that, well, it's MY problem. And if I have such a problem with it, I can live with my mother. Oh, and by the way? He will no longer offer any financial support, including health insurance.

My father has decided to abandon me. Or, you could say I'm technically abandoning him on moral grounds, but I think anyone can see that this is truly an opposite situation. The man is saying that his "I don't wanna pay my obligation, 'cause!", is more important than me. His daughter. His flesh and blood. His child.

To say I've been living in shock would be a gross understatement. Tonight I got an email asking me to clear out my things and/or put them by the curb. Oh, and I guess I'd like to stay with my mother for awhile, because of "your recent decision".

Did I miss a day in empathy class? Trying to make sense of this situation is impossible. The man has truly, TRULY no conscience whatsoever. Who else could abandon their child and call themselves the victim. (No, really. Ask him. He'll tell you how much he's suffering and why he can't pay his bills. His daughter? "We're not talking because she doesn't understand my suffering, even though its so obvious how much I'm suffering because I'm suffering, don't you see?")

I asked him to pay a bill, and he told me to get with the program or get out. I'd "get with the program", but I have this thing called a conscience and the minimum of a 2 year old's idea of right and wrong.

I'm incredibly hurt, beyond angry, beyond words. This man sees nothing wrong with asking me to run illegal businesses, forge signatures, and now, conspire to purposely NOT pay a man who has in many ways saved my life.

My Mom promises to take care of me. I know she will. I've already learned how to budget (no, really guys!), but it is going to take a LOT more therapy to get through this. I'm thankful for the last several years of intense work that are somehow keeping me from offing myself. I think I'm thankful, right? It's sort of a complicated emotion. I don't really wanna die, I'm SO much better than that, and I really do have so much to live for. I just want him to suffer.

All those years I defended him, I loved him, I took care of him, when no one else would, because he's my Daddy and I was convinced he loved me. Completely shattered into oblivion. I am nothing towards him. And that's just painful.

So Now....

Ladies and gentlemen, guess who reads my blog?

My brother.

I guess he really follows me, sort of creepy. I mean, why? I posted a link to ONE post in a RESPONSE in Twitter and he's been following ever since?

I know, he's just looking out for me. And I appreciate him telling me to password-protect this blog, because frankly, I guess its a good idea considering I use it as a personal journal, and I'll just never get a date or a job otherwise, according to him.

Hmm, maybe THAT'S what happened with James? Ah well.

On A Better Note...

Well, not really. It happened. I have the fallout with Ian to deal with. He misses me. He wants me. He says he'll cut out the drugs. But that would require my believing him. And I don't believe people when it comes to diseases and addiction. I speak from experience, myself, and a certain psychopath. So he can swear that he's clean, but I have no proof. I am skeptical.

On the flip side, I would give anything for him to become completely clean, fall in love with me, and let us have ridiculous sexual tension. God, just thinking about him. Hey, he was my first male love with a serious crush. I'm entitled to have good fantasies. He's not taking my trying to break up with him very well. He's pissed, he insulted, and all that. Well, fuck it. Honestly? If he swore he was going off drugs, I would actually believe him, because he tells me all about his fuck ups, drugs and otherwise. He confides in me when he messes up because I don't judge people backsliding if they're on a path to some form of sobriety. I'm a giver, it's what I do. I will help with whatever is necessary.

I wish I didn't love him, this would be WAY easier.

I binged like a mother tonight. Don't ask me what I ate. Oh wait, I know, DUH.

Brie, 3 small slices
1 serving Kashi Crackers
1 Peach
1 Apple Pie Lara Bar
6 Crackers
4 Graham Crackers (with corn syrup. Ugh)
1 Luna Bar, Chocolate Caramel
3 Small White Egg-Bread "knots".
Chocolate chip rugelach.

What can I say, they're starches. Whatever. Whether it is PMS or anything, it's unacceptable behavior. Tomorrow, I can only get better. Strictness will happen, somewhow. I will not fail. I will not regain this wait.

Ohmigod, I'm failing. I'm failing. Help. Please. Someone. I know I failed tonight. Make it better. I can't exercise. I can't knock down my calories. This sucks.

Gotta Get The Sickness Out

No, not another infection.

But I gotta get rid of those that bring me down. I sound like a "girl power" song, or maybe a musical finale. Ya know, the one where suddenly she realizes what she needs to do and she can DO IT!

Blech. I can't stomach that kind of irrational hope. I'm going through my life with a fucking machete right now. Get in, or get out. I'm done with flakiness, I'm done with people who think this life transformation of mine has been superficial or vain. Yeah, a little vanity comes with it. Sorry I'm no longer the ugly girl you hang around with to feel better about yourself.

Michelle is the only one, truly, I think who has her heart in the right place and always has. Barb is getting there. But honestly, I don't see why Rachelle and I are even friends. I mean, she has this immature and convoluted idea of dating in the workplace and all she does outside of it is "party". I mean, she had to like, leave my birthday celebration early to go party. My bad. I forget that I'm not important.

Only Barb and Michelle ever take time for me. But right now, no one seems to care. To both of them, I'm just shallow these days. Yes, I've had a ton of cosmetic surgery, excuse me if I get excited to wear a size 4, or I can flirt these days. I only have one thing on my mind these days, and it's ME. For once in my who goddamn life, it's about ME. Not your fucking boy problems, not the fact that you've fucked up your brain with cocaine, not about anything. For once, my life is about me and what I want.

Well, what do I want? Let me spell it out for you.

I'm gonna be hot one day. I'm getting there physically, but one day, I'm gonna know it mentally. And it's NOT going to be because I had implants this week. It's going to be because I took charge of my body, my health, and who the hell I am going to be, and if you don't like it, get the fuck out of my way.

I'm gonna get my degree. A fucking PhD bitches. Yes, the kind that requires intense dedication. Why? Because I'm smart. Because I know I can contribute something to the world besides an addiction to reality television. How? Easy - GRE's are in September, applications for graduate school are due in December, I'll be accepted somewhere by February.

And then I'm the FUCK out of Los Angeles by August. This town is toxic. Not that it's not toxic in New York. In both places, people are obsessed with idiotic shows like "Gossip Girl" and whatever the fuck is on MtV or some shit channel. Newsflash: I don't CARE. I watch "House". "Big Love". "Weeds". I watch shows that require a modicum of intelligence to understand. Sorry if "30 Rock" goes over your heads, dumbasses.

I'm so much fucking better. Yeah, maybe that's pretentious of me. But sitting here, living with my mother at the moment, recovering from reconstructive cosmetic surgery, I know that I'm destined for better things than drinking bad beer at a karaoke bar. Sure, I made the best of it because I thought maybe they would do the same for me. I didn't realize "going out for Shira's birthday" involved 2 people panning out at 8 pm because one was tired and the other had to go to another party. Barbara really impressed me that night. She really did. Not that I'm not pissed at her and everyone else for not stepping up to even CARE that I had surgery, but whatever.

I was raised with human decency. The ability to care about others, perhaps a bit too much. You think I like that I'm breaking a friendship with Ian? No, it HURTS. But goddammit, I cannot have a friend with this kind of drug problem anymore. I don't want to hear about Ambien cocktails and how it's a "buzz". Fuck that.

Look, I'm a stoner, I get it. I like my pot.

Ian, he's gonna make it no matter how many drugs he's on. He'll be the classic brilliant lawyer, chain smoking or whatever, taking uppers and downers, making money up the wazoo and having girls at his whim. Let him have it, he's smart and I give credit where credit is due. I just don't want to be a part of it anymore. And that's my prerogative, so I'm gently telling him to get the fuck out of my life. I will always love him. And when I see him in the papers in 5 years on a major case, I'll smile, because I know he'll be successful. I'll miss him. It hurts, just the idea. But I can't handle the drug use, no matter how "non addicted" he is. It just hurts ME too much. And babe, I gotta put me first.

Who else is next on my chop chop list?

I made up with Meghann today. Because I missed her. See, I had made the mistake of counseling her ex-boyfriend after she somewhat cruelly dumped him. Apparently there's a rule that best friends don't talk to their best friends' ex-boyfriends. Yeah, I missed that one. I wanted to help him. I'm a sucker for people in psychological distress, okay? Meghann became irrationally convinced that I wanted him sexually and was highly jealous and screaming that I betrayed her. Sorta. I mean, I did betray that adage I wasn't so familiar with, but sleeping with him was never in my thoughts. Anyway, after quite a few months, I reached out to her.

See, I was in services and looked down and saw the spoon ring she had gotten me for my graduation gift. And when that happened, I looked at it, and knew it was time. I apologized for my actions, for hurting her, and while things aren't back to normal, I am SO grateful to have her back in my life. I missed her so much. She drives me insane, I don't agree with 1/2 of what she does, but I love her, and that's what matters.

Let's see, let's see....

WTF happened with James, I don't know. We had a lovely second date, and than POW. Whatever. I really had some hopes there, but it's his loss. He says he has a big trial. Uh-huh. Yeah, a simple "Hope you feel better after surgery" would have been nice, especially since he'd said he would come and sit with me post-op and be all nice and loving. Looks like THAT ain't happening. I'm sad about it, but whatever. It's his loss. I'm not gonna say I'm better than that, because I thought he was good enough for me. So be it.

And that's it. This isn't an FML type post, but it's cathartic. I'm done being the pushover, the sweetheart. I'm a nice, amazing person. But don't fuck with me people. I may have just had silicone implants put in my body, but I didn't lose my IQ. I may have lost my fat, but dammit, I'm smarter, more determined, and have been through more shit on my pinky finger than half of 'em will ever go through. So get with the program or get the fuck out.

Fine Out Who Your Friends Are...

Well, nothing like country music to hit the emotional target point of the day.



I'm definitely having a self-pity day. They're not too common these days. I try to keep myself upbeat, keep busy. I just woke up...

I can't believe I had to remind people I had surgeries. I mean, seriously? I had to ask people if they would visit me. See me. Shira. They're "friend". But nope. They still haven't called to see when would be a good time, or if I'd like a latte, or maybe they can take me to a movie. Nope. Nothing.

Barb accidentally texted me (intended for someone else): "Shira had her surgery yesterday. Can you imagine 2 major cosmetic surgeries in 4 months?"

Um, they happened. And they aren't just cosmetic, dammit. It's skin removal. I might look normal now.

So I have to wonder, is this why people are creeping out of my life? Barbara, Michelle, Rachelle? Is my place no longer warranted? I mean, is this about my suddenly looking good, being able to be pretty and not just the fat friend? I hate to make it that superficial, but I've read so much about it, and so many people report about it, that I can't help but question and wonder.

I admit, I've been a bit of a broken record. Surgery this, weight that, food this. I'm obsessed, I know. But it's all I've HAD in the last few months. I used to have a life in New York, and now I'm feeling very lonely in Los Angeles. VERY lonely.

I just want someone to care for me they way I care for others. 10 days after my bypass I was driving Michelle around because she had a broken ankle. I'll be there for anyone.

But will anyone ever be here for me?

Happy Birthday

So that's kind of cool, eh? I hope it works! Tomorrow/Today, is July 10th, depending on what coast your on.

I had my RNY Gastric Bypass on July 10th, 2007. In March 2008, I hit the 100 lbs loss mark.

On March 20, 2009, I underwent a Tummy Tuck and Lower Body Lift. I had a crazy amount of complications, including MRSA, but learned that apparently one needs food to survive. CRAZY, right?

July 8th, I underwent brachioplasty and torsoplasty to remove the excess skin from my upper torso, as well as breast augmentation to replace what fat I'd lost in my boobs.

I've from a size 24 to a size 4, 277.7 lbs to approximately 142 lbs. Hey, the scale varies, but 142 has been its hang-out point for a while.

I have more energy. I can breathe. I live a new life. I am so grateful. I wish I had more words to express it all, but I do not. I can only thank those who helped me through it. My parents, Emily, Farrah, my brother, my therapists, Meghann...everyone who dealt with me through a variety of eating disorders and craziness as I attempted to build this healthier life for myself.

I by no means have it figured out, but at least I can try now.

Day 1.5

Well, I'm home. Keeping my arms propped up like a good girl, a ice pack around my chest. I ate breakfast, protein shake, fluids - so far, so good!

It's definitely tender, and I'm grateful for the pain meds. They take away the achiness so that I can type and all that. In essence, I feel like I'm doing regular isometric exercises and that my biceps are getting one hell of a workout. We'll see.

I'm pissed no one's called to see how I am, but I didn't make a big deal of it, but still. I guess James and I won't work out, as he's not called either. Blech.

So that's all. Naptime.

New Boobies!

Which is really NOT the most exciting part of what happens in about 2 hours. What really gets me going is these flaps I call "batwings" on my arms checking out. Or cutting out. Oh, *kneeslap*.

I might look TOTALLY normal after this. After the scars fade and healing, etc...I'll be able to fit into a jacket. A short sleeve shirt. Maybe, god forbid, a tank top. And by all of this, I mean outside the house. Where I'm not embarrassed.

Maybe one day I can look at myself and see the scars fade and just see a beautiful woman staring back at me who doesn't have the baggage of 23 years of obesity behind her. But just who I am.

Which of course, I have no fucking clue, but who knows who I am and what I will become?

Blech. I can't find my reading glasses. Which means I make a phone call to Costco, a phone call to Cohen's in NY where they have my Rx, and one-two-three, I get $10 glasses. I hope. I need 'em. So minor a prescription, such amazing effects.

EDIT: I JUST FOUND MY GLASSES!!! HUZZAH!

Bye y'all. See ya on the other side.

You Deserve a Break Today

Yeah, I'd like a motherfucking Kit-Kat bar right now. Thankfully it has corn syrup and I don't quite feel like having a dumping session at the moment. I think it has corn syrup. Either way, I'm not touching it. I will not BINGE right now. I will NOT binge right now. I am better than that, I have control, and after I go to the market, I will either smoke a massive joint OR take serious amounts of klonopin. Because I need to. My heart rate just went to CRAZY. And in an hour or two, it could turn dissociative. Awareness is fun.

Recap, yes? I go to have lunch with Phyllis. I love her. She helps me understand that I need to live, that there is a person here somewhere inside of me that ISN'T weight. What? Me, not survive on the identity that I am just a former fattie? Fascinating. Heh. Gotta work on that.

Oh, so I have a voicemail from my surgeon. Probably reminding me to not have liquids after midnight on Tuesday, right?

WRONG.

It's from Melanie. My father's refusing to pay. Well, he will but "I just don't have it right now". Um, I TOLD you you needed to have it. You fucking have it. You just refuse to use certain funds out of the irrational fear that you're going to be homeless if the house forecloses. Which it won't. Newsflash - you have some money piled away. USE IT for your daughter. OR, use it to pay the bills you complain about. But don't say you're saving it for retirement. You're 78. If you ain't using it now, I mean, really.

Sorry, I'm sure that's too much anyone ever wanted to know about my family finances. We used to have some money, not much, and now we have very little. I get it. I fucking get it. I don't need the "Shira, work in my illegal business so we can eat this month". Please, bullshit. When you stop buying ridiculous equipment to test your blood pressure and blood coagulation that you could easily see your doctor for but you're too lazy to go 1/2 mile because that would be "inconvenient", fuck you. Just fuck you Dad. I love you SO much, but it would be nice if your Asperger's took a hike for 15 minutes.

Okay, I get it. I know I'm a spoiled brat who's getting the plastic surgery while people in the world are losing their jobs and all that shit. But dammit. Motherfucking goddamnit.

It should still work out. I'm resourceful enough to manipulate this situation to my advantage. I am, thank GOODNESS.

But I still need a major hit after the market, or I may very well lose it. Between this and what was written in my previous post, I'm sort of on edge right now. Thankfully not suicidal, but dissociating is NOT something I consider an enjoyable thing. But my brain has a meter. Somewhat like this one. I would say I'm around 40 right now. If this doesn't work out today, I'm liable to hit 80.

From "40" to "80". I dissociate at 65. Obviously, these numbers are silly, but it gives me (or you, or whomever), an idea of what my brain goes through.

I already had one cry today. I'm starting to go numb. Which means I'm close to dissociating. And I don't feel like staring at the wall while my brain goes on a mushy mission to kill myself. That's what happens. I'm not suicidal. But when I dissociate, it's bad. I don't want to go to there.

Houston, we have a problem.

Namely, I've been binging. I did yesterday. I can see it. Even if the calories aren't too extreme thanks to a couple bulimic trips to the bathroom, I know what's happening. I can feel it. Is it me? Is it the birth control? Is it the fact that I'm out of meds?

How idiotic was it to start HORMONES without MEDICATION? Argh.

I'm obviously not doing so well. Yes, I have my surgery on Wednesday, which I'm excited about. But I'm a bit scared.

I just worry about my mental state. I can't let this begin again. I can't. I'm humungously fat, the scale hates me. What was that, 147? God, just that NUMBER freaks me out. I'm failing. I'm failing. This can't happen. And yet, I've let myself gain 5 lbs. I just let it happen. What's WRONG with me? Why am I letting myself fail?

At this point, my heart rate starts going, and the thoughts come in. The scary thoughts. The one I spend 1/2 my life trying to keep from coming back, and they keep coming back. I want to tell my Mom or Dad and have them hug me, but I'll just get a 20 minute lecture on why this all means I should postpone my surgery and "stop thinking this way" (Mom) or "call your psychiatrist and get new meds" (Dad). Neither include the suggestion I so desperately desire which is "get thy ass into therapy", because they both have this convoluted idea that I'm so smart I can fix myself. Yeah. No.

I'd call my therapist, but I don't want the lecture on how I know better than to play with my medications. But here's the thing. I don't want to be any more of a financial burden on my parents. My dentist bill was obscene, and my Mom gave the groan that says "Well, make your father pay for it because he's an asshole and I'm the good parent". In that she also points out that she doesn't have the money, and whether she means it or not, I hear "BURDEN" in bright, bold, neon letters.

I'm just a big old burden. Which brings me to the scary thoughts. Electrocution? Overdosing? Stabbing? Jumping off my roof? Options, options. Which way to die, so that I can stop being a burden on everyone in my life.

I know my head is HIGHLY fucked up right now, but that doesn't make these thoughts any less scary or the logic in my head any more theoretically right. It's like being possessed by the anti-Prozac.

I have lunch with a good friend in an hour. She'll probably want to know the truth, but goodness knows I don't want to worry her, AND if she thinks its bad enough, she would tell my Mom. Who would give me a lecture such as "Why do you tell Phyllis these things? Just STOP". Because the answer to all my suicidal thoughts, self-mutilations, and eating disorders has always been "STOP", right? It would be easier if I was dumb and they didn't expect anything from me. But the do. And I'm failing them. Again.

No Subject - Because My Brain Is No Working

I really need to stop drinking wine. Not vodka, tequila, or hard alcohol. But wine. Why? Because this has now happened twice, maybe thrice in recent memory.

2 Glasses Wine = Passing out, i.e. FAINTING in the bathroom when I get up at 3 a.m. to pee.

Nothing quite like pissing and then wondering why you're on the floor of the bathroom. It's a bit scary. Interestingly enough, when I'm OUT and have a glass of wine, it's not a problem, probably because I'm awake metabolizing it. But the second I decide to indulge at home, whether it be a "let's relax" night or a party, I'm out. And honestly? It's only been by a few inches that I've not had a couple concussions. Which makes me wonder if I'm putting myself on the floor before I pass out? I really have no idea whatsoever. This morning my head was pushing the base of the bathtub. 1 more inch and I probably would have cracked my head open.

So, continuing on that momentum, lots of thoughts. Is it the RNY? Probably. I can't have a cup o' grapes without dumping, so it stands to reason that their derivative might be worse. Is it the Cymbalta?

http://depression.emedtv.com/cymbalta/cymbalta-and-alcohol.html

Well, that's news. But I'm good with hard spirits, so really, who the fuck knows? I like that the article says "Do not take your Cymbalta WITH alcohol". Well, who takes their morning medication with alcohol? Anywho. Lesson learned, until next time anyway.

Couple things going on.

I've been playing around with my meds because I ran out and I'm waiting for a shipment from Canada. NEVER a good thing, but I'm too nuts to call my physician and ask for meds in the interrim because that a) shows irresponsibility and b) my health insurance doesn't cover 'em, so it would cost money. And I'm feeling guilty enough given that I have surgery on Wednesday.

Speaking of surgery, it didn't become real until yesterday when I saw Dr. Aboolian. Wow. I has boobs? I has no batwings?

Continuing on my non-sensical ramblings, I went to shul last night and listened to a great sermon on how the definition of a "curse" is "lack of hope". Right, the rabbis in Babylonia dealt with severe depression. But it makes me think anyway, and given my reaction to wine, I had this split second idea at 6 a.m., which I then went "WTF?" on.

"Hmm, maybe I should stay in California for the medical marijuana. Obviously alcohol ain't the answer, but pot makes me relax and sleep well".

Yeah, that lasted 1 second. Back to normal Shira.

Other thoughts? I feel badly about bingeing last night. 2,700 calories, WAY over budget. I don't binge on pot, just wine. Anyone seeing a connection here? Can't say the Haagen Dazs wasn't good, but still. Maybe not a good idea.

And that's all. Back to sleep. It's July 4th, and my morning and afternoon plans cancelled on me. Pisses me off, goddamit. But whatever.