Where I'm At - One Year Out

I had my one year post-surgery check-up appointment last Friday. It has actually been over a year, but I have been putting off going as I am not where I want to be and am feeling bad about it.  I finally put my big girl panties on and made the appointment.  Hiding is not helping.  Some people have asked why I haven't blogged about it and wanted to know how it went.  After all, I've shared everything else about my journey.  I've shared my past, I've shared my reason for pursuing the surgery, I've shared all the trials involved in getting the surgery, I've shared my dark days, I've shared my best days.  So, why, at this point would I not share? I responded to the person, "I'm not sharing this time, I'm too embarrassed.  I feel like I have failed."  I thought about all the people that support me everyday and are pulling for me.  I just couldn't do it.  My friends, of course, said I was being ridiculous, no one thinks I have failed.  But, I do.

I stewed about my appointment all the way home afterwards, and then, all weekend. I was numb.  I was embarrassed.  However, the more I have thought about it, the more I realize, I cannot hide from where I am at in my journey now anymore than I could hide from that appointment.  I can't pretend like it didn't happen. I can't pretend I am any place other than right here.  My story is not complete, nor honest if I leave things out. My whole blog is about putting all my crap out there.  It's therapeutic for me and I think it helps others that may have similar situations going on in their lives. I mean, hopefully no one else has had to relate to crapping their pants or having their guts explode, but still, there have to be some nuggets of wisdom in there somewhere, right?  I have people tell me all the time that they read something that they related to or a struggle they shared, so to all of you, I will continue to be honest.

Rewind to last Friday.  I arrived at my appointment feeling apprehensive.  I wondered what they would say.  I heard they had been following my blog, so they knew all the deets.  They knew about the apple pie showdown, the Zinger love affair, the chocolate...they knew.  It's not like these things represent my daily diet, it's not what I eat everyday, but the feelings for these foods and the occasional caving in to these foods was likely the key to my stalled weight-loss.  As I weighed in, I took my shoes off praying for the scale to give me some sort of extra credit. Nope. That bitch can't give me any credit.  The cold truth right there.  I got off the scale and walked into the exam room.  I spent a few minutes answering all the questions I had already just spent 15 minutes answering on the paperwork in the waiting area.  Finally, the moment of truth, Dr. B came in the room.  She asked how things were going, I said, "okay." Let's cut through the crap.  We both knew this wasn't going to be one of those warm fuzzy appointments where they tell me not to be so hard on myself and to accept where I am in the journey, etc.  Nor was there any, "OMG, look how far you've come!"  No, "Wow, what a change!"  There was no, "You have done such a great job!"  Not for me.  Dr. B looked down at my weight written on the page and just stared at it for a minute.  My weight has not changed in four months.  I'm stuck.  I'm going to the gym, going through the motions, but still struggling with food.  I might have a small stomach, but I can still make bad choices.  And, even though some of those choices aren't even that bad, when you have a body this resistant to change, you can't screw around.  Dr. B said that she felt I needed a boost, a little extra help.  We discussed my options, one of which involves some additional medication, and we made a plan.  I also need to see the nutritionist next week.  I'm sure Poptart Barbie will also have some serious words of wisdom for me.

I left there feeling defeated.  Like, I had just been told I had failed at weight loss surgery.  Like I was at that same place I was after having the Lap Band surgery. I flashed back to when Dr. L had told me that there is a certain percentage of patients that don't respond to the Lap Band.  I was in that percentage.  I remember him telling me that I just needed to keep at it, or I needed to consider a different surgery, which, at the time I immediately ruled out.  I had been angry then and felt abandoned.  This felt a little like that.  I felt numb.  I was disappointed in myself.  I was angry that now we are going to alternate methods because I can't make this work.  The reality is, this isn't anything like where I was with the Lap Band.  The Lap Band was an utter failure because it tortured me and it didn't allow me to eat the way I needed to.  I hated it.  I had little success with the Lap Band.  The reality is, I have had success with the Gastric Sleeve.  I've lost more than I ever have before, but I still have so far to go and my body wants to rest at this place that is not anywhere near my goal.  I felt like I had let myself down and everyone that is pulling for me.  As I shared my shameful story with my pal, Pony Crazy, she said to me, "Who the F cares how you lose the weight? Who cares what method is used as long as you are trying to get healthy and you keep on trying? And if people do judge you, they can F off!"  I know what she says is true. Mostly, what I know to be true is that I judge myself and expect more from myself than anyone else does.  The pressure is coming from within.  Nonetheless, I feel a certain responsibility to all those that support me to make this happen.

Anyway, after stewing all weekend and feeling like a failure, I understand I have two choices.  I can give up and have a pity party or I can suck it up and keep fighting.  I'm not a quitter.  I can't be, not in the Year of the Angry Pony.  I need to get my shit together.  After almost two weeks of not being at the gym due to all the chaos at work, I returned today.  It wasn't really that hard to go.  I just did it as I had done so many times before.  Ass Kicker was waiting for me, ever faithful.  I walked up to the elliptical machine and cringed at how my legs were going to protest.  I got on and just started in.  I was talking to Ass Kicker as I was working away and didn't even notice how fast I was going on the elliptical.  I looked down and I was going faster than I had ever gone before and my legs didn't hurt.  They weren't protesting.  I was confused. It was almost as if my body was taking over saying, "we got this."  It was a weird feeling. I guess maybe I had accomplished something over the last two months. My body was stronger, more capable than I gave it credit for.  I worked out with Ass Kicker until I was sweating like a fat kid chasing an ice cream truck in the heat of the summer.  It was good.  Today was good enough.

So, that's the update.  That is where I am at, one year out.  Not an amazing success. Not an utter failure. Just me.  It is the struggle that is my life, and while I am pissed off it is never easy for me, it is what it is.  This is my path, for whatever reason.  I may never understand it and likely will never accept it.  That is just one of the reasons I am Angry Pony, I suppose.

Stabbing You With My Horn

This is the picture that I was tagged in or was posted to my Facebook page at least four times before I woke up this morning.  Was it posted because people think I like unicorns or because people believe I want to stab people?  Or, both?  I don't know, but it makes a person stop and think, is this the energy I'm putting out there?  I mean, I am Angry Pony, I guess.  I can go on about asshats, motor home terrorists, lilly-livered, scum sucking mother truckers and the like. Hmmm.  I can't have this, am I going to need an alibi if someone gets hurt?  This is pretty incriminating.  One of my FB friends pointed out that all of my friends have developed an escape plan if I should snap.  I don't want to go as far as saying evacuation manuals have been created, but apparently, there is a contingency plan in place. My husband, Shark Bait, has voiced his fear that he will be wrapped in a tarp and stored under the house.  Not true, he can stink up a bathroom alive, how the hell would he smell dead?  I don't want that under the house.  Hmph.  I shouldn't be shocked about this perception people have, but at the end of the day, I'm not a violent person.  Oh sure, I make all kinds of threats, but when is the last time I socked someone in the eye?  The last time I gut-punched someone (okay, that is a bad example, but Shark Bait had it coming)?  Sure, I bite people's heads off, but not literally, just figuratively. I do threaten to punch people in the head, the throat...the nuts.  I guess I do have an anger problem, really, but I don't act on it.  Hell, I've been threatening to jump off the sky bridge at the Glass Palace for 16 years.  Look who is still employed AND alive... THIS girl!

**This part omitted due to censorship.***

After a day of working the table, I finally headed out.  As I went through the doors, there was a huge clap of thunder and some lightening.  I stopped.  Was that for me?  Nah. Had to be coincidence.  I walked out to the truck where Shark Bait was waiting to take me home.  The weather continued to be crazy on the way home with thunder, lightening, crazy hail and wind.  I didn't yell at any stupid drivers or have any temper tantrums.  It was lovely.  We stopped at Panda Express and got some dinner (don't even get me started about how bad for me that is.  Piss off, I got the freaking teriyaki chicken and beef broccoli) and headed home.  For the record, my fortune cookie fortune said, "Everything will now come your way."  Well, I started opening the mail, and I think that fortune really paid off!  We got a Valentine's Day card from Polly Passion Party, we got a hand-written note from Sprint thanking us for being customers for all these years. I mean, not asking for anything, just saying thank you.  Then, for the grand finale, we finally got our settlement check for a Bank of America overdraft check lawsuit.  That's right, $5.65!!!  HELL YEAH!  Freakin'-A!  It says right on there we can cash it right away.  You bet your ass I will Bank of America, you bet your ass...  I guess it pays not to stab people, because then karma comes around and shows you how sweet life can be.  That's right, a good fortune, a Valentine, a thank you card and $5.65.  Who says I'm not rich?  Who says that life is serving me up lemons?  Who says I'm not riding high?  Hell yes I'm high.  Wait.No. I'm not high.  You can't get high for $5.65 unless you suck helium out of a balloon.

Anyway, to the people that posted that stabby unicorn picture, take that, mother truckers...$5.65 and no criminal charges.

Doctor Lite

In light of last night's blog, I decided to take affirmative action today regarding my mental health. I was trying to decide what doctor to see when my pal, Sassy Pants, suggested a doctor she sees and kinda likes.  Okay, I'll do it.  I call and lo and behold, they have an appointment today.  Fantastic.  Let's just get this ball rolling and  get it over with.

I meet the doctor and she seems nice enough.  And, let's be clear, she isn't a doctor, she is one of those nurse practitioner types.  I guess she is like Diet Coke. She is "Doctor Lite."  Same great personality, just without all those extra pesky qualifications.  I don't know, they are supposed to be just about as good as a fer real doctor, so I am told.  Whatever. Anyway, I took the little quiz asking how depressed I really am.  I think I nailed it!  Doctor Lite comes in and asks me why I'm there.  I tell her.  She then wants to know why I came to see her, who have I been seeing the last couple of years?  Well, a whole network of people, really.  I mean, I got the fat doctor, the throat doctor, the skin doctor, the gyno doctor, you know, kind of like a hypochondriac pit crew.  I'm not a hypochondriac, but I have stuff going on, I have people for aforementioned stuff.

Doctor Lite continues asking me questions about my surgery, my therapy, what my beef is with life, etc.  She says, "so you are going to therapy? For how long have you been going?"  I tell her it has been about a year with this doctor, maybe more.  She considers the time and almost seems like she can't believe I'm not "fixed" yet.  She says, "Do you think it's helping?"  I was irritated. Why would I go if it wasn't helpful?  We carried on and she wants to know if I think my weight is a big part of my depression.  Um, duh.  I said, "pretty much don't feel like I can be happy unless I lose the weight and can do the things I want to do.  I keep screwing it up and I'm really mad at myself.  Are there other issues in my life, sure, but yeah the weight is a big issue."  She considers this.  She says, "Do you work out?"  I tell her, yes, I do.  She considers this and decides to give me some "life changing" advice. She says, and write this down people, this is profound, she says, "Just find a 30 day plan and do it, probably like a Paleo eating plan.   Doesn't matter which one it is, just find one and do it.  You can do anything for 30 days. So just do it.  Then at the end of 30 days do it again, or pick a different plan. Doesn't matter."  Wow, why had I NEVER considered trying some random 30 day plan?  Where was she all those years ago when she could have CHANGED. MY. LIFE?  There it is folks, the recipe for success.  It's just that simple.  Just do it.  Why didn't I ever think of "just doing it?"  I should have checked her client list.  I bet she helps others like Wiley Coyote and Elmer Fudd through their hard times.  It's always the same drill with doctors.  You know, I'm not expecting them to be Hellen Keller, Certified Miracle Worker, but give me some credit.  I'm complicated.  My problem is bigger than "just do it."  Maybe it should be that simple, BUT IT ISN'T.  For all of you that have successfully just done it,  good for you! I'm ecstatic for you, really I am.

Finally, Doctor Lite sends me off with a prescription for Zoloft.  I said, "You know, some of these meds I'm kind of scared of because I see the commercials and the serious voice dude always talks about how you can get the shits, headaches, a limp  biscuit and possibly death."  She says, "yeah, I wish they would stop doing those commercials, they don't help anyone, they just scare them, people don't need to know all that."  What? What do you mean we don't need to know? I said, "Look, I don't want to suddenly get an appetite, sleep all day or become unable to have sex, so if it does any of those things, forget it."  She didn't really assure me, but said I should be okay, we'll start on a low dose and see how it goes.  With a pat on the head, I was done.

I'm sitting here at home now, checking out the med deets and looking at potential side effects.  Did I mention that she said I will probably be nauseous and tired?  That's it.  In looking into the details, here is what I can expect:

• nausea (can't wait)
• diarrhea (I've shit my pants before, I don't want to do it again)
  
• constipation (great, depressed and now I can't poop)
  
• vomiting (weight loss woot woot)
  
• dry mouth (I'll just drink more?)
  
• gas or bloating (= bitchy)
  
• loss of appetite (if only)
  
• weight changes (I'd better not get fatter)
  
• drowsiness (I'm already drowsy)
  
• dizziness (good, now I can't walk)
  
• excessive tiredness (well, that solves the problem of me not wanting to get out of bed)
  
• headache (perfect, that ought to cheer me up)
  
• pain, burning, or tingling in the hands or feet (fantastic, now I'll be pissed off and sad about the pain)
  
• nervousness (aren't I trying to avoid being nervous?)
  
• uncontrollable shaking of a part of the body

(okay what if the uncontrollable shaking is my fist or middle finger? Am I going to need documentation on file at work for this?)

• sore throat (well, it won't be from the oral sex)
  
• changes in sex drive or ability (so, if i had a sex life, it's over...dead)
  
• excessive sweating (now I'm going to be stinking and shiny)
  
  
  But wait, it get's better, if it all goes to shit, so to speak, I could have the following issues, which are apparently more severe and should be monitored: blurred vision, seizures,fever, sweating, confusion, fast or irregular heartbeat, and severe muscle stiffness,abnormal bleeding or bruising,hallucinating (seeing things or hearing voices that do not exist)  <-- How do I know if the voices don't exist if I am hearing them and think they are real?  Huh?
  
  It goes on to say that this medicine is also used sometimes to treat headaches and sexual problems. Whoa.  What kind of sexual problems?  It doesn't elaborate on that. Is it a problem of wanting sex all the time?  A problem of not being able to have sex?  Wanting to have sex with animals? I would like more information on this.  I can't be out there dry humping the water fountain because my meds are screwing with my brain.
  
  I kind of feel like we should have touched on some of this information, but Doctor Lite doesn't seem concerned.  She'll see me back in three weeks.  I can't wait to tell her how my life changing 30 day plan is going.  Good news for blog readers, if I start to hear voices that aren't real, but that I don't know aren't real, the blogs might start getting interesting.  I know they are lackluster lately, but this could really spice things up.  Or, I'll just be sleeping all the time after I crap my pants too nervous to leave the house because I'm dizzy and can't stop humping the throw pillows. I don't know.  Let's take a ride with Angry Pony and see how this turns out!
  
  All aboard!
  
  
  

Angry Pony...Depressed? What, Me?

It's been a crazy few weeks since I declared it as the Year of Angry Pony.  I'm trying to have a new outlook and really be the person that is dying to get out and live.  I've been keeping my journal, I've been getting to the gym but the eating better thing is still hit and miss.  My attitude, however, continues to be in the dumper.  I told The Rug Doctor last time I saw her that I was a fraud.  I was pretending to be this person that was positive and ready to embrace all that is theYear of Angry Pony and this person in pursuit of the little black dress.  It's bullshit.  It's an illusion.  I mean, I want to be her, but, I'm not there yet.  I believe everything I wrote in that blog, but I don't FEEL it.  I'm not buying it.  I'm willing to steal it, just not make the investment.  What the hell is my problem?

I explained to The Rug Doctor tonight that I am going through the motions.  I'm going to the gym.  I'm looking up new healthier recipes, I'm attempting to behave.  I think I am just programming myself to do the right things, but not really feeling them.  Not really behind them.  I feel like I should be evolving into this person, I thought I was, but I don't think I am.  If I was, why would I be so tired all the time?  Why don't I want to get out of bed?  Why am I so sad all the time?  Will asked me the other morning why I was so sad and I said, "Because I look in the mirror and I am the same girl stuck in the same body as I was yesterday."  I can't stop being like this.  I go to work and I'm angry and sad and bored.  I come home and I am angry and sad.  I try and consider others around me and their struggles and think about how my life really isn't that bad, but as the Rug Doctor says, it's okay to feel what I feel and not compare it to others.  My feelings are valid.  So, suck it, optimists and judgy people with all your happy Pinterest quotes and life how-to bullshit.  Get off me.

And Will, that poor bastard, he can't win. For example, last week was shark week, so it was a little intense, I'll grant you that, but strike one was when he stopped and got me ice cream. He was trying to soothe the savage beast.  Sharks love ice cream.  But this shark likes Rocky Road ice cream.  Will got Waffle Cone ice cream.  What? Crappy stale chunks of waffle cone with caramel swirls? Are you freaking kidding me?  Who eats that shit?  That isn't comfort, that is like licking the ground at the carnival the day after they pull out of town.  Guh-ross!  But, I suffered through and ate it anyway.  Strike two, Will asks what I want for dinner.  I'm still at work, I'm tired and I can't take the pain anymore, I said, "I don't care, whatever."  He says he is getting pizza.  Okay, that is good comfort food.  I get home and it is this thin crust pizza because he thought it would be "healthier."  Are you freaking kidding me? I looked back and forth from him to the pizza, from him, to the pizza....from him, to the pizza.  I lost my mind, "How are you supposed to even eat this?!  You can't even pick it up?! I was counting on the comfort of crust and now I have NO CRUST!"  In a half panic, half rage, Will said he would go get some different pizza.  I yelled back at him that he wasn't going anywhere.  I was out of control.  I knew it, he knew it, but he sure as hell was not going to say it.  All other shark weeks up to this one had prepared him for this moment.  I ate my crustless pizza in silence.  And then I apologized for being a bitch.  This is the man I love and for some crazy reason, loves me back and like a shark attacking a surfer in Maui, I ripped his fucking leg right off...and swallowed it whole.

So now, I beat up myself for just being me and then I beat up my man...Shark Bait (and just like that, Will gets a blog name).  Rug Doctor and I discussed this tonight and my lingering sadness and inability to pull my shit together.  And then she explained the difference between "clinical depression" and "situational depression."  It's not like I had never heard those words before.  It's not like I had never considered it.  But tonight it really, truly stuck.  I'm clinically depressed.  I know, I know, "duh." I have been my whole life, really.  I've always known it in the back of my mind. The Rug Doctor said you can even be both clinically and situationally depressed.  Once again, I always get extra of what I need, except boobs.  Once again, screwed by shit-house-luck and genetics. The hard part is, I think I can handle all this shit on my own.  I think I can overcome it on my own, but I think it is time to face the fact that I need some extra help.  And, as hilarious as it is if I eat a few bites of a pot brownie, I don't think a prescription for pot is in my future. I can't walk around laughing and pissing myself all the time.  Fun for everyone except me.  Fat girls with wet pants aren't really fun after it happens once. I mean one time, it's fun.  Beyond that, people start talking about "places you can go" that will be "what is best for you."  I'm not ready for that yet.

And that is where I find myself this Therapy Thursday, resigned and a bit sad, but I guess they make a pill for that.  Lucky me.