Super Cellulite Girl

I thought I would take some time today and update everyone on the progress in my life since the last blog where I had just seen the Girlie Doctor and been held hostage by Dr. Nature.

As luck would have it, the nutrient IV/hostage situation that caused me to have to lay in an uncomfortable position on my bad shoulder for hours has caused my shoulder to flare up.  I have been babying this shoulder for close to 9 years after the last cortisone shot that seemed to stabilize it. Well, now it is PISSED OFF.  So, if you add that on all my other maladies, I'm a bigger hot mess than before.  On a side note, for those of you that wanted to know how the nutrient IV went after the fact, it did make me feel better and sleep better and wake up refreshed for about a week.  So, there's that.

So, I have been going to appointments to figure out what is going on in this angry body of mine.  Still a few more to go over the next two weeks, but the one constant appointment I always make time for is my Therapy Thursday sessions with The Rug Doctor.  I visited her on a Tuesday this week, so it was more of a Train Wreck Tuesday.  Regardless of the day, I always bring the correct amount of dysfunction to the session for her to earn the co-pay.

This week I told her that I was pretty much emotionally bankrupt.  Like, all this drama with my body, not knowing what is going on and having all these pains and not sleeping made me feel utterly hopeless and honestly, a little scared.  And knowing, at some level, that so much of it is probably my fault for a lifetime of obesity. Knowing how bad I want to be healthy and just continually struggling.  I told her I am the problem, but we can't fix me, Lord knows she's tried.  I just need to do what I need to do, but I'm apparently in my own way.  She says not to be so hard on myself and that there is a balance between being kind to yourself and holding yourself accountable. And that I'm still working through issues from my childhood. I called bullshit on her, "Being kind hasn't worked.  Kindness likes cookies. I need that accountability bitch in there telling me to get my shit together." She said, "so how's that been working out?"  (Insert disapproving look here directed at therapist ) I told her that nothing I have ever tried, since birth, has ever worked for me to lose weight.  No diet, no plan, no program, not even surgery has helped.  I mean, surgery did for a short time and then all hell broke loose with my work out program and my joints and the weight all came rushing back with a vengeance.

I went on to explain, it's like I can't break through the barriers.  I said to The Rug Doctor, "It's like I'm some sort of cellulite superhero."  She looked at me confused, "A cellulite superhero?  I've never heard of that..."  I said, "Yeah, you know how the Incredible Hulk gets pissed off and he's all green and indestructible? He's a bad-ass an you can't touch him.  I'm like Super Cellulite Girl, go ahead and try and lose weight, can't be done because Super Cellulite Girl (SCG) is there to fend off any sort of healthy behavior.  The cellulite has super powers.  They grab on and multiply like fucking rabbits and I am powerless to stop them.  Cellulite is stronger than any force in the food chain or in the workout world."  She considered this and said, "But that isn't true, you were able to tap into your positive self at the beginning of January and be on track, feel good and make healthy choices."  I countered, "Yeah, because even Super Cellulite Girl has a kryptonite....HOPE.  Cassondra was attacked by hope and was temporarily hi-jacked, but then shit happened that weakened hope and then SCG came in and regained control."  I acted out punching-out hope and puffing myself up like a bad-ass with puffy cheeks.

Super Cellulite Girl. Gnarly looking bitch, isn't she?

God bless the Rug Doctor, she never gives up.  She says, "I think we can access hope again by being kind to yourself and remembering what it was like when you were successful and working out and what that felt like."  I said, "SCG has amnesia.  She doesn't dwell on times she was consumed by hope, she focuses on the daily ability to hold on to power.  She cannot be defeated.  She has a cape."

We went on to discuss how having hope may have let me down in the past and how to access it again. And also about worry and how that plays a role.  I actually said to her, straight-faced, "I don't think I worry that much.  I think maybe I should worry more."  While this is not the first time I have rendered The Rug Doctor speechless, it always gives me a small sense of satisfaction when it does happen.  I like to believe this is the part of our session where she really earned her hourly rate.  It's too much to go into, but she made her point.  I may worry more than I think.

So, at the end of the day, SCG is a reigning power in my life. She's allegedly indestructible.  I know I'm the one giving her power, I just don't always have the strength to fight her.  She will always be inside, always.  She has been there since birth.  Kind of like an X-Men gene, but in my case it is an XXL genetic mutation.  Even in the most basic of action films, there is always a way to destroy the bad guy, but then there is a sequel.  Like, is Freddy Kreuger even dead?  Jason?  They always come back.  Always lurking, waiting for the stupid teens to be unattended, or in my case, a fat girl standing outside Coldstone Creamery...sniffing the smell of waffle cone...and just like that, SCG is back in charge as fast as feeding gremlins after midnight. 

I don't know what the hell I'm going to do, honestly. This constant fight makes me feel like a failure.  It's hard to build on that. And, I know I'm not supposed to compare myself to others, but really frustrated by other people's success with programs and surgeries. SCG has defeated all of them.  And look, I've watched enough positive inspirational videos to know that that I need to say "I can" everyday and I need to change the mindset, but the reality is, my XXL genetic mutation makes it so much harder. 

I have no answers in this blog tonight, no insights, no plan of action.  It's simply where I am today.  I guess I'm going to get through this next two weeks of appointments and see where I am.  Am I getting a hysterectomy, my gall bladder out, my shoulder worked on?  OR...a lobotomy?  Let's spin the wheel and see what happens.

Friday Sucked #AngryPony

Disclaimer: I'm about to use the word FUCK a lot.  If you think it reflects poorly on my writing skills or myself, then you can fuck off.  This isn't about YOU, it's about ME.  I have a right to offend you, you have a right to be offended and then I have a right to be offended that you're offended and then I find some little girl wearing a vagina t-shirt to hold a sign that says, "Feel your Fucking Feelings!!!"  I provide no refunds on feelings.  The blog reads as is, no warranties implied.

Let us begin.

So, I'm a mess, we've established this an infinite number of times over the years. I've been crying, can't control my anxiety, worrying about stuff and so I need to figure this shit out.  There is stuff going on that the Rug Doctor can't address.  I don't want to go on and on about what is currently going on with my body, but let me just break it down on a general level, as to give you an idea of why I'm doing what I am.  Basically, I could be dying.  Or, it could be a stomach ulcer, my gall bladder, endometriosis, uterine cancer or it could be a hang nail or any combination thereof.  Suffice to say, I'm getting stuff checked out. 

In starting the process of elimination on What's Eating Angry Pony I had a doctor appointment with the girlie doctor yesterday. She got all up in my business and checked things out.  Then she ordered a bunch of other tests for me to go have done and then talked to me about Weight Watchers...a lot. Clearly, she drank Oprah's Kool-Aid (sugar-free) and is all about that.  No offense to any WW fans out there, but it's not my jam, you know?  I know it isn't, so don't hold my naked ass hostage on the table talking about it.  Look at my bits and then let's wrap this up. 

While I felt okay about the girlie visit, I wanted to talk to someone that I felt would be more in touch with what's really going on in my body, so I arranged to see a naturopathic doctor that I had seen years ago.  I knew that she would do a deeper analysis with my blood work and that she would be able to help me find natural resolutions instead of jacking me up on a bunch of pharmaceutical candy for the governments profit and enjoyment.  I was very excited she could fit me in today, so I took the day off to go see her and then I was planning on getting my nails done later in the day.  A vacation day used for the betterment of Angry Pony.  Sounds great!

First of all, fuck you, Friday, you piece of shit.  I get up early and am filling out the bazillion pages of info that Dr. Nature (not her real name) wants to know and it asks if I have called my insurance company to verify naturopathic coverage.  Well, I went to my insurance website yesterday and she is in-network, isn't that enough?  No, it isn't.  So, I call.  Long story short, I find out that my fucking insurance doesn't cover naturopathic medicine.  You know why?  Because my insurance fucking sucks.  That's right, I said it.  All they fucking care about is sending me to the fucking doctor, collecting my fucking co-pay, getting my mother-trucking deductible, and hopefully, if they are lucky, the doctor I choose will hopefully put me on some fucking drugs to cover-up whatever is really fucking wrong with me so that they can give me more drugs to fix the problems the first drugs caused. And then they hope I die.  That's right, they want me to take a lot of drugs and then they want me dead.  That's all that makes any sense to me.  Why cover a naturopathic doctor that might be able to help me get healthy?  To help me enjoy my life without chemicals and shit?  Nope, NOT TODAY! Not the fucking government and healthcare we have.  The government allows and condones the poisoning of our fucking food, then we are sick, then we need drugs and then we die.  On top of all of that, they build a bunch of fucking houses and business all over our agricultural areas, they make it hard for farmers to survive so pretty soon there won't be any REAL food left to eat and we will all be living off of Cheez Whiz in a can and some sort of Pop-Tart crisps.  It's going to happen.  I'm not even making this shit up.

Now, don't think for a minute that I don't know there is at least one of you that is thinking, "at least you have insurance, look at the people in poor third world countries that don't have it...or even my uncle Joe, he can't get coverage."  You know what? Fuck off.  I'm not talking about that right now.  What I'm talking about is the fucking quality of our insurance here in the mother trucking U-S of A.  I am thankful I have it, but for the love of God, can we do some shit that makes sense?  I'm living in a fucking country where women put on vagina costumes and have their head poking out of their clit and asking their children to carry obscene and vulgar signs and telling me to "Feel my Fucking Feelings!!!"  Well, you got it girlfriend, I'm fucking feeling those feelings!!!! If women can march in vagina hats in an effort to lower their cable bill or whatever else is on their mind, I can be a voice about better insurance.  I'm not wearing a costume, but I did spread my legs for a doctor to look up in there, so same difference.

But. I. Digress.

Anyway, I talk to Dr. Nature and she's talking to me about my girl stuff and thinks I'm low on progesterone. Oddly, she didn't mention anything about thinking I might be low on testosterone...I think I may have ample supply of that...and then we talked about my guts and what is going on there and the fact that my body is not absorbing the nutrients it should.  Insert a lot of other information here, but bottom line, if my body isn't absorbing that stuff, no wonder I'm tired and my insides are a hot mess.  She suggested I get a nutrient IV which basically by-passes my guts and all the plumbing that is currently not taking the time to pull anything good out of the food I eat.  I ask her how much it costs since, clearly I have to be a cash customer since my fucking insurance is shit. It isn't too horrible, so I ask how long it takes.  Mind you, my appointment was at 10am.  I arrived at 9:45am.  Dr. Nature finally took me into her office at 10:35am.  I was wrapping up with her at 11:31am.  She says it should take anywhere from 40 minutes to 90 minutes. I told her I had an appointment at 2pm in Stanwood, could I be done by then?  She said yes, so I agreed. 

I was parked in 90 minute parking out on the street, so I went and moved my truck, came back in and sat there and waited and waited.  Finally, IV Chick comes and gets me at 12:30pm.  She gets me in position and then says, so you have to be somewhere at 2pm?  I answered that I did.  She says that will not allow enough time. Well, this is problematic.  I said I would call my nail girl and see if she could bump me out.  I called and she couldn't, so I went back and told IV Chick, who now had Dr. Nature with her, that I couldn't stay.  IV Chick gets all a-twitter because she has already mixed up my nutrient IV and so doesn't know what to do.  Dr. Nature then proceeds to say, "Is getting your nails done really a priority right now?  You came in about your health.  I think your health is more important than your nails, and maybe if you get healthy, you won't have to get your nails done for a while.  I mean, it's up to you, it's your decision, but I think your nail person would understand how important your health is and she would also want you to put your health first."  Holy shit.  I feel sorry for her kids, she is Guilt Level - Expert.  I felt dirty and shallow for wanting my nails done.  What a whore.  I call nail girl back and let her know I have to cancel my appointment.  I wasn't that upset about my nails, but that is how nail girl makes her living, that isn't cool to cancel on her last minute. So, now I had that guilt, but I also felt confident she would have someone fill that spot as it is a Friday and someone will want their nails done.

So, I'm laying on the table and it takes forever for IV Chick to get me all hooked up, in my hand no less, since my veins are safely residing in cellulite deep within the safety of my arms.  She leaves me in a position that is not super comfy and I have to hold my arm just right so that the IV drips continuously. She left the room and said she would be back later to check on me.  I laid there and watched the dripping of the IV for a while and then tried to close my eyes and relax.  Pretty soon all the dripping of the IV and the ticking on the clock was making me have to pee.  By now, it was a slow time in the office as I can only hear the receptionist up front.  I stand up and I drag the IV stand to the doorway.  I'm like, "helllooooo...."  Nothing.  So, I grab my IV stand and shuffle down the long hallway to the bathroom, all the while the IV stand making noise, squeak-squeak....squeak-squeak....squeak-squeak..."OUCH!" as I run into a cart in the hallway...squeak-squeak.... No one fucking hears me.  I make it to the bathroom and take care of business and head back.  I see IV Chick in one of the offices, but she doesn't see or hear me, apparently.  I squeak on back to my room.  

By now, my lower back is killing me and my elbow is, too.  I try and turn on my side and that is when the biggest injustice of the day happened.  I felt a pain directly under my right boob.  That's right, my size B cup boob was so angry, it busted out of a size C cup bra.  It took out the underwire and now it was stabbing me in my boob.  No worries, I only have to lay here another fucking hour!  I tried to remain calm and shove some of my shirt between my busted bra and my boob.  As I lay there, I just felt so angry.  My whole day off, ruined.  The IV was going slower than expected.  It was now 1:50pm.  I started to get mad and then I started to cry.  IV Chick comes in and says, "I know, it's a long process, but we'll get there..."  I stared up at the ceiling, angry tears streaming down my face and said, "WHEN?? IN TWO OR THREE MORE HOURS??!  I'm probably getting a parking ticket right now to add on to everything else I didn't plan for today."  I think I may have startled her, but I'm not sure as I never looked at her.  I just stared at the dripping IV.  I was so angry.  I wanted to channel my Dad and rip that bag off of there and rip the needle out of my hand and then call everyone a Mother Fucker and then tell them they could shove this whole son-of-a-bitch right up their ass. (To those of you that knew my Dad, you know he would have done just that.) But, I didn't.  I sat there and lay in my self-pity and then anger at myself for not being thankful for this process that is supposed to help me...and the people in third world countries without insurance...or clean drinking water.  Fuck that.

After what seemed like forever, IV Chick cautiously came into the room and told me it was just about over and together we watched the final drip into the tube and then the final liquid going through the IV line into my hand.  "All done!" she said.  It was now 2:50pm.  She then says, "I bet you're hungry and I always get even more hungry after I have one of these."  I said, "Well, I haven't eaten anything yet today because I didn't plan on the hostage crisis happening."  Oh, and I'm so glad the treatment makes a person hungry.  That's fucking fantastic. 

I head up front and tell the receptionist, "The hostage situation has ended, I'd like to leave, please."  My doctor was long gone and no one really knew what to do with me, but they did remember seeing me at 10am.  They finally got the bill together, I paid it and left.

On the way home I thought I should probably stop at Kohl's and get a new bra and as luck would have it, there is a Carl's Jr. there in the parking lot, so I could get something to eat.  I don't really like Carl's Jr., but at this point it was either that or Taco Bell, also in the parking lot.  I didn't want to shit out all the nutrients just put in, so I chose Carl's.  I ordered a cheeseburger and a Coke, got my food an then drove over into Kohl's parking lot to eat my burger and calm the fuck down.  I take my first bite and the burger tastes gross.  Then, I take a swig of the Coke and I don't know what the fuck it really is, but it isn't Coca-Cola, it isn't Coke, I don't even know if it was Diet Coke.  I'm pretty sure it was some sort of cleaning fluid that the cook took a piss in, then spit some Copenhagen in there and added ice.  Today just isn't my day.  Look, I know the burger and Coke were a bad idea.  I get it, but for the love of unicorns and all that is magical in this fucking world, I just wanted a mother-trucking moment of something good.  Fuck. This. Place.

I did manage to find a bra that won't fit very well, but that will keep my boobs from looking like moobs. I have zero expectations for this bra or the bra experience.  It will suck like all the others before it. When expectations=standards, that's where the calm lives.  I headed home and immediately removed the broken bra and now, as I sit here blogging, they have morphed into blob status and are hanging out partly in my armpits and partly comforting my belly with a boob hug.

So, where do we go from here?  I sure as fuck don't know, but I will do the testing that the girlie doctor has recommended and check things off the list.  If it all turns out to be nothing, which honestly, is a best case scenario, then I think it will be time to look into witchcraft, becoming a Wicken, or start going to psychics for future guidance and health advice.  I just need my body to stop being a bitch.  Because, fuck her.

A New Problem Just Popped Up

I think I have a problem.  I know, I know, that is the most ridiculous statement ever as I have a variety of problems in my arsenal of life experiences, but this one is new.  This is a problem I never expected to have.  I had heard of it happening to others, but I didn't think it would ever happen to me. And no, it's not gingivitis or incontinence.

Here's the deal, it all happened innocently enough.  I was flipping through the channels on television Monday night.  There was nothing on.  Seriously, just a bunch of crap I didn't care to watch, but then, I struck GOLD!  A show called Dr. Pimple Popper caught my attention.  Shark Bait was sitting next to me reading Lord only knows what on his tablet and so he was oblivious. I took advantage and watched the show. 

I found myself fascinated. The first gal had this huge growth under her boobs, so it was like a third boob.  No one else seemed to be able to help her, but Dr. Pimple Popper came to the rescue!  The doctor pulled out some huge sack of fat lipoma. Changed her life, really.  The next person had two huge bumps on his back and this other lady had cysts all over her head.  That doctor fixed it all!

I felt weird watching it, so I confessed my weird fascination with the Boot Bitch Gang. I mean, we talk about everything, so it's a safe zone, you know?  I was immediately relieved to find out that Top Knot Pony was also addicted to the show. She informed me that not only was there a television show, but a You Tube channel and an Instagram page.  Within moments I was signed up for both.  My evening just filled up. 

I started out easy, you know, watching the blackhead extractions.  Did you know that some of the blackheads come out and they are considered ombre?  Like, they are black on top, but as you pull them out, they gradually change color to a yellow or white.  Fun fact, right?!  But then other blackheads look like your skin is literally excreting feces.  Some of it is even greenish-brown.  So amazing.  Not near as much pus as I thought, just crazy shit coming out of people's skin. Dr. Pimple Popper said that sometimes it even smells bad.  So gross! Oh, and then this one chick had a big 'ol whitehead inside her ear!  The doctor put her extraction tool in there and holy crap, it looked like a happy ending at one of those special massage places with all the windows blackened out on Evergreen Way in Lynnwood.  Shark Bait looked over and said, "What the heck are you watching?"  I looked at him, possibly with crazy eyes, and said, "Dr. Pimple Popper...it's AMAZING! And, so therapeutic!" He looked at me like he had just caught me playing in poop or something.  I said, "Seriously, this is so fascinating!  I can't stop."  He shrugged it off and went back to his tablet. I'm sure he was relieved I wasn't bored and asking him personal questions about how he feels and what he wants out of life. 

I got braver with each video and I was drawn to every extraction.  I'm sitting here like, "oh, you missed that one, why didn't the doctor take that one?  How does she know which ones to take and go after and which ones to leave?  How long does that take?  Oh my God, that guys face is like the Milky Way of blackheads...we must save him!"  I was getting anxious when she left some behind.  I wanted them ALL GONE.

I reluctantly put my phone down and went to bed.  I woke up and wanted to watch more videos, but no, I had to go to work. As luck would have it, I had a shitty day at work on Tuesday.  I of course can't go into it because of all the delicate people in the world that might get their feelings hurt.  And, because I need a job.  Anyway, I came home Tuesday night, sat in my chair and went straight to You Tube.  I needed to see some blackheads and some extractions, STAT.  I watched video's for about 30 minutes before Shark Bait came home.  He walked in the door and said, "You're still watching those videos?"  I'm like, "yeah...it's calming me down." 

I think it was at that moment I realized I may have a problem.  Why am I fascinated by this?  Is it the idea of inflicting pain on people?  No, that can't be it, because, I think I'd rather give someone a kick in the junk or in the cooter if I really wanted to inflict pain.  Or, I'd just make them be an admin.  So, that can't be it.  Could it be that watching people get disgusting stuff forced out of their body is like me watching an exorcism of internal impurities and it makes me think of my personal impurities that I need to detox from my own system?  Well, shit.  If that is the case, I'm going to need more than that zip-popping tool and a small scalpel. Which reminds me, in one video, I saw a zit vacuum.  I'm not even lying, it is this little contraption that suctions to your face and you drag it around and it pulls all the pus, blackheads and zits out of your skin.  The clear container attached to it just fills with all that body excretion, it is SO COOL.  It's kind of like that one scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark and the bad guy gets his face melted off because he opened the ark thing.  Except, it doesn't rip your skin or eyeballs off, just pus, oil and blackheads.  I'm digressing, though.  Anyway, I don't think that is it, either.

So, what else could it be?  What does all this mean?  Am I mentally ill? (Don't answer that) Do I secretly want to be a Dermatologist?  Do I just want to fix the world one zit at a time?  No blackhead left behind?  Why the anxiety and concern when she didn't take all the blackheads out? I don't know these people, why do I care if they have ombre blackheads?  Oh, that reminds me, again, there was this one girl that had some cyst thing in her armpit and the doctor pulled out a hair that was very likely 3 feet long.  I'm not even joking.  If you don't believe me, I'll find the video and post it to my FB.  Oh, and ingrown hairs, epic shit there.  That is so cool how the doctor digs around in there, gets the hair upright and then yoinks it right out of there.  Such a relief, right?  You don't even know what you are missing.

Last night, I had to stop watching and go to bed.  I walked in the bathroom and washed my face as I do each night.  I remove my make-up, check the super-magnified mirror to see if I have any zits coming in or any unwanted hairs.  It's a routine.  I don't get this baby face from not taking care of it, you know?  Anyway, I was sad I didn't have anything to extract.  I looked very closely.  Nothing.  Just then I remembered I have this one little spot on my back where there is an open pore and it sometimes gets a blackhead in there.  I called Shark Bait in, "Shark Bait, can you come here?  I need you to help me, I have a situation."  He comes in wondering what I'm up to.  I said, "I have a blackhead on my back, I need it out of there," and handed him the extraction tool.  He's like, "Seriously, now you have to extract something just because you watched all those videos?"  I said, "This is serious.  I need that out of there."  Dutifully, Shark Bait takes it out and shows me.  I was so excited, it was ombre!  I begged him to look for any more that may be back there.  Nothing. Sigh.  Damn it. It was such a rush for just a moment.  I guess maybe I wanted to see some grotesque back skin and then have the satisfaction of making it beautiful...but with pock marks.  This would not make a sane person sad.  I'm seriously messed up.

All I can say is, Thank God it is Therapy Thursday this week.  I don't know what the Rug Doctor is going to say about this, but I hope she has some insight.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have videos to watch.


Here is a really tame one if you want to watch...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVEVl-g8p8s

This one a little more graphic...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VTmaf0jggF8

Go ahead...join me in my obsession...

2017 Year of the Mid-Life Crisis

As I sit here on New Year's Eve in my fleece onesie unicorn pj's, I am reflecting on the past year.  This year of 2017.  It seems to have been a tumultuous year for many people.  I can't say it was especially cruel to me, personally, (nothing died under the house) but it was a growing year in many aspects of my life.  I feel like I back-pedaled on personal progress, however, if I look back and give the year the credit it is due, I have to be honest and say, I may be in a better place than I'm willing to acknowlege in spite of it all.

First, let's address the elephant in the room, my stomach.  I did not lose any weight this year.  In fact, the last quarter of 2017 was full of angst, stress, change and then finally disappointment leading to a depression that was pretty damn intense.  Thusly, I didn't give a flying fuck about my weight.  I threw in the towel and said, "you know what, you ride this out, do the best you can and just get through it."  And so I did, one piece of chocolate at a time.  I'm not proud of that, but it's done.  I have noticed the changes in my body and in the fit (or not fit) of my clothes, so I know I have done considerable damage. Even my Spanx just said, "you know what, we give up, we can't contain this anymore."  And then they just released their will to live and now they slide down all the time.  They refuse to even try and contain all that is me. This morning, in a sad moment of despair, I changed the scale to read in kilograms so I could feel good about life for a few seconds.  And then I faced the reality.  Time to start over.  Again.  For the bazillionth time in my life.  At least I know how to do this part.  I'm a mother trucking trained professional in starting over.

When I think back to the beginning of 2017, I started off the year with the greatest of hopes about life in general, but the first couple months of the year were emotionally exhausting.  The whole United States was in a social media war about President Trump and there was no safe place to turn without constant fighting. I'm not going to spend any time talking about him, because, frankly I don't want to go there.  I lost a life-long friend over a question I had asked on Facebook regarding the women's march that happened in January.  I shared a perspective and it was met with all the hatred and single-mindedness that I was, in turn, being accused of expressing myself.  I mourned that friendship. I couldn't understand how someone could be so hateful towards me.  Someone I thought I would always be connected to.

I found myself absorbing everyone's angst and worry about the future.  I worried about me.  I could not seem to change things and I felt helpless.  I was 45 years old and my best years were behind me.  I found myself reaching for any change that would make me feel better.  I got brave, or maybe it was desperate, but I finally got a tattoo on the inside of my arm.  It is a horse head in the shape of a heart.  No regrets.  I'd always wanted to get one and now, there it was.  But that wasn't enough, right after that, I went to get my hair done and while sitting in the chair, a voice inside of me said, "I've always wanted to try red hair."  And so, I said it out-loud to my stylist and she obliged. I had a tattoo and red hair.  I was a freaking bad-ass.  I thought I was really living it up.  I was finding myself, or so I thought.

Sadly, the tattoo and red hair did not help me get to the gym, it didn't help me lose weight, it didn't help me out of my rut. To top it all off, I found out that because I was an artificial red head, I couldn't even steal souls like other gingers could.  Hmph.  As my ordinary life went on, more changes were in store in my world.  At the Glass Palace there were leadership changes made.  I changed up bosses a couple of times, actually.  I began to feel weary, so tired of constantly starting over with new bosses.  And then, one day I was walking in to work and one of the other departments Director was walking beside me.  She said, "Cassondra, why don't you come work for me?"  She had a job opening in her department.  Maybe this was the change I needed?  It felt right.  My boss had just changed again and I needed to start fresh somewhere, I needed a new start.  This would be the perfect addition to my mid-life crisis!  This would change my life.  Everything would be different.  I could tell every person that had bathroom problems, needed help with the copier, had food stolen out of the break room fridge, wanted me to write a funny email, etc. to go to hell.  I could hide away in my new job and life would be amazing.  I would feel better about myself, I would make more money and I could focus on my health and not worry about all the Glass Palace bullshit that never was my responsibility in the first place, but was bestowed upon me anyway.

Luck was on my side, I knew it. This time was going to be different.  I'd get my hopes up for this. I had my second interviewed for the job on September 1st and felt like I had a seriously good chance at getting the job.  And now the waiting began.  I didn't tell but a couple people, but as things go at the Glass Palace, nothing is a secret for long.  Not long after that, the next cycle began, "did you hear anything?"  "are you leaving us?" "you can't leave us, what would we do without you?"  "you don't want to take that job, that would be a big mistake."  All the mind games began from those that didn't want me to go, but then encouragement from those that did want me to leave.  I was an emotional mess.  I felt obligated to stay because they need me, but at the same time, I needed to do what I wanted to do.  What did I want?  I didn't even know anymore.  It was so exhausting and the conversation about it was constant.  I scarcely had a day when someone wasn't working on my psyche to one end or the other.  All the while, I wondered what I really would do if they offered me the job.  But would they?  Weeks turned into months and I still had not heard anything other than HR saying, "we should know by the end of the week..." but they said that every week.

During all of this, I reached out to a psychiatrist to help me with my increasing anxiety and depression.  I had the Rug Doctor to help me every other week at Therapy Thursday, but I needed a professional to help me with medication.  She was pretty amazing, this psychiatrist.  Within our first session, she had me completely sized up.  She didn't miss a beat with my sarcasm and defense mechanisms.  I was in awe of her.  She just came out and said it like it was.  I took away a couple of nuggets from my appointments with her.  For example, she told me, "Just because something is comfortable, convenient and easy, that does not mean it is what is best for you. Staying where you are is not what is best for you.  Whether you get this other job or not, it is very likely time for you to start thinking about finding a new place to work."  She isn't wrong.  She also told me that I am very good at using my sarcasm and negativity to protect myself and to stay in control.  She flat-out looked at me and said, "You know, there is no medication that can fix the negativity.  If you're not willing to try and change your thinking and outlook, you will stay exactly where you are."  It wasn't like I didn't know that, but the way she said it, the way she cut through my bullshit and shut me down right there and got so real right in my face, it was a life-changing moment.

After analyzing all the financials and talking to the people I could truly count on, I decided if I was offered the job and the salary was right, I was going to take it.  I needed this.  It was important.  But the waiting continued.  It was making me crazy.  And then, finally, I was told that they pulled the position and would not be filling it this year.  Maybe next year.   I was devastated.  I was angry.  I felt cheated. It figured that I finally put myself out there, AS USUAL, nothing ever went my way.  I went through a good week or so of mourning it.  I made an agreement with myself that I could be sad for a short time and then be thankful I still had a job and to just to the best I could to survive the holidays.  No pressure, no guilt, just me doing whatever it took to engage in self-care and survive. That was my plan. 

I decided for my birthday in November, that I wanted a get-away weekend to the ocean.  Self-care, check.  I decided to let my horse Lola go to a new home (long story, lots of reasons) and took on a new project horse my mom had.  I decided to name her Hope.  I decided I would allow hope back in my life.  Self-care, check.

This mid-life crisis was teaching me how I didn't want to be, sad and not living.  Those moments when I got the tattoo and changed my hair, they may seem silly, but I took a chance.  Maybe I need to take more chances. Which leads us to the grand finale of my mid-life crisis in the year 2017.

Christmas dinner.  This will forever go down in the books as the most bizarre experience of my life.  It was all innocent enough, my cousin was extremely...baked.  He was offering/pushing these special gummies to everyone.  No one else seemed to want them. I was like, you know what, I'm going to have the hap-hap-happiest Christmas EVER.  Fuck yeah, Clark Griswald, you and me both! Yeah, I'll have a gummy.  It tasted disgusting, of course, so I chased it down with some cheese and crackers.  Everyone was like, "WHOA, you know you have zero tolerance for anything like that!" You know why?  Because I'm always a good girl.  I'm always all straight-laced and don't drink, don't smoke, I'm not a whore (The Rug Doctor confirmed this for me during one of our sessions, I don't meet the criteria, sadly). But on this night, I'm gonna be all bad-ass, I'm all, "I don't feel anything, give me another one..." I looked at my cousin and said, "how many do I have to have to get to where you are right now?"  He looked at me through little half-closed red eyes and said, "Six...or eight...I don't remember."  I looked at my brother, who is kind of a "gummy professional" and said, "how long before I feel something?"  He says, "probably an hour, I'd slow down, sis, don't eat any more."  All was fine for a while until there was another challenge for a third one.  I ended up splitting that with my sister's friend, Thai-Dan. 

It was now time for dinner.  To be honest, I don't really remember much after this very clearly.  Everything was hilarious at first.  Like, super hilarious.  I couldn't really eat or drink anything because I was laughing so hard.  And then I was really tired,  I think,  I went to this special place.  Suddenly, that sitcom called That 70's Show made so much sense.  Like when they did the pot circle conversations?  I was like, in a special place and voices were far away.   I didn't know if anything was reality or just a dream.  And then I couldn't see.  I was waving my hand in front of my face and started crying, "I can't see! I can't see!"  My sister said, "Cassondra, OPEN YOUR EYES."  I couldn't.  And then I had to go to the bathroom.  Shark Bait escorted me to the bathroom since there was some concern about my ability to walk. As I sat in there on the toilet, I was like, "am I peeing?  I can't tell...did I already pee? or do I still need to pee?" I just stayed where I was for a while and allowed myself to sink into the darkness.  I was pretty sure I was sleeping on the toilet.  Finally, I forced my eyes open and got myself off the pot...er uh...the toilet and walked out where Shark Bait was waiting.  I felt like I had been in there for an hour, but Shark Bait said it hadn't been long. Time moves SUPER SLOW when you're on the gummies.

My sister was apparently recording my adventure on and off through the night.  I don't know at what point things were no longer funny, but I started crying.  Not like normal tears trickling down my face crying, but like I had a water hose turned on full bore coming out of each eye.  I kept asking Shark Bait, "Are you mad, Bro?"  I seem to remember him threatening to kick my cousin's ass a few times.  And, I also remember Thai-Dan saying, "Are you getting all of this?  This is GOLD."  His half of a gummy and the beer he had consumed made him super happy, too. 

It was quite a night.  I did not like feeling that out of control, but I think I finally figured out how to get through a holiday event.  In retrospect, I think consuming 2.5 gummies was probably not wise considering the high-dose of anti-depressants I am on.  Assuming that is what the crying was about.  At one point I said, "It's like a lifetime of tears is coming out in one bad pot episode!  I'm not ready for this life...I'm not ready!" And then I apparently said, "I feel dirty, like I've been in prison!"  
My sister came over the next day and showed me all the videos she took.  Apparently I get a southern accent and talk in a high voice when I am high AF.  I also have an episode of Scooby Doo playing in my head at all times as a point of reference and I believed I may have been a parrot in a previous life.  We can't even talk about my re-enactment of me thinking I was in The Matrix.

At any rate, all this random stuff throughout 2017 that felt like I was just wandering aimlessly actually taught me some life lessons and helped my growth.  I let go of a friendship instead of trying to save it, because honestly, if you don't feel like I am a good enough person to be friends with, then it is probably not a friendship worth holding on to.  I decided to stop blogging at one point because I felt like I had nothing left to say.  But so many people said, my journeys help them in some way, and even if it didn't, my blog is for me anyway.  This life was given to me to live for me, not for anyone else.  No more guilt.  No more doing things simply because someone else thinks I should.  No more being used and having sunshine blown up my ass.  I don't know how many years I have left, but I need to get on with this shit show.  Move forward.  2018 will be for me.  More positivity, less negative voices telling me what I can and can't do.

No more mid-life crisis in 2018. 

Happy New Year!  It's now midnight and the fireworks are going off as I write this last line, which is kind of symbolic, I think.  Good-bye 2017.

Cheers!
 (no gummies, just sparkling cider, I promise)

Doing it for me...I guess

The last blog I posted stated it may be my last blog and that the Pony may be put out to pasture. I've received several messages from folks saying they didn't want me to stop, but I still felt like I didn't really have much more to say that anyone would want to hear.  Tonight, it was Therapy Thursday and my writing came up.  I told her I had  written my last blog.  She, too, asked me to reconsider.  We discussed why I was considering stopping and she pointed out that my blog is for me, not anyone else and that my writing is a great outlet for me, so whether I choose to share it or not, her opinion is that I should continue to work out my feelings through the keyboard.

And so, I find myself here.  Here inside the safety of my blog where there are typically no boundaries, no secrets, lots of digression and the occasional use of the word Fuck.

I walked in to therapy tonight and The Rug Doctor says, "I'm ready."  I said, "You think so? We'll see."  I sat down and she said, "Well, what have you got?"  I said, "Syphilis." Tension breaker, had to be done.

Since I don't really have syphilis, we talked about what has been wearing me down these last couple of months.  To bring everyone up to speed, I'll just spill what has been going on.

Towards the end of the summer, I was walking into the Glass Palace and one of the Directors was walking in next to me.  We shared idle chit chat and then she said, "Why don't you come work for me?"  I said, "yeah right, sure, make it happen."  Knowing we were not hiring anywhere in the company due to the budget.  She said, "Actually, I do have a position open, you should apply."  And that is where the drama started.  Long story shortened considerably, I had two interviews, the last of which was on September 1st.  I was told they should have a decision in a week or two.  I was patient, I told very few people as I don't get my hopes up and I didn't really want anyone to know.  The problem is, there are never secrets at the Glass Palace, word gets out.  I was getting pressure to go for the new job, but then also pressure to stay in my current position.  After all, how could they live without me?  Weeks turned into months.  Daily interrogations, "have you heard yet?"  "any word yet?"  on and on it went, heightening my anxiety.  If they offered the job to me, should I take it?  I was confused.  People were tugging on my heart strings, putting guilt on me.  Intentions may have been good, however, it was making me crazy.  I didn't even know what I wanted to do anymore if the opportunity were to present itself.

Most of me wants change, a new job, a fresh start, distance from the constant drama of the call center.  However, weeks have turned into months.  Day in, day out, waiting for an email from HR or from recruiting.  Nothing.  I have finally been told, as of this week, the job is "on hold."  It won't happen this year.  It might happen next year.

I'm so angry.  Angry I got my hopes up.  Angry that I put myself out there.  Angry that I was strung along.  Angry to be put through the ringer by well-meaning, but frustrating co-workers and friends.  Angry that I am denied the option to move on.  So tired of being told that "things happen for a reason."  Tired of all the meme's in life telling me that this wasn't my door, or it wasn't meant to be, or the time wasn't right.  Whether the job will or won't become an option next year is unknown.  The company is all about budget right now.  The company is not about the human beings waiting to hear if they got a job. I feel devalued. I feel strung along.  I feel bitter. I feel stuck. I feel hopeless.

I have said a million times before in this blog of mine that I don't have hope for a good reason. I've been let down so many times.  Remember "The Year of Angry Pony" where all my weight loss dreams would come true?  I ruined that good, didn't I? I am so angry at myself for that.  I can't forgive myself. I can't enjoy my horses, I can't enjoy getting dressed in the morning, I can't enjoy eating.  I struggle to make each day feel like a gift or to find my positivity.  To find the voices that encourage me instead of listening to the ones that like me contained in misery. The Rug Doctor says that I have to have hope from time to time for things to get better.  I told her I am basically Wild Bill's victim in Silence of the Lambs. I'm down in that hole, rubbing lotion on my skin and there is no way out.  I'm going to be some perverts woman skin suit.  That much is certain.

The Rug Doctor asked me to read a book called Rising Strong by Brene Brown.  It's apparently part of a series of books, but it talks a lot about being in this stuck place, this "rumble zone" where one tries to figure things out.  This place where you wallow for a while. I said to her, "I suppose you're going to tell me I'm right where I need to be," as she often does.  And she said, "Actually, yes."  Apparently, it is better to exist in this rumble zone and work through it, than it is to bury it all and let it fester and then erupt later into a nasty, pus-filled pocket of emotions that oozes all over everything in your life.   Some people can work through this dark place in a week, others over months, some other people, even years.  I said, "well, no guessing which category I fit into."  The Rug Doctor said it was kind of funny I had brought up the Silence of the Lambs reference earlier, because the author of Rising Strong talks about how Hannibal talks to Clarice in Silence of the Lambs.  I guess I should give this book a read, what do I have to lose, I guess.

So, I find myself here, where I always am, working through it.  Never truly giving up, but never truly enjoying life to it's fullest.

I'm struggling with being okay with my job and where I am.  I'm told I need to mourn the loss of what I hoped would be.  It's okay to do that.  And then, it's time to re-evaluate where I want to go and what I want to do.  Being in the position I am in, where I take care of everyone, rise to every occasion, give all my creativity and ability to others is not healthy for me.  It's not what is best for me.  So what is?  Fuck if I know (as promised earlier, the F word).

In the meantime, I guess I'll just hash it out here until I figure it out.

Time to put The Pony out to Pasture?

I've been thinking about my blog quite a bit lately. Thinking about how I need/want to blog, but that I don't know what to write anymore.  In the beginning it was clear.  I was documenting all the stories that were funny or making me mad.  Life was just pissing me off and I loved to rail about it and you enjoyed reading about it, or so it seemed.  Then, it turned to more of my weight-loss journey and self-discovery.  Now, it depends on the day as to what words come out on the page.  It's more of Lost Pony than Angry Pony.  Which makes me wonder, is it time to stop this blog?  Put the pony out to pasture?  I just don't know. 

I put a post on FB earlier today stating that I was thinking about closing it down, but wanted to save the stories and asked for folks to send me some tips if they knew how to do this.  I received a few private messages asking me why I was going to stop blogging.  People were saying they didn't think I should stop.  But I have to ask myself, have I lost my edge?  Have I lost my way?  Do I have anything to say that anyone wants to hear anymore?

In this current age of everyone getting offended about everything and people wanting the hate to stop (self included), is there a place for Angry Pony?  Maybe being this Angry Pony is holding me back from everything I want in life? Maybe Angry Pony's outlook is the problem?  See, shit just got real there. It's so complicated.  AND, honestly, how many times can I talk about my FCD?  How many times can Spanx/Pranx be a topic of discussion? I mean we are NEVER going to figure out how to use that pee hole in the crotch of those damn things.  How many times can we talk about the bathroom situation at the Glass Palace and people coming to hiring events in Unicorn Poop t-shirts and mismatched shoes?  How many times can we talk about my lack of ability to lose weight?  How many times can we talk about my boobs going East and West when I lay down and my arm fat...and muffin top?  How many times can we talk about how stupid doctors are?  Admittedly, that never gets old, because seriously, buncha idiots with fancy paper in a frame on the wall.  How many times can I possibly get trapped in stall one with my bracelet stuck to the back of my tights and I'm in a bind?  Actually, that is an on-going problem, seriously.  How many dead things are going to rot under my house? How many times can people piss me off in traffic? And vaginas.  I mean, they've come up a few times.  Who blogs about vaginas?  Or shitting their pants?  (raises hand, looks around room, sees no one else's hand is up...puts hand back down)

Now, let's talk about self-discovery, how much self-discovery can the world handle?  How many Therapy Thursdays can we review?  I mean, my God, aside from the Rug Doctor, I've now added a Psychiatrist to the support team of people that keep me from losing my mind because I need to figure out why I'm such a mess.  This whole 45th year of my life has been non-stop angst.  So much change, so much turmoil, so much aimless wandering to figure out what the fuck I'm supposed to do with my life and how to get what I want before I'm dead.  I'm about to turn 46.  Maybe my birthday will end this crazy cycle...magically.  As if the clock strikes midnight and this nightmare is over.  But my life has never been a fairy tale, so I'm not holding out hope for that.  Besides, hope is not a strategy.

In looking back over the last few years, I have shared some really personal stuff on here.  I have also shared some seriously embarrassing stuff.  I mean, after reading the Fifty Shades of Gray books, I blogged about the first time I had sex (I mean, it was a pretty epic tale, in my mind).  Nothing has been off the table, except my bosses at work (for the most part), family drama and my sex life with Shark Bait.  But even that isn't really true, because I have made a couple vague references.  And, for some reason you all followed me down this road.  I don't know why, but I know some of you have said different stories have resonated with you or made you feel better knowing you were not alone.  For that, I'm glad.  We are all in this life together and whatever we may be portraying on FB, the reality is, life is hard and painful and sometimes ugly.  Pretending that underbelly doesn't exist is not helpful, in my mind.  At the same time, life is also beautiful and precious.  I need to spend more time remembering that.

At any rate.  I'm writing this tonight because I don't know what I will do with this blog yet.  I'm torn.  I guess I will give it some more thought. Maybe just take a long break, or a short break, or maybe I'll just chain watch episodes of Family Feud and pet my wiener while sitting in my recliner until I die. It's a crap-shoot right now.  If this does end up being the last blog, thanks for reading and coming on Angry Pony's journey.  If it doesn't end up being the last...well...I guess I'll blog some more.

Which way do I go?

10 Years With Shark Bait

This Labor Day weekend Shark Bait and I will celebrate 10 years of marriage.  On September 2, 2007 I said "I do" to the person that I was meant to find and spend the rest of my days making crazy. That poor guy.  However, I never hid the true me.  I let my crazy show.  I waved the crazy flag proudly.  He came into this relationshiop under full disclosure, with the exception of the blog name.  I'm certain he didn't know on that amazing day that someday he would obtain a blog name and that it would be used on the regular about our crazy life.  To be fair, I didn't know either, but some things are just meant to be, I guess.

In the beginning...

Looking back, I didn't think that I would ever get married.  I was pretty sure I'd die alone and that my 30 cats would eat off my carcass for weeks until someone finally found my remains.  I mean, there is no guarantee that won't happen, I guess, since I'm still alive, but the good news is, I have Shark Bait and zero cats right now, so I am less likely to be used for cat consumption.  Anyway, I met Shark Bait and he was goofy, but sweet.  He was a gentleman and made me feel safe. We dated for two years before he proposed and then we married a year later. Our wedding day was so fun and so special, I will always recall it with the best of memories.  My Dad walked me down the aisle and gave me away to this man that I loved and we were surrounded by family and friends.  Best day ever.

Best day ever...and then life started coming at us fast and furious.  Many of the problems that couples don't have to face for several years were thrust at us immediately.  I guess it is lucky that we got married in our mid-thirties, because we seemed a little more emotionally equipped to handle it all.  No matter what came our way though, we have never turned on each other, only turned towards each other.  Don't get me wrong, there are days I want to punch him in the breadbasket, but we work it out.  Shark Bait doesn't like conflict, which helps, I guess.  I try and get him to fight with me sometimes and he won't do it.  It kind of makes me mad sometimes, so I have to up the ante and get a bit hysterical.  That usually gets his attention.  Maybe by our 20th anniversary he'll learn to spar with me a bit so that I don't have to take it up to the next level.

The best thing about our marriage is that we have a comfort level with each other that some may say defies any sense of mystery or romance, but here's the deal, if I have something on my butt and I don't know if it is a zit, a bug bite or MRSA, I need someone to take a look at that.  I don't have time for embarrassment, boundaries or disinterest.  I could be dying and we won't know until someone looks at that spot on my butt that is itchy and sore.  I'm not saying this happens a lot, I'm just saying, it's happened.  Thankfully, Shark Bait is up for the task, which is good because I can't see back there and he can get a magnifying glass and really assess the situation, you know?  Also, Shark Bait can't always tell when his eyebrows are closing in on a Bert and Ernie situation.  I'm there for him.  I got that plucking action down.  It's give and take, but I know not everyone is about that kind of thing.  Especially the bathroom door thing.  Honestly, I'd like Shark Bait to close that door more frequently, but hey, whatever, everybody poops, right?  They even wrote a book about it.

I know I don't have to go into a lot of detail about the kind of shenanigans we get into, because I've already blogged a lot about it.  We'll just leave it here by saying, we're comfortable and I don't know if I could ever have that level of comfort with anyone else.  It's not that I'm scared to show my butt to other people, but it's a safe kind of comfortable that I can't really explain, but I hope everyone can experience at some point in their life.  If the butt example didn't clarify it, let me put it another way.  It's the kind of comfortable that you can totally hate your body and how it looks, but you can stand there naked in front of this other person (with the light on) knowing that they love all of you and all they see is beauty.  They don't see all the things you obsess about.  They just see this person that they love so much and want to hold in their arms.  That's the comfort level I'm talking about.  I always tell Shark Bait the only reason he thinks I'm beautiful is because he has bad eyesight, but the reality is, he sees ALL of me, inside and out, crazy and sane, good times and bad.  I'm pretty freaking lucky.  And, it goes without saying how lucky he is with me, mostly because I make sure the bills get paid and the cable stays on.  It's a love balance.

Shark Bait tells me he loves me every day, multiple times.  He tells me I'm beautiful every day.  He kisses me when I get up in the morning, he kisses me before we part ways and go to work, kisses me when we return home from work, kisses me before he falls asleep...every night.  Even if we were mad, still the kiss.  He holds my hand all the time in public and protects me in a crowd.  He's just always there.  Sure, I get after him for ignoring me on his phone or his Kindle, but in the big scheme of things, he's there. 

Our marriage is not perfect.  We struggle (mostly me because I over-analyze everything). Times get tough.  What has made it work over the last ten years is that we aren't going anywhere.  I'm not leaving, he's not leaving.  As he likes to say to me as he points to his ring finger, "bought and paid for."  No refunds, no returns, as is.  We are in this for the long haul.  He's my person, I'm his.  It's that simple.  It's love.

Happy 10 years, Shark Bait.  Remember, I love you just enough to be your forever person, to fold your underwear correctly and to tell you where all the stuff is that you lost, but not enough to give you that last cookie...even though you are always willing to give me yours.  I choose to believe you wouldn't have it any other way.  I am your Squishy.