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Yes, yes, I know that's not how you spell recycle.  But Kays was singing the recycle song this morning (there is actually a recycle song and IMO it's kinda catchy) (although Two Kinds of Seagulls cracks me the hell up just because of the guest singer).  Wait, where  was I?  Oh, yeah, so Kays is singing R-E-C-Y-C-L-E and I started singing it to the tune of R-E-S-P-E-C-T.  Except it doesn't work unless you add an extra letter.  So there you go.

I usually log on here to read what other people have written.  I haven't had an entry in slightly over a year; I don't really know why.  Not because I didn't have anything to say - trust me, if you knew me, you'd know I *always* have plenty to say. (Apologies to my friends out there, I know I talk a lot.  Make me shut up every now and then, why don't you.) (Every time over the last week that I've typed the word shut, I've typed shit the first time.  Sometimes even the second time.  Does anyone else have this problem?)  Anyway, I have things to say but I don't always know how to say them.  When I write in a public forum I often feel the need to be funny or entertaining in some way.  I was using this place as my private weight loss journal for a few days (yay for stick-to-it-iveness!) and of course those entries were just whining and bitchy.  But usually if I am going to sit down and write a "hey there, this is what's going on with me" entry, I try to make it light and amusing for those (2) people reading it.  Sometimes I just can't find a way to bring the laughs, so I often skip the writing altogether.

Except my last entry.  Holy shit, dude (that time I did actually mean to type shit).  Talk about heavy, heavy self-loathing and depression.  I should print that out and show it to my therapist(s) and psychiatrist and counselor.  Then they'd all *have* to believe me when I say I've improved quite a lot over the last year.  I can't believe I felt like that, day after day, and didn't kill myself.  Honestly.  It horrifies me that much to read such sentiments and know that was how I felt, all the time.  I want to go back to last year and tell that poor, sad version of myself that things can get better, *will* get better.  Light at the end of the tunnel and all that jazz.  Clap on!

So, yeah, I'm feeling better these days.  As mentioned above, I have a cadre of doctors these days looking after my mental health.  All the years of being on and off meds and I had never had therapy until a short while ago.  I swear, it should be illegal to prescribe depression meds without requiring counseling.  The two go together like pb&j, peas & carrots, salami & cream cheese (don't knock it 'til you've tried it).  Therapy has done me a world of good ... it's killing my wallet, but saving my life and my marriage, so I guess that balances things out.

Also, in news that the world is as of yet unaware (and will remain unaware, as my vast readership of (2) people already know this), I am pregnant.  A surprise, for sure.  My 'baby' is going to be 6 in a few years and I never dreamed we'd have another.  I'm so glad that I started the process of fixing myself and my life *before* I got that + sign; as hysterical as I was when I found out, I can't imagine how I would have handled the news even 6 months ago (well, I can see myself running screaming through the streets, but since I don't run I'm not really sure that's an accurate vision).  My husband is taking it quite well himself, and I think we are both coming around to the whole idea.  I'm also looking at the possibility of being a daytime SAHM/telecommuter, doing administrative work for the dog training company I'm now associated with.  And with N just having received his Super Duper Mr. Spyman Top Secret SHHHH! Don't Tell Anyone clearance (that's the real title, I swear), he could potentially get a job paying lots more with a schedule that doesn't make me want to throw sharp knives at his bosses.  That would be pretty cool, but he's not looking at the moment, it's just something he's got in his pocket for down the road.  It's nice to have things in your pocket.  Unless those things are crayons and your pockets are in the dryer, but I digress.

Mainly I wrote this because as I've slowly climbed out of the dark hole I was living in (no, I'm not talking about my bedroom) (get out of my house right now!), I hated seeing the previous entry every time I logged onto my profile.  I'm not up for posting something full of sweetness and light and rainbow-shitting unicorns, but this will do.  I'm pretty happy these days and working toward very.  I think that's all anyone can ask for.

That, and chocolate chip cookie dough.  One can always - always - ask for chocolate chip cookie dough.

So I came in to work all geared up to write this long diatribe about how I hate myself, my life, my job, blah blah blah.  And then before I could get to it, Nathan strolled in to my office, bringing me a caramel frappe from McDonalds and telling me to have a better day.

I love that man.

I am still feeling the hate, but I am no longer as filled with it as I was earlier.  Sadly, I don't know which is the truer emotional state.  Did Nathan's thoughtful gesture bring me back to myself, or did it just mask the real feelings inside me?

I don't know the answer.

I had a bad morning.  Well, I guess technically I've had a bad series of days, weeks, months.  There are so many, many things I hate about my life.

I hate how excruciatingly tired I am all the time.  
I hate how lazy I am.  How I would, and almost always do, choose to lay around and do nothing when I should be up and at it.
I hate how fat I am.  That I only have two pairs of pants that fit, or that my new underwear --the only ones in my drawer that are comfortable -- are fucking gigantic.  I hold them up and can't believe they not only belong to me, they fucking fit perfectly.
I hate the hellhole mess that I live in.  I hate that I can clean the hellhole mess and have it back at hellhole state within two goddamn days.
I hate that I am a shitty parent.  I feel like I have to yell before my kids listen to a damn thing I say.  I hate yelling all the fucking time.
I hate that I made my daughter cry on her first day of 1st grade.  I was yelling.  Because she wasn't listening.  What the fuck - why can't I put a leash on my temper?
I hate that I have absolutely no patience.
I hate that I am not a sunshine and roses type of person.
I hate the 72 loads of laundry that are always waiting for me.
I hate the white walls in my bathroom, seeing the pictures sitting on the floor upstairs instead of on my living room walls, the carpet in my kitchen, and that no matter what we do to the house all I can see is everything we can't afford to do.
I hate having to go to work every morning.
I hate having to get up at 5:15 am.  That's ridiculously fucking early.
I hate being late for every fucking thing.
I hate having to parent on my own for five days in a row while Nathan is at work.
I hate having Nathan at home for five days in a row, because I start to rely on him way too much - and then he goes back off to work, leaving me floundering.
I hate that my kids are always full of these fun, original ideas and I always end up shooting them down because they're too complicated or I don't want to put that much effort into helping them or I can't find a way to make it work.  I don't know why I can't just tell them to go for it and try my best to help.  I hate that I am stifling their creativity all the time.
I hate the people who tell me, "Just take online classes!  If education was really important to you, you'd find the time."  Fuck you.
I hate living in Virginia, so far away from our family that my kids don't know their own aunts, uncles and cousins.
I hate the thought of leaving Virginia, where we've made some wonderful friends and our kids have established a place for themselves.
I hate the fucking budget.
I hate that Nathan has Wednesdays and Thursdays off, because it means he is always working when I have a Monday holiday.
I hate that the public pools close after Labor Day weekend.  What the fuck, it's still hot as fuck.  Assholes.
I hate the idea of flying out to California this month, because I don't really fit in the plane seats any more.
I hate that I'm terrified of our day at Knott's Berry Farm, wondering if it's going to be a repeat of the 'get off, you're too fat' Busch Gardens episode.
I hate myself for being like this.  For wallowing. 
I fucking hate Mondays.

And I hate - hate - that there are so many things on that list I could change.  But I don't.  I don't change, I just go on hating.

I don't want my kids to live like this.  I don't even want them to know I live like this.  I feel so sorry for them, sometimes.  They're great kids, and they got stuck with me - they deserve someone better.

Nathan thinks I need to go back to the doctor, get back on my meds.  Wellbutrin, for depression.  That's what the doc prescribed, and what I took for a long time.  I stopped for reasons outside of depression or the lack of it, but I wasn't worried about it because the meds weren't helping - I still felt like this.  I don't think I was, or am, depressed - I think I just suck.  I need to make changes if I want my life to be better, and I'm not willing to make those changes.  Wallow wallow wallow - it's one of the few things I'm good at.

They say you can't make someone lose weight, that they have to want to lose it for themselves.  I think being happy is similar.  You can't make me be happy.  You can do everything in your power to make my life great and chipper and peachy, but you can't make me feel good about it.  I have to want to be happy.  I have to take the steps necessary to ensure my own happiness.  And no matter how much I love the people in my life, or how much I know that it's unfair for them to have to live with me, deal with me, while I'm in this state, it still comes down to my choice.  No one else can do it for me. 

I don't know why I'm not going to.  What can I say?  Change is hard.  I'm not good at it.  Leave me alone, so I can flounder and wallow and whine and be lazy.  And while part of me is shaking my head at myself, my heart knows that's where I'm going to stay, for now.  Maybe for always.

WI again


I really wanted to skip this entry, or lie.  But whatever, it's a number and I'll own it.  I had a shitty week of eating, although I did manage my minimum of water most days.  Not nearly as stellar as last week.  I let the holiday throw me off.  The thing is, holidays are part of life and I need to make them work for me.  

So here's to losing weight I already lost again.  I will not let this number kill me.

Moving forward!

WI day

Goodbye 290's and please don't feel hurt when I say I hope to never see your ass again.  Ever.

So for my online support group HMCC, Fridays are official WI days.  I didn't start this whole thing until Tuesday, which means I had exactly 3 days of doing this shit before being called on the carpet to report.  I'm happy to report I'm down 3.6 pounds.  Squee!  3.6 pounds in 3 days is freaking awesome.  I rock.

I've got to get ready for work, but I'll check in later with a water consumption update.  And maybe a gym one as well?  I bought new sports bras yesterday, which I really really REALLY needed. 

AYFKM? This is why I hate this so much

What the fuck ever scale.  I know you just love messing with my mind.  I admit, you had me for a second or two.  But then I flipped you the bird and walked away smiling.  I know your stupid numbers will go down, sooner or later, so BITE ME.

Drank all my water today!  And I exercised for the first time in months and months and months.  I think I'm a little in love with Leslie for making me get back in the gym (don't worry, Les, I won't molest you) (unless you want me to) (can I watch?).

Tomorrow is my official WI day for CAM, even though my starting WI day was only like two days ago.  Not sure how it's going to read after such a short time (plus a run-in with hidden sodium - bad Chipotle, bad! - and a bit of a late dinner tonight), but that's okay because I know I'll rock the loss next week no matter what.  Fucking scale.

And with that, I'm off to bed.  By myself.  Since my husband is out with another woman.  And her husband. But really, does that minor detail actually matter?  I think not.

(Oh, and the 'pissed off' mood thing isn't because I'm mad - I just have to pee really really bad, but that's not a mood option.  It totally should be, though.)

Dieting and all that jazz
WI, day 2: 290.2.

Of course the scale likes to play with my mind.  It can never give the same reading twice in a row.  Why do I step on the scale more than once, you ask?  Because that's how I roll.  I am anal retentive.  I need confirmation that the scale is not lying to me, not trying to trick me.  Which it totally does.  As evidenced by the multiple different numbers it laughingly spits out at me each time I step on it.


My lowest number this morning was 289.6, which would have been really nice if for nothing else than it got me out of the 290's.  But whatever, the number I got twice was 290.2.  Fucking scale.

I drank all my water today, so that's two days of floating away in a sea of my own pee.  And I don't even start the water month until tomorrow.  Go me.

Which reminds me, I should probably record my upcoming goals so I can't squirm out of them later and be all, "But, hey, it's all good, I'm doing just fine with this dieting shit, who needs goals anyway?"  Which I have a tendency to do, even if it's just in my own head to myself.

July - Drink 8 cups of water each day, every day.  2 cups can be 0-cal liquid, like Coke Zero.  The other six have to be water (flavored water counts dammit) (fuck all y'all who say it doesn't) (because IT TOTALLY DOES).

August - Eat 5 servings of fruits and/or vegetables each day, every day.  I'm still debating as to whether or not I'm going to count corn as a veggie.  Because it's totally a veggie to me, but the so-called "experts" are all, "Dude, it's a STARCH, not a veggie."  Which is so wrong.

September - Exercise at least 3 times per week.  This used to be last on the goal list, but with my new Leslie-will-drag-my-ass-to-the-gym deal going on, I figure it'll be easy peasy.  Or at least not the 7th circle of hell.

October - Journal everything I eat.  I dread this goal. 

November - Stay within my points/plan ahead.  I laugh at the idea of actually doing this.  Plan?  Ahead?  Wha?

See y'all tomorrow with more numbers and my first official water day ounce count!


I need a place to bitch about my weight, weight loss, and other weight-related crap.  Why, hello, LiveJournal.  You're looking rather, um, receptive to bitching tonight.


So today I weighed in at a whopping 292.8.  Trust me when I say it literally made me sick to my stomach and brought tears to my eyes.

I drank 9 glasses of water today; 1.5 of that was Coke Zero.

Thanks to my lovely dinner of tomatoes, cucumbers, mozzarella and b. vinaigrette, I had more than my fair share of fruits/veggies.  Although I'm not focusing on that issue this month (that one can wait until August), I just wanted to note it here because, well, YAY ME dammit.

And I am SO FREAKING EXCITED about going to the gym with my lovely Leslie.  Excited?  Gym?  How did I even type those two words in the same sentence?   But I am.  I am also shocked that I am, but I am.  Can't wait!

I'm a daily weigher, I won't deny it, so I'll be back tomorrow with a WI and water report.


Fat (p2)
4:33 pm

Just finished lunch.  I found it a bit ironic that after obsessing about my weight all morning, I dropped my frozen dinner upside down on the floor.  I hadn't taken the plastic off the top yet, so even though the impact caused the plastic to pull off, it was still there between (most of) the food and the carpet.  I needed that food; I work my training job tonight at won't be home until close to 10:00 pm.  Luckily, I wasn't too proud to be seen scraping most of it back in.


I've been thinking about how I got here, my history of yo-yo dieting (sorry Mary, I know that's a cliche).  My "In Progress" story, while fictional, did have quite a bit of autobiographical input.  I did gymnastics for years, and my coaches talked with my mom about my "weight problem" every now and again.  My mom is overweight, she has been so for as long as I can remember.  I've seen pictures of her from way back when, though, and she was skinny in a way that I've never been.  She says that she didn't get fat until she had kids.  Of course, her youngest child would have been 31 this year and she's yet to lose the baby weight.

She was extremely concerned about her children becoming overweight at a young age, constantly telling me that she didn't want me to have to go through the struggles she had.  Now that I'm grown and I know her better, I can't help but to think that she was also concerned about appearances - how badly would it reflect on her to have a fat daughter?  Surely when we were out together in public, people would see me and think she was a terrible mother.  She took me to my first Weight Watchers meeting when I was a pre-teen.  Far from being angry about it, I was excited at the chance to finally be thin.  But WW only works for people who work the program, and I just couldn't maintain interest in counting calories and weighing every bite.  I would lose a little bit, gain it back, lose, gain ... she bought me a 10-week package and I think I lost maybe 2 pounds by the end of it.  I remember one night we were very late for the meeting, having been out of town on errands.  She wanted to skip it, but I insisted on going.  I had been ill all week with tonsillitis and had just gotten around to feeling better the day before.  Do you know what a week of tonsillitis means?  A week of not eating.  I wanted to get on that scale that night because I knew whatever loss I had wouldn't be nearly the same in another week.  I was right - I lost over 7 pounds at that weigh-in.  It took me only 3 weeks to gain it back.

I basically quit gymnastics when I was 15.  My last injury did me in; I stayed out of the gym to heal and my mom just never brought me back.  I was a sophomore in high school by then, busy with schoolwork and my first boyfriend ... I was finally willing to give up my gymnastics dreams.  I did start working out at a local club, an extremely small one that pretty much only taught younger kids.  I made a deal with the coach that I would be her assistant in exchange for being allowed to train for free.  Since I was no longer competing, my training soon turned into showing off for the other girls.  Not one of them was older than 10, and they had a mini hero-worship thing going on.  It fed my ego and helped soothe the sting of quitting.

At 16, I became pregnant.  Long story short, I had my daughter and gave her up for adoption.  She was born one month after I turned 17.  I quit going to the gym completely when I was about 4-5 months along, and I gained a very predictable 50ish pounds.  After she was born, I struggled to lose the weight.  I hadn't adjusted my eating habits, shoveling in food like I was still an athlete who needed the fuel.  The simple fact that when you go from working out 5 days a week to doing pretty much nothing, your caloric consumption must likewise decrease totally escaped me.  I ate how I ate and that was that.  Luckily, I was young and healthy and I did play a sport or two.  Nonetheless, the pounds slowly piled on. 

I can't tell you how fat I was when I graduated high school, but I know I wasn't in plus sizes yet.  I was probably in a 14 or so.  I spent my entire senior year being hounded by my mother about my weight.  I'll make another long story short and just say it didn't help; I simply stuffed my face in secret.  I didn't go to extreme lengths to get extra meals in.  I didn't have to - my parents both worked, and I had plenty of time to myself after school every day to chow down on whatever I wanted.  My favorite "snacks" were things like peanut butter and marshmallow cream sandwhiches (aka 'fluffernutter sandwhiches), buttercream frosting out of the can, 5 or so scoops of ice cream in a glass layered with peanut butter ... you get the idea.  For awhile, I would just eat slices of bread slathered butter, sugar and honey.  It was ridiculous, but I never did see that.  It's amazing how blind we can make ourselves when the truth hurts.

Fat (p1)
I've been procrastinating on writing this for the last 3 hours.  I guess if I don't write it, it won't be so real to me?  What a lame excuse.  I have got to stop being so fake to myself.

(Disclaimer: This is going to be a post all about my fat self, emphasis on fat.  If you don't want to hear me whining, just move on now.)

I looked into the eyes of reality this morning. 

For the last couple of months, I've been avoiding the scale.  The avoidance actually started as a challenge to myself, since I am a daily (sometimes twice- and thrice-daily) weigher.  Everyone always talks about weighing in once a week, so that mid-week fluctuations don't get you down.  I've never bought into that; I told myself that mid-week gains spur me to do better and mid-week losses do the same.  Was that the truth?  I honestly can't tell you.  But I wasn't doing well with my diet, and hadn't been for quite awhile, so I decided change might be the answer.  I began to ignore the scale completely and just go off the fit of my clothes and the feelings of my body.

Epic FAIL.  Maybe it was a bad plan, maybe I would have gained the weight no matter what, who knows.  Scale aside, I started eating like there was no tomorrow and that always spells disaster.  The fit of my clothes told me to hunt through my closet for bigger sizes.  The feelings of my body narrowed down to tired, tired, and some more tired.  I ignored all the signs and just kept eating my way through each day.  Avoiding the scale was no longer a challenge; I stayed away from that thing like the plague.

I don't really know why, but something changed this morning.  I decided to get on the scale.  How long it has been is another thing I can't tell you.  Two months?  Three?  I told myself that it wouldn't be as bad as I thought; I should just get on so I could see that I was in the same 245-250 range as I've been for the last several years.  Of course I would be, I always am.  It's not good, but it's what I've been living with for a long time.  I'll see it, accept it, and move on, stop obsessing over the number.  So, I shrugged my shoulders and stepped on.

Holy Mother of God.

Does ... does that say 278.2?  Two hundred eighty pounds?  Are you motherfucking kidding me?  Surely that's wrong.

<step off, reset>


<step off, reset>


<step off, reset>



What the fuck have I done to myself?  WHAT THE FUCK.

Even typing it out here makes me sick to my stomach.  It also makes me want to sob my eyes out.  And go pick a fight with a random stranger, in the hopes that he/she will punch me in the face and break my jaw.

I have never, never seen that number on the scale.  I was obese both times I got pregnant, and never went over 265 at the height of my pregnancies.  I have been 245-250 pounds for so long that I had deluded myself into believing that was my body's natural range.  That I wouldn't get any bigger.  That I would be hovering around that weight for the rest of my life.

You may be rolling your eyes at me, wondering why I am so freaked out.  After all, 250 pounds at my height is morbidly obese.  What does it matter if I'm 30 pounds heavier?  What the fuck is the difference?  Fat is fat, right? 

It's not, though.  Even fat people have prejudice against other fat people.  Mine has always been that "at least I'm not 300 pounds; I mean, Jesus, those people are fat!" and I've comforted myself with that mantra over and over through the years.  300 is where I draw the line.  This morning, I was slapped in the face with a number less than 25 pounds away from that.

Twenty two pounds.  Twenty two measly goddamn pounds away from seeing a 3 as that first number on the scale.

I am terrified of those twenty two pounds.  Utterly terrified, beyond all words.  After all, I've managed to gain thirty pounds in only a few months.  What's going to stop me from going the rest of the way?

Holy shit.

I need to go have a break down.  I'll be back when I can handle this a little better.

Dog's Life

Okay, so I've got this gig, see?  It's a pretty good one ... I've got humans at my beck and call, bringing me food and goodies and chewies and toys whenever I want.  It took me awhile to train them properly, but these days I'm all set.  A dog really couldn't ask for a better life than mine.

Mornings aren't my thing, and my humans have finally learned to let me sleep in.  The Man gets up when it's still dark, apparently because some loud and obnoxious Beeping Machine tells him to do so.  I don't know for sure, I don't speak Beep.  But eventually, after The Man spends some time yelling and smacking The Machine, he inevitably gives in and gets up, silencing The Machine's demands.  For the longest time he dragged me out of bed at the same time.  That was totally unacceptable.  Leave my warm and cozy bed before the sun has come up?  No thanks.  Maybe The Man likes bumbling around in the dark - he does it every day, so he's gotta get some kinda charge out of it - but that just ain't for me.  He finally quit bugging me, thank the bones.  The Lady, though, makes sure that I get up when she does.  I don't mind much because she's my favorite, and you do what you do for favorites, right?  She takes me outside first thing so I can pee on the trees.  I don't get the whole problem with peeing inside - it's warmer in the house and my paws don't get all wet on the grass - but she really, really doesn't like it.  What can I say, humans are weird.

The Boy and The Girl are the short humans in my house.  They live to give me treats and attention, which I encourage every chance I get.  A good human is hard to find, you know.  Let alone humans who hop to when one gives one's belly up for petting.  I know I can count on them to supply the good stuff; it's as easy as offering my paw.  Every morning, all I have to do is sit by my empty bowl to get The Boy to feed me breakfast.  If I wolf it down fast enough, sometimes he'll wait until The Lady isn't looking and give me some more.  I love those days.  The thirsties usually hit about halfway through my morning meal, but one look of disdain at yesterday's water and The Girl gives me a clean, cold fresh bowl.  Not quite as awesome as drinking from the toilet, but since I do that after they leave anyway, I get the best of both worlds. 

After my humans leave, I can lay around all day, snoozing in the sunshine.  My toys are in their box in the corner, if I get restless and want to play.  And there's always the cat to mess with, if I'm feeling especially energetic.  His claws are a lot sharper than mine - and where's the fairness in that, I ask you? - so I don't get in his face much unless I'm up for a good run.  Still, it's nice to sometimes get the paws moving and the heart racing, ya know?

So yeah, it's a good life.  Or it was, until he came along. 


Note to self - feels forced.  Blah.  What I really want to do is write a training manual of sorts from the dog's perspective, but this is what came out.  Stupid fingers, not connecting to the brain.