tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540159973249488542024-03-09T11:10:02.598+10:00Musings of a Bipolar Girl.I'm 30. I have struggled with Bipolar II and Anxiety for 15 years now, and am in weekly therapy. I made this to let out my stories, thoughts, fears, etc. Maybe you'll find something that will make you feel better. I hope I do.hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-14437409657757873312010-10-29T07:12:00.001+10:002010-10-29T07:12:09.991+10:00The cycle begins.<p>For some of you, this is the only blog of mine that you follow. This was my first blog, and my sole purpose of writing was to let out things that have always been hard for me to let go of. I’ve noticed from day one that when I write something down it’s almost like a small weight inside of me lifts. The other reason is to hopefully find people I can identify with who are going through similar struggles with Bipolar or mental illness. So far I’ve been really disappointed at the lack of ones I have come across. If anyone is familiar with any insightful blogs I’d love if you pass them my way.</p> <p>If you follow my other blog about <a href="http://heddownunder.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">my adventures in Australia</a>, then you know that this is kind of my downer blog and you may not identify with anything here and move along. That’s okay. I’m not particularly fond of blogs about happiness or how beautiful each day is in its own way. I hope one day I will find meaning in those blogs…anyways, today’s post is actually not a downer. What a surprise! Anything that is related to my struggles with depression I post in this blog, and, well, this post is about new starts. Again.</p> <p>I’m aware that there are always new starts, always new cycles. I just wish mine weren’t so drastic. I’d love if my ups were ups and my downs were downs and the rest be average, but with me my downs are so definitive that it breaks the cycle every time. Coming over here was always about starting over and establishing not only myself positively, but my entire life positively with my husband. I’m not expecting this overnight, and my lows these first two months of being here have been heightened due to culture shock and the longing of my family and Mexican food (seriously). But yesterday I had my second appointment with the psychologist, Dr. Phil (seriously!) and my first appointment with Dr. C, the psychiatrist.</p> <p>I’m still on the fence about Dr. Phil. I usually go in with a big wall up because, well, that’s kind of what I do when anyone wants me to change. Doesn’t everyone? Usually by the middle of our session he makes me have an epiphany about what he is saying and I instantly feel better and make a plan in my head about how to tackle the upcoming week. The first week his epiphany was, “the way you’re feeling right now isn’t you; it’s the depression talking”. I kind of visualized a sad ball in my belly (when I’m mad I always call the incoming stress my anger ball, so the sad ball fits), and it makes total sense. “Normal” people have a drive to get up and go, even if they have a hard time doing so. Explaining my lack of drive, I have always said to people it’s like there’s a little guy in the back of my head saying, ‘what’s the point of getting out of bed? Nothing matters’<em>. </em>And I always listen to that guy. Dr. Phil’s treatment is at first simple <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cognitive_behavioral_therapy" target="_blank">cognitive behavioural therapy</a>-trying to make me associate my bad thoughts with reality and understanding that thoughts are just that-thoughts. </p> <p>This week he told me, “when you have a bad thought I want you to see it: ‘<em>I’m a bad wife’</em>, for example. Write it on a chalkboard in your head. Look at the words. Then I want you to say, <em>“thank you brain for that thought”</em>, and get rid of the thought”. Um…WTF Doc? If I could <em>do</em> that, I sure as hell wouldn’t be paying you! I mean I could say “I’m fat” and say <em>thanks brain for that thought</em> until I’m blue in the face…but that doesn’t mean it’s actually out of my head! Something that <em>did</em> resonate with me yesterday is what he said about being in this depressive rut for so long. He said, “you have been in this cocoon for so long, and the depression is actually keeping you safe. You don’t have to think about things because you’re depressed. <em>I don’t have to get out of bed because I’m depressed. I don’t have to get a job because I’m depressed”</em>. That makes so much sense to me. Unfortunately I’m not going to be magically cured and wake up tomorrow and go, “OKAY! I’m going to get a job! Start my diet! Go to school!”. He reminded me of what my last doctor, Dr. Julia, had told me. Small steps. Instead of sleeping twelve hours, set an alarm and commit to waking up-<em>today.</em> Instead of starting a diet, eat an apple instead of ice cream (okay THAT one will be hard). Take “normal” things people do every day as accomplishments for myself, like cleaning my bathroom or hanging up all my clothes. For the un-depressed eye it may sound silly, but “normal” things are huge steps for me right now.</p> <p>Tomorrow I will post about the second part of my day with my new psychiatrist Dr. C. I LOVE HIM. I’d also like to end today on a really happy and uplifting note. Barb from <a href="http://bouncinbarbs.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">This and That as I Bounce Thru Life</a> is literally one of my biggest supporters. She happens to be one of the very few who have read this blog and actually gotten something out of it, which is huge to me. It’s all I really wanted to accomplish when I write here. The other day she awarded me the Content Unrelated (also one of my favourite <a href="http://www.contentunrelated.com/" target="_blank">blogs</a>) blog award for “the underfollowed, overlooked, uncommon and underestimated blog”. She wrote:</p> <p align="center">“We've all heard the name "bi-polar" but do we really know what its like living with it?  While I am no doctor I truly believe that my son suffers from this.  He refuses to get help and our relationship is sucky right now.  Hed has given me so much insight on what she endured and still does and it's made a difference in how I view things about Mike [my son] and some other folks I know.  If you haven't read it, I implore that you do.  You won't be disappointed.”</p> <p align="left">I am extremely humbled and proud. Thanks a million, Barb.</p> hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-22989361486558507472010-10-10T17:52:00.001+10:002010-10-10T17:54:58.281+10:00Once upon a time I could control myself.I’m still twelve. I haven’t changed a bit. <br />
I demanded to live with my father when my mom married my stepdad and moved us away from my hometown, where everyone was. I thought it would be just my dad and I, and it would be great. Independence. Being left alone. I thought it would be everything I ever wanted. I was wrong.<br />
My dad didn’t move me into his house. He dropped me off at his parents, my evil grandparents. They made me sleep in the back house in a bedroom with a bathroom and they never bothered me unless it was dinnertime. I thought this was awesome. I was like a grown-up. I stayed up as late as I wanted and no one would tell me what to do. Be careful what you wish for.<br />
My dad virtually stopped coming to my grandparents. I was alone. Like, alone alone. It wasn’t independence. It was solitude. I remember laying on my bed for hours at a time replaying Pearl Jam’s “Ten” on the tape player and knowing deep in my heart this tape was created for me. Imagine my shock when I studied the liner notes for the song “Why Go” and found “4 Heather” at the bottom:<br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_Oqtj05u2krU/TLFwywqgjGI/AAAAAAAAAlw/_Hg7jhFXKlM/s1600-h/whygo%5B2%5D.png"><img alt="whygo" border="0" height="280" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_Oqtj05u2krU/TLFw0NLeFSI/AAAAAAAAAl0/kBDwexrbj84/whygo_thumb.png?imgmax=800" style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="whygo" width="344" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"> <em>she scratches a letter into a wall made of stone </em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>maybe someday another child won’t feel as alone as she does</em></div><br />
After a month and an episode, my mom came to the rescue (as always) and I stayed with her for good (More on my dad can be found <a href="http://hed0068.blogspot.com/2010/05/sins-of-father.html" target="_blank">here</a> if interested). Before that I was a normal kid. I never really had issues other than normal twelve-year-old issues. But something about that month broke me. It was almost like the my childhood ended the month I was there. <br />
My teenage years were saturated with music. Sometimes it felt like it was the only thing keeping me from killing myself. No album ever packed the punch that “Ten” had. It was everything to me. I’ve even told my family that when I die, I want the song “Release” to be played at my funeral:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><em>I see the world feel the chill which way to go windowsill </em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em> I see the words on a rocking horse of time I see the birds in the rain </em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Oh dear dad can you see me now? I am myself like you somehow</em><br />
<em><br />
</em></div><div align="left">Today I sit here, in a dark room overcast by clouds outside, and I feel the exact same today as I did when I was a little girl. Lost. Alone. Trapped. Broken. Thinking that everything would get better, but instead got much, much worse. I even lay down on the floor, with “Once” blasting, and I’m looking through the same eyes of that girl that once was something. <br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Once upon a time, I could control myself </em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em> Once upon a time I could lose myself </em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em> Once upon a time I could love myself </em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Once upon a time I could love you</em><br />
<em><br />
</em></div><div align="left">I’m extremely unhappy. I feel that all the pills throughout my life to “make” me happy have in reality zapped all of my happy chemicals. I have no joy. Even the small things that would one time bring a smile to my face mean nothing to me. I want to go home, but am constantly reminded I have nothing to come home to. I sold everything I own when I moved to Australia. I’m pretty much waiting to die. I belong nowhere. I see pictures of myself and wonder who that person is or where she went. I’m dead inside. I have no hope anymore.</div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-59193204435533340722010-09-27T02:32:00.001+10:002010-09-27T02:32:34.099+10:00Rinse and Repeat.<p><font size="2">So for the past five weeks I have been keeping myself busy with my <a href="http://heddownunder.blogspot.com" target="_blank">Australia blog</a>, and even though I have had tendencies to post on here about my struggles with adapting to a completely new way of life, I have digressed, saying my sadness is related to adjusting. I don’t know if that’s 100% the case.</font></p> <p><font size="2">There have only been a couple major episodes since I’ve been here, one being about the major discomfort I feel about living with people who really don’t know me. I love my in-laws, but they don’t know me-they only know what my husband or myself says. Ask my mom, ask my husband: unless you live with someone who has a mental disorder, it’s hard to tell how bad it really gets. I’ve been on my own since I was 20. Making my own food. Sleeping in. Doing laundry when I feel like it. Watching what I want. Coming and going as I please. There was a time that I moved back in with my parents that I had to adjust, but it was minimal because a) I was working full-time, b) I was spending 75% of my time at my best friend’s house, and c) My mom understands me…for the most part.</font></p> <p><font size="2">The second episode was this last week, when my husband and I did our first full grocery shop. I had a list of maybe twenty items on it, and literally fifteen of the twenty items don’t exist in Australia. Being depressed and not having a lot to look forward to, food has been my only comfort for the longest time, and I don’t eat about 80% of the Australian “staple” foods. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I rarely gamble. I don’t cut myself or spend obscene amounts of money. I don’t do…well, anything, I guess. So when I have an opportunity to smile at writing something that makes me feel better or eating a beef dip, I relish the moment. Food is now something I fear rather than love. </font></p> <p><font size="2">I get <strong>served</strong> food now. I have never been okay with eating around strangers. I feel like they stare at me (that could be related to my weight or my anxiety…or both) and judge what I do or don’t eat. One thing I tell every human being that has ever eaten my mom’s food is whether or not it was great, you tell my mom it was GREAT-because my mom will hold that shit against you for years. So having to tell someone I don’t like something they have served me is equal to breaking up with someone or telling them something they don’t want to hear. I’m serious. It’s extremely uncomfortable for me. This last week my husband was at work and my in-laws roasted lamb. I have only tried two small bites of lamb in my whole life. I asked my mother-in-law if it would be okay if I just tried a small slice and she said no problem (she’s awesome and non-judgemental, by the way). I took a bite and held back throwing up. Not because it was bad. Not because of anything that was wrong with the food at all-I knew once I put that piece in my mouth my mother-in-law, consciously or not, was watching me to see how I liked the lamb. My brain was screaming at me IT’S LAMB IT’S LAMB IT’S LAMB IT’S LAMB and I managed to swallow it. I apologized and said, “I just don’t think I can hack lamb”. My father-in-law (who is not as awesome and non-judgemental-it’s just his way) looked at me and said, “it’s just <em>meat”</em>. I wish it were that simple. I couldn’t eat the rest of the night.</font></p> <p><font size="2">I used to think I was alone. Now, being so far away from…everything, I truly am alone. I tell myself I should have never married my husband. Again, not for anything he has done, it’s for the massive causality he endures regularly for being married to me. I really don’t think I will ever have kids (or I should say “raise kids”). Our life will always be atypical because of my episodes. I may be fine for five years, then one day *BAM* I’ll stop getting out of bed. It’s an unliveable life. </font></p> <p><font size="2">I’m really distraught because in my twenties, the outlook was good-I could always work at another job, move somewhere far away, start over-but now, at thirty, I don’t see a light at the end of the tunnel. At all. I had hoped that a new <strong>NEW</strong>! start in a new country would be the answer, but I can’t apply myself to do anything. Even if I never worked again and my husband supported us-what the hell kind of live would I live? Waking up at 4pm every day and eating macaroni and cheese for dinner? I would be my dad. I’m just like my dad. Except, unlike him, I’m aware of the path that is coming for me. I don’t know what do do about it.</font></p> <p><font size="2">It’s been 10 months since my major depressive episode has began-by far longer than any other period in my life. Just like when you’re overweight for a really long time, you have a hard time picturing yourself any other way. I don’t remember what it feels like to be happy.</font></p> hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-34491433824290049432010-08-18T19:06:00.001+10:002010-08-18T19:09:56.717+10:00Seven days.<p><font size="2">I started to write this blog earlier but got sidetracked. Just like any other day, I guess. I am trying not to think about this MASSIVE move as MASSIVE, but the epic proportions of my decision always comes back full circle and I freak out. I’m more anxious than I think I’ve been in a year. I’ll sort out my woes for you.</font></p> <p><font size="2">I have a list of things that need to be done, and I have actually done pretty well and closed up shop on most of it. My stress now is, what if I miss something? Just today I remembered that all of my Christmas ornaments (I get a special one every year) are at my grandpa’s. What if they all get accidentally thrown away? There are about six boxes I brought to my mom’s house where we are staying and I have yet to go through them. I need to re-arrange the stuff in my luggage. The airport dealey with liquids messed it all up when the only thing left to pack was my check-on bag- with ALL MY TOILETRIES. On the bright side, I got myself a little treat and will be expecting a new Paul Frank backpack at my door tomorrow. At least with that I can put my laptop, camera, purse stuff, passport, etc. in it and will have it with me at all times. I’ve done really well with selling all my extra crap, and I told my parents just to sell the rest at their next yard sale. Today was going to be THE DAY when I tidy up all of my stuff, but I was up last night crying so hard from stress I woke up with a migraine. Oh, and I’m losing like tons of hair. Bleh.</font></p> <p><font size="2">My next stress is my peoples. What if I don’t get to say goodbye to everyone? My fear is I won’t get to say goodbye and BAM they die (see “Letting Go, Part One” for further elaboration of my anxieties). This sounds awful, but I have no interest in seeing my dad before I leave. I’d rather just assume good things and go on my way. My dad will be 61 next month, and I don’t know when I’ll be coming back to visit. I plain just don’t want to see him. I’ve thought to myself, “<em>would I kick myself if something bad DID happen to him and I never got to spend time with him?”</em> and sadly, my answer is probably not. The image of my “good” dad hasn’t been true for a long, long time and every time I throw him a bone he fails. In the beginning of the year he broke up with his total bitch of an ex-girlfriend, moved around the corner into my grandparent’s house, and started attending AA again. I was really proud and excited for him. For about a day. One day my car window broke and it was supposed to rain the next day. I thought, “<em>gee, my handy dad lives right next to me now! He’ll fix it!”</em> I called him at about 4p.m. and it sounded like he had just woken up. “Hi dad! I have a problem! My car window just broke on me and I was hoping you could fix it because I---“ “Uh…I’ll call you back, okay?” He never called back.</font></p> <p><font size="2"> Another fear is I WILL get to see everyone and I’ll be so anxious that I won’t enjoy my time with them. My sister is throwing me a 30th birthday/going away party, and to be honest I am surprised how many people are coming. Is it because it’s a party? Free food? Free booze? What if they see me after this long of a time and I’m disgusting to them? My social anxiety is still very strong. On top of that, a couple of my acquaintances who weren’t invited are coming with somebody else. What if they cause a scene? What if I’m so anxious at the party that I can’t relax? The last time I had a group of people around me was my pre-wedding dinner almost two years ago, and thank God I ended up getting drunk. I almost lost it (my mind, not my liquor). This time though, with the antidepressants and mood stabilizers, I’m extremely anxious to drink. What if I pass out? What if it doesn’t mix and I freak out? A lot of my friends who I haven’t seen in over a year will be there, and I’m scared they will see the person I’ve become and just not want to be my friend anymore. My light is gone. The person who is always warm and fuzzy and sticking their neck out for them no longer exists. Now there is a shell of a girl who is unbelievably fat, penniless, and sad.</font></p> <p><font size="2">Next comes the realization that in seven days, everything is going to change. Everything. Time. Food. Family. Money. Counting. Driving. Spelling. Climate. Jobs. Mannerisms. Culture. The list goes on and on. Now, I am the Queen of Starting Over, so a lot of these things I see as a great positive. I just also see my present self getting in the way. My in-laws have pledged to help us financially until we get situated. That’s extremely generous of them and I am eternally grateful. The thing is, I’ve never had anyone (except for my own family) pay my way. No boyfriends, no help from friends. Just me. And I’m very proud of it. After a bankruptcy and steady jobs, I have built up a good, healthy credit standing. Now in a foreign country that’s all wiped away. I didn’t think I would have to start over again at 30. Where’s my house? My career? My school diploma? My two kids and a dog? I have none of it. I’m moving in with someone’s parents (something I have never done) and I happen to be bipolar. How am I supposed to deal with that in front of strangers? I feel I have no safe zone anymore, and even writing that down brings me to tears.</font></p> <p><font size="2">Okay, I just took an Ativan. Kick in please. Some peoples’ motto is “one day at a time”. I can’t even deal with that. When I get stressed or upset just one time in a day, the whole day is ruined. I can’t salvage it. I just shut down and hope things will get better eventually. It has almost been a year since everything fell apart, and I feel worse off now than I did last year. How is that even possible?</font></p> hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-50566033216924383232010-08-16T10:41:00.001+10:002010-08-18T19:10:31.200+10:00I’m dying.<p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Okay, the title of my blog isn’t necessarily true. I’m not REALLY dying. I think. But I have always had a sinking feeling that things weren’t quite right with me and my essential organs. I’m absolutely convinced that I do have Multiple Sclerosis, however. I’ve just never had the proof and/or push to have tests ran or anything. Oh, except a brain wave scan when I was a teen. Let me explain.</span></p> <p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I was about twelve, I noticed when I started to walk, the left side of my body would go numb. Seriously. When I began to walk anywhere, I would notice a tingle in my toes, and it would shoot up my leg, my arms, and my neck until I couldn’t even talk out of the left side of my mouth. Seriously. The feeling would last about 15 seconds. I noticed it would happen in episodes, maybe only during the summer or when I was overly stressed. It was sometimes noticeable, especially because my neck would stiffen up and my left hand would curl up into a ball and I would stop walking because my foot would sort of drag. I was able to override it sometimes by putting my foot up against a wall and flex really hard when I would feel it start to tingle, but that was usually even more noticeable. I only confessed this to a handful of friends and family, and lovingly called it “Tard Girl” due to the posturing. I did have a brain scan, but nothing came up-I was sitting down the whole time. I think if they asked me to start and stop walking, something may have come up. I’ve had this malady for so long now I forget I even have it. Five years ago I started not being able to lay on my left side or my entire leg would start to tingle and fall asleep. That could also be, you know, my fat body crushing my poor leg. About two months ago, I noticed my left pinky and ring fingers had no feeling in them, no matter what I do. </span></p> <p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My bones and joints feel like they have slow-drying cement on them. I can’t turn my neck comfortably anymore. I mean it’s completely locked up. I’ve tried to do the neck roll to loosen it, tried muscle relaxers, had my husband put pressure on it to see if it would crack, all with no relief. Yesterday I walked from a parking lot into a grocery store, and by the time I headed to the register, the middle of my back was on fire. Granted, I’m fat, but am I THAT fat? I don’t ever lay on my back because it’s extremely painful, but I blame that on the fat. Walking fifty steps makes my body shut down? That’s a little suspect. My lower back constantly feels like it needs to pop. I can’t find a comfortable position to sleep in with my current neck/back issues.</span></p> <p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Speaking of sleep, I sleep about twelve hours a day. Seriously. It’s been this way for as long as I can remember. I would get home from elementary school and take a two-hour nap. In high school, if I couldn’t get out of bed because I was too tired, I wouldn’t go to school. Work too. You know there’s those times where you wake up and you choose to go back to sleep? I don’t have those times. I can go to bed at midnight, and when I naturally wake up it’s 1p.m. Of course, I’m tired all day, partly from sleeping too much, partly from my weight bogging me down. Now I’m so used to my sleep patterns, if I feel sleepy at any time during the day, I cease to function. I’ve rationalized any excuse to use for leaving work early so I can drive straight home and go to sleep. I always joke that if there was an Olympic sport for sleep, I would win the Gold.</span></p> <p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Other small random things happening lately are what made me write this blog about my health. I have a rash on half of my stomach. I have acid reflux suddenly. I gasp for air occasionally, and not just when I’m asleep-it happens if I’m sitting and just watching television. I’m seeing a chiropractor this week (thank God), but what I’m afraid of is that my body is so far gone that it will never go back to normal. When I woke up today the first thing I did was try and stretch my body to see if the pain throughout the day would be lessened, and it didn’t work. By “didn’t work”, I don’t mean it didn’t lessen my pain, I mean I was unable to stretch my muscles without extreme discomfort. It’s hard to think about losing weight when you are in a vicious cycle of pain-if I lose weight I will feel better, but I need to feel better to lose weight. Where’s Dr. House when you need him? Seriously.</span></p>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-5924771625159063372010-08-10T15:13:00.001+10:002010-08-18T19:10:13.257+10:00Letting Go, Part 2.<p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My son will be twelve in December. My son. Okay, so that always looks weird on paper because I don’t really have a son. What I mean is, I shut down when he was a baby and never had a chance to pick up where we left off. I’ve always been more of a “birth mother” than a real mother. Some of it was my fault, some was out of my control. I found out at 2 he was autistic, and with him being him and me being me, there was never a bond. It’s a lot more detailed than that obviously, but it’s hard to write about someone I don’t really know.</span></p> <p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I got pregnant in April of my senior year with my high school sweetheart, four months after we got back together. He immediately asked me to marry him, and moved into my parents’ house with me. That lasted a week. I kicked him out and from that day, was on my own. I cried every day. Hell, I cried when I found out I was pregnant. I cried when I found out I was having a boy, not the girl I was so sure was in my belly. I thought of suicide every day. I was unbelievably stressed out. I didn’t know what to do. I suffered from terrible migraines that made me go on disability. I never talked to my belly. My baby daddy was in the mix, just not with me. He went through some crap too-moved out of his parents house for good, started dating a girl with a kid, wrapping his car around a pole, and getting a DUI. My labor was extremely easy, and that was that. You know what my first words to him were? </span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Hi, my name’s Hed, and I’m gonna be your mom”</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. At four days old, my family was at my house, and my brother was holding my son. I remember him standing up and handing the baby to my mom, and they conversed almost in secret. I blew it off. </span></p> <p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That night, my mom was in my room with me while I was feeding my son, and he started to stiffen and gasp for air. My mom says, “that’s what he did earlier today”. He was having his second seizure that we observed, and my mom didn’t even tell me about the first one. I’m convinced that, with my mental history, she didn’t think I was strong enough for a baby, something that has been confirmed through my son’s years and her actions, and her disdain when myself or my husband mentions children down the road. Anyway, he ended up in the ICU for five days. We still don’t know if his seizures caused the Autism or if the Autism caused the seizures. His week in the hospital, combined with my mom’s concern for him, sealed the deal for the two of us. Eventually he moved into her room, and even when it was time to move out with my then-boyfriend, she insisted my son stay with her and my stepdad. I took the offer because I was working full-time and thought once we got situated he could move in with us. That attempt happened when he was three. My boyfriend and I moved him in with us in our one-bedroom duplex, and I became a mom. That lasted a week. </span></p> <p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The catalyst that started it? He spilled a soda on the rug. That’s it. That’s all it took. He was so hyper, didn’t listen or pay attention (Duh, he had AUTISM!!!), and I couldn’t take it. I called his father and told him he needed to take him, I couldn’t handle this. My toddler was a stranger. I was a fool to think that I could take a three-year-old in and become Carol Brady. Most of the time I couldn’t even take care of myself properly. I was devastated because it made me feel like a complete failure. I really thought I was strong enough to do it. We went to court, reversed custody. That was it. When this happened, his father eventually stopped speaking to me and used my mom as the middle man. My son started getting dropped off at my moms again, and I started visiting less and less. My first bout of extreme depression started around this time, and I couldn’t even get out of bed most days. When I started working again the visits became almost non-existent. When we did hang out, he wanted nothing to do with me. Why would he? He didn’t even KNOW me. Years passed, and my son’s father began a relationship with an amazing girl that just loved my son to pieces and did everything she could to deal with his Autism. At new jobs, I would mention my son in conversations, and I would always get, “you have a KID?!?!”</span></p> <p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Last week was the first time I had seen my son in a year. He’s almost as tall as me. He has hair on his legs. He dresses like a young man, not a kid. Today,randomly my son’s father called my mom to see if my son could be dropped off with her, as he was getting married today. Two months ago, he and awesome girl had a baby of their own, and in my opinion they want to officially have a family circle together. As I have been planning to leave for Australia, I thought of leaving a note with my mom that if something should happen to my son, she would have authority to make decisions on my behalf. When I heard about the marriage, I made the biggest and hardest decision of my life: to sign my parental rights away so my son could be adopted by his stepmom.</span></p> <p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s not fair to my son for me to sometimes be in his life. My sister was adopted when my father gave away his rights, and she turned out beautifully. I had the opportunity to be adopted by my own stepdad, and I turned it down because I didn’t want my father to be alone. My dad ultimately popped in and out of my life when he chose, and it screwed me up something fierce. I always used to think my son’s father was an all-around dick, but sometime over the years I realized he was a fantastic father, and we just happened to not be good together. Aside from all the selfishness that I have in me: the pride of being somebody’s mother, the thoughts and assumptions others may have of me from my choice, and the ultimate failure I feel from never having an opportunity to get to know my son and all his complexities, I know in my heart that this is the right choice. As Forrest Gump would say, “and that’s all I have to say about that”.</span></p>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-28818012098609302952010-08-10T14:18:00.001+10:002010-08-18T19:08:46.041+10:00Letting Go, Part One.<p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So, unless you have never read my posts or live under a rock, you know that I am moving to Australia. In 15 days. so obviously my posts are few and far between at the moment. I’m sitting here at my mother’s house on my laptop, and I feel like I’m being pulled in a million directions. My core thought is to stay where I am, don’t change, and eventually you will get back on track. That is the way of Hed’s world, and my life has a magical way of working out. The other half says fuck it, get the hell out of my comfort zone, and really start anew, as fresh as I possibly can. I’m terrified. I have this hope that just being on new soil will make me wake up earlier, eat healthier and have more energy. But nothing on Earth changes you unless you change yourself, and I want to change. I think.</span></p> <p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I’m always getting sidetracked when I write, by the way. I always have a solid idea of what I’m going to write, and my crazy brain always types what it wants. Okay, I’ll restart: I have a major roadblock in my head, and every time I even think about it, I break down. It’s my grandfather, Pop. He is my rock, the dad I should have had, the one that has done more for me than my dad (or anyone else) ever has, and my constant source of anxiety. You see, back before my grandmother died, my main goal was to make sure I wasn’t a fuck up so when they ultimately passed, they would die hopefully being proud of me. On April 1, 2006, I was casually dating, working as an assistant manager, and thinking about moving on my own for the first time ever. That was the night my mom called me and told me that my grandmother was in the E.R. because she had an allergic reaction to her medicine and was having a hard time breathing.</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Should I go to the hospital? </span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">No, she tells me, she’ll be fine. Forty-six days later, she died. I never had a chance to tell her I was moving, to tell her that I was okay, to pay her back what her and Pop graciously let me borrow. As soon as she died, I stopped looking at my grandfather as invincible. I now was on a MISSION to make sure that when, not if, he passed, I was a good person in his eyes.</span></p> <p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Four years later, he’s still going strong. My parents and our family spend obscene amounts of time with him, and he adjusted pretty well to living alone after 55 years of couple-dom (P.S.-my grandfather is a prideful man, he wouldn’t even think about moving in with anyone else). It’s been my mom with the health problems-the melanoma, the carpal tunnel in both hands, the knee surgery, the knee cleaning surgery, the upcoming knee replacement surgery. The thing is, my morbid, depressed self looks at my grandpa and thinks DEATH. Death, death, death. He will die. Sooner than later. The thought of Pop dying stops me in my tracks. How am I (or my family, for that matter), supposed to function knowing the rock of my family is gone? In most instances, you would just spend as much time as humanly possible with that person and build up the strength to accept that everyone dies, right? I casually mentioned (through tears) to my mom that when I say goodbye to Pop when I move to Australia, it may be the last time. It’s not like I’m coming back next month or anything. Unfortunately, her response was, “it probably is”. Oh. Crap. When I say goodbye to Pop in two weeks and give him a hug, I’m pretty much giving my last respects. How the hell does one do that? Most people pay their last respects when someone is in a coma, or dying, or at a funeral, yet I am forced to say goodbye to a pretty healthy, alive person? I’m consumed with the thought. Of course, there’s a chance my mom may get cancer again. Or my best friend dies in a car crash. Or my grandpa will live to 110. Am I thinking about any of these? Of course not.</span></p> <p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So that has been the major thought I’ve had, the reason I opened up Blogger to try and get this off my chest. Writing it all down usually helps me not only get it off my chest, but to let a thought or feeling rise up and float away, giving me a shred of clarity until a new worry pops into my head. But tonight, something cataclysmic happened that will never be undone. To be continued…</span></p>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-30151821553317349152010-07-24T02:30:00.001+10:002010-07-24T02:54:21.651+10:00Thirty.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I miss my fucking cats. My house is empty without them. Well, it's empty period. Had a yard sale two weeks ago to sell my stuff and took away about $120. A hundred bucks for a lifetime. That's how it feels. All the stuff I didn't sell I just gave away to my friends and family and threw away the rest. Thirty years of accumulated memories in the trash. That pretty much sums up my life.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I don't remember if I've mentioned it in my previous blogs (damn this fish memory of mine), but I've always been convinced I would die before I turned 30. I remember crying to my mom after my son was born and telling her how I felt. Maybe it was a prediction. Maybe it was because all my rocker idols died before they hit 30. I don't know. All I know is I can't even see past that date.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As I was sitting on my living room floor last night, making big piles of stuff into smaller piles of stuff, I thought to myself, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">maybe this is God's way of me cleaning up so when I die, my family won't have to deal with it all.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Whenever I have thought of suicide throughout the years, I can never get past putting all of my items into neat little boxes and setting out my finances so after I die, my family will just have to mourn me, not stress out at all the shit they have to deal with because I died. Morbid, I know. But these thoughts cross my perennially depressed mind.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's not getting better, by the way. It did for a time, and then it stopped. I stopped taking my morning meds because I was getting more and more anxious. Maybe that's why I feel this way now. I can't tell what is better: being sad and stressed and miserable, or being anxious and stressed and miserable. My emergency Xanax bottle is almost empty. It was full a few months ago. I wouldn't mind if I was slightly under the "happy" line, you know? I just want some consistency with my moods. And not shitty depressed all the time. I don't know what happiness feels like. My husband tells me last night, "I was going through pictures of when we first got together and you were so happy. There was light in your eyes. I don't see that light anymore". Really? You don't think I fucking know that? The worst possible thing to feel, other than your own misery, is making others miserable just having you around.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My family wants to throw a farewell/birthday party for me. I don't want one. At all. My sister and mother met me at a busy restaurant to go over the guest list and planning, and I almost left. The stress is too much. They also want to go to the airport when my husband and I leave for Australia. I'd much rather take a cab. I can't deal with the sadness and stress of leaving my country, my family, my friends, my </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">life </span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">topped with the fear and anxiety of boarding a plane for thirteen hours. No one gets it. I am fucking bipolar. </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This is me.</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> I can't imagine changing anymore. I am getting unhappier and unhappier as the days go by.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">If I have to think really hard at happiness, maybe the pure movement of moving, the getting rid of all my possessions, leaving everything I know, maybe this is the "death" I have always thought of. Maybe landing in Australia three weeks before my thirtieth birthday is the new beginning. Maybe I was always supposed to be there. I do believe in fate. I think of jobs I've passed up for a riskier one, and the first job went out of business. I think of people I met by chance that ended up making me who I am today. Or hell, maybe I'll die in a plane crash. That seems fitting.</span></span></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-86394161805481339312010-07-10T15:31:00.000+10:002010-07-10T16:06:02.882+10:00Dear Sam.<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;">You are one of the best things that has ever happened to me. I loved you the moment I laid eyes on you. Letting you go is the hardest thing I've had to do, and I can only imagine in my head that you will be happy somewhere else or I may just crack.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;">I named you Sam because I had seen the movie "I Am Legend", and the girl dog was named Sam (actually Samantha). I loved that name, so I knew my future cat would be named Sam. When your dad and I got together, I told him I wanted cats as our wedding gift to each other. on Valentine's Day 2009, the local pet shop was having an adoption fair so I decided today would be the day we expanded our family.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;">When I walked in, you were alone, sleeping in a cage. My heart exploded. I didn't need to look at any more cats. You were meant for me. When I looked at your birth date and it read "December 7, 2008", it sealed the deal. Your dad and I were married the day you were born. Another thing that drew me to you is your freaky seven toes. One of my favorite cats growing up had six toes. Your feet look like little catcher's mitts. Someone had named you "Tiki". The lady had said you are very timid, and only come out of your shell when you get to know someone. How right they would be. I kept telling the lady, "that is my cat. That is my cat!" You had been fixed earlier that day, so you were very groggy when I picked you up and held you. After I decided on your brother Portal, we put you in his cage to see how you two would get along. You curled up to him immediately. I wasn't able to take you home until two days later because of the surgery, so I patiently waited for you.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;">When you got home, you took to Portal right away but acted like you hated dad and I. You would run under the couch and we would have to coax you out and show you where the food bowl was. I was devastated. When dad went to find you and you hissed at him, we thought we may have to give you back to the adoption people. After around a week, you came around. You still ran away if we got too close to you, but when the time was right, you would come around us and get pet.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;"><br /></span></span></div><div><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Oqtj05u2krU/TDgJPhI4liI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/7_9JDMElAY4/s320/Sam+Feb+09+3.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492149907776640546" /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;">You are the true definition of a cat. You sleep all the time and want to be left alone unless it suits you. You liked playing with Portal more than playing with us. But a funny thing happened when you were around 6 months old. You would normally, like Portal, fall asleep at night between dad's legs. When you would wake up, or see us rustling around, all of the sudden you would start your engines. We called it "furr-furr". Your purr was so loud that you could hear it across the room! You were </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;">determined </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;">to get pet. You would walk on us all the way up to our face and start licking our hands or our face until we would pet you. Sometimes I would be half-asleep and I'd call out, "no, nang!" (one of our nicknames for you). But eventually I got used to it. You would usually head towards me and not dad. I think I'm a better petter anyway :) Once I took a picture of you when your furr-furr engines were on and you were laying on my neck:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Oqtj05u2krU/TDgLIPkhSkI/AAAAAAAAAFY/fautsL0Ta5s/s320/The+Nang+Dec+09.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492151981824887362" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;">We called this your "Goomba face". We always giggled at you because your cat expression was always the same. You liked to pounce. Dad and I had an inside joke where if we heard something moving around we'd say, "is that Sam?" then you would *FOOF!* pounce! You rarely meowed, and when you did, dad and I would laugh because it was usually when you were calling for Portal. You were Portal's big brother. You would play fight and always win. You would groom Portal all the time (we called it "Bromancing"). You wouldn't eat people food, except for melted cheese. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9ff;">You were there for me during my darker moments, and just having you around made me feel better. Your nicknames were Nang, The Nang, Sammy, Nammy. I will never get over you. I promise you I will never love another cat as much as I love you, Sam. Thank you for the joy and the comfort you gave me. I hope that you will bond with someone else and show them just how wonderful you truly are. I love you so much.</span></span></div><div> </div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-55997653327853008132010-07-10T14:44:00.002+10:002010-07-10T15:29:19.276+10:00Dear Portal.<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You mean the universe to me. You are the most social, silly cat I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. You may not be able to read this, but I hope that maybe the person who gets you next may be able to get a better idea of you if I can give them the story of how you became our Portey.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Your dad and I met playing an online video game on the computer you hate us playing on! You always have to sit in my chair before I have a chance to sit down, or get tangled in dad's feet under his desk. Anyway, in this silly video game he had a white cat he named "Portal". He told me he named it that because it was his favorite video game of all time. When he and I got engaged, I told him I wanted two cats as our wedding gifts to each other.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Around two months after we married, on Valentine's Day 2009, I secretly went to the pet store near my work where they were having an adoption fair. I didn't know what I was looking for in my cat, but it took me two milliseconds to see your brother Sam before I knew that was going to be my cat. When I arrived, I knew dad's cat had to be a white boy cat. I saw you. Back then, someone had named you "Starsky". You were in a cage with your sister, Jade, and your brother "Hutch", had already been adopted earlier that day. Next to your cage was your mom's cage: she was a beautiful Siamese. You were born just two months earlier, on December 12, 2008. You were a big old white fluffball kitten. I was worried you'd be </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">too</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> fluffy for our house, but you were just meant to be our Portal. Before we chose you, we put Sam in your cage and the two of you curled up together like you were meant to be together. We had to take Sam two days later, as he was just fixed. So on the drive home, it was just you and me.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">In the carrier on the way home, you meowed like your heart was broken. I was worried you didn't like me! Also, you were a surprise to your dad, and I just hoped the two of you would bond. When we pulled up, your dad met us outside. I took you out of the carrier and handed you to him. He was angry for about two seconds that I didn't tell him we were getting cats, but in two seconds he melted when he saw you.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">That night, you were so happy sniffing around your new, big house. You wanted to get into everything (something you still love to do). That night we set you down at the foot of the bed in your cat bed, and you hopped up and nestled in between dad and I and fell asleep. The whole time you were a kitten, you had to be next to either me or dad. When we sat down to eat on TV trays you had to sit in between us. When we lay down to watch TV, you had to sit on our heads and be involved. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When we brought Sam home, you </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">guys hit it off instantly. The two of you would run up and down the stairs and play, and when it was time to sleep you would curl up together and sleep.</span></span></div><div><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Oqtj05u2krU/TDf-qfSrfBI/AAAAAAAAAE4/_Q2ZRcfNqGk/s320/Sam+and+Portal+Feb+09+2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492138276509416466" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">As you got older, your personality stayed the same. You stopped sleeping in between dad and I, but you always slept in between his legs. You are the most vocal cat, and always like to meow when you are not the center of attention. We had to put velcro on some drawers because you were always into everything. You have been found in all kinds of places, like the hamper or the shower or the bathroom cabinet. I remember when we thought we had lost you forever during the move, and we found you five hours later hidden in the clothes drawer. You have no idea how much you scared us! We were so relieved you were okay! You like french fry pieces. You only eat fresh food-even if the bowl is half full! You lay on the weirdest things, like telephones and clothes hangers. You hate to be held unless it suits you. You love to get your belly rubbed. When you and Sam would play fight, you always yowled and screamed like he was beating the heck out of you!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">When we moved into the smaller apartment, all you ever wanted to do was get outside and see what was out there. When we opened the door and let you out on the stoop you were the brave one who always got to the bottom step before you were caught. You are like a little dog. You meet us at the door every time we leave, and you are extremely loyal. We gave you silly nicknames like Port-Port, Portey, Portisnang, and Naughty.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm so sorry we have to leave you, Portal. You are our best friend, our baby. I hope that no matter what, you are happy and loved and cared for. You deserve to be spoiled rotten, and I hope that whoever or whatever family takes you in, that you will finally run out of energy by being played with. We love you so much.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Oqtj05u2krU/TDgEFpGwAVI/AAAAAAAAAFI/O3BxoZ_Ayec/s320/Portal+in+a+Bowl+Jun+10.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492144240558342482" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-43457561921940778202010-06-24T05:08:00.000+10:002010-06-24T06:02:01.770+10:00Hopes/Fears.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I feel like it's been weeks since I have blogged when in actuality it's only been three days. There is so much going on that I don't have time to think. I sit down at my desk and go, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"what do I need to do now?"</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">It seems like at least once a day I am having a panic attack. Not full blown, just enough anxiety to make me start talking fast with worry and/or crying. Sometimes a thought crosses my mind that makes my stomach drop. Most of the time it's the thought of me being on a plane. I hate planes. I hate them so much. I have been on three flights my entire life, and two of them were trans-continental. It's the turbulence that freaks me out. I've tried to explain this to my husband a million times, but I guess he doesn't understand the anxious mind. When a bout of turbulence hits, I don't think, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"okay this is normal"</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">. I let my mind and anxiety get the best of me and let myself visualize the plane going down, or an engine catching on fire or something. Seriously. I have a game plan set up so far. The plane leaves at midnight, so I plan on waking up at like 9 a.m. that morning so I'll be super tired come flight time, then pop 2 or 3 Xanax and (hopefully) sleep away a chunk of the 13-hour flight.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Speaking of anxiety getting the best of me, I am convinced that if I leave my grandpa will die. I know that's a morbid thing to think, but it crosses my mind all of the time now. I understand that he's almost 84 and will probably die sooner or later anyway, but I feel like the minute I leave something bad will happen and I will be stuck in Australia. Could I forgive myself? I'm also convinced my mom's cancer will come back. Just last week she had knee surgery and a cracked tooth, so she is at home miserable. She told me yesterday she was depressed. My mom is like Superman. I've seen her cry maybe five times in my whole life. She told me she was depressed after my grandma (her mom) passed away, but that's a given. Right now she's depressed because she hates her job, is struggling with money, and her body is all out of whack. Plus she has an upcoming appointment with her oncologist to check on another suspicious mole. I feel like I'm going to get a phone call from her saying this time it's inoperable or incurable.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">We are still looking for a home for our cats, but on the bright side we have family that will take the both of them if we can't find anyone near where we live that would want both of them. That's a huge relief. It's still going to be so hard to say goodbye, I don't know how I'm going to deal with it. The family lives in Washington so we will have to take a 16 hour drive up there, which I don't mind. I have to sell my car by the time we leave, and yet another thing I am convinced of is something will happen to my car when we drive that far. A car accident, or overheating, or a new belt is all I need right now when I'm trying to sell it for a decent price.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm still separating things into "sell" boxes and "keep" boxes. I have a lot of "sell boxes", surprisingly. I thought I would want to take all of this crap that means so much to me, but in the long run it will just cost too much to ship. I keep looking around and making tallies: sell the entertainment system, the engraved wood chest, the bookshelf and the matching furniture. Everything. I am leaving everything. A lot of people feel possessions are just material, that they can be replaced, but sometimes the thoughts or memories that come up by looking at something makes you sad you have to give it away.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">What usually comes out of my mouth when I start talking to my husband in a panic is "how did you </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">do</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> this? How did you leave everything behind and move here??" J moved here within three weeks of getting his U.S. Visa approved. He packed a big suitcase with only clothes, some pictures and books, and started living here. The end. He didn't have bills. Furniture. Knick knacks. He went from a town of 7,000 with one McDonalds in a two-hour radius to an area with about a million people in it. You can get </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">anything</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> in America. He usually replies, "don't you think I went through the same thing you're going through right now?" I think in comparison, he didn't. I'm not trying to negate his feelings or anything, but when he came over, we were </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">in love</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">. Anyone in a long term relationship with someone knows what I mean. Back then, I would have swam the Pacific to be with J. On our vacations we would spend hours in bed just happy with each other's company. Now that the love drug has worn off, I have to sit with the reality of what is happening.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">When I move over there, even though J's parents are helping us out, I will be alone. At square one. I will have zero money, no job, no comfortable private time, no friends, no family. I wish my husband could understand this. He tells me that I have his family now, but it's not the same. I still have credit cards that need to be paid off. How do I go about asking someone that's not </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">my</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> family for money? I can't, I'm too embarrassed. But I also don't plan on defaulting and getting a terrible credit rating in America. I will have to eat food prepared for me, and that makes me extremely anxious. I don't like to eat around other people. I don't like picking at my food while someone else watches. I also know it's rude to not eat food given to you. Even typing all these things are making me shake and breathe faster thinking about them.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Although I have been described as "dependent", I actually am very independent. I have always had my own money and my own bills. My adult relationships have usually ended up with me paying everything or keeping money separate from my boyfriend's. I've also made my own decisions and am very headstrong. If I want something, I get it. When we move I am going to be 100% reliant on my husband, and that scares the crap out of me. We started this relationship with me wearing the pants because of the situation we were in. I pay all of our bills and make 95% of the money. I'm not concerned if my husband will be able to do it, I know he can. I'm concerned about me not having any power or say anymore. I have never had to rely on a man for anything, ever. Maybe I would feel better if we had $5,000 saved up and knew what we were getting ourselves into. But I don't and we don't. It's a jump from a cliff so high you can't see the bottom.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I do believe in fate. I was expecting a roadblock to keep us from moving. So far, everything has worked out in Australia's favor. I'm not imagining a "happily ever after" there. I will turn 30 a month after we get there and I will have no friends or family to celebrate it with. No big sushi birthday dinner. No trip to Las Vegas. Nothing. I'm trying to be hopeful though. Hoping my husband gets a good job that will make him happy and set us up to find our own place. Hoping a change of scenery might be something, anything to get me out of this funk and get me productive. Hoping my husband and I can actually start our life together with no stress or "what-ifs". And especially hoping no one dies anytime soon.</span></span></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-34170473064026419542010-06-21T10:29:00.000+10:002010-06-21T11:48:53.459+10:00Unfinished Business.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">We're moving. We set it in stone, bought the tickets, and it's full steam ahead. I had a major meltdown last night due to missing all the things I wrote about in my former blogs (My grandpa, cats, California, etc.) I mean straight up sobbing. My husband brought me a Xanax which helped. I had a couple of dreams last night which prompted me to write this blog in particular. The subject is something I have been thinking about for a while now because of my own demons. I would really love advice on whether I should try and "bury the hatchet" or "let sleeping dogs lie". I'll begin.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">When I was in junior high there was a new girl. I liked her, she was really shy but very friendly. It seemed like we would have stuff in common, so me and my then-BFF welcomed her and the three of us hung out around school and stuff. At the time, I didn't realize my BFF would eventually become a grade-A backstabbing bitch. Anyway, she would talk me into acting really cruel towards the new girl. My brain is foggy with the details, but I can remember that we really just weren't that nice to her (Think the movie "Mean Girls". It's true that all us girls do everything that is portrayed in that movie). Towards the end of the school year my BFF had stolen every boyfriend I had, and even lied to get a girl to try and beat me up. All the friends I had gained had shunned me and spread terrible rumors about me. I was terrified. I didn't want to go to school anymore. It felt like my life was over. Eventually someone new befriended me and she is one of my best friends to this day. She and her group of friends made me not afraid to come to school. By this time the new girl had made some of her own friends, and we became acquaintances. I promised myself never to be like that to anyone ever again, because I knew what comes around, goes around.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Fast forward three years later. I am in high school, and I just swallowed a handful of pills that landed me in the hospital on a "5150" (look it up). The reason I did this is because a month earlier my boyfriend, the love of my life, my </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">everything</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">, and I had broken up. He continued to come over and sleep with me, then leave faster than he could put his pants back on. I rationalized with myself that even if I couldn't have him fully I could at least keep him around by enticing him with sex (something I continued to do later in my adult years). One day he was supposed to come over, and I had talked my mom into making his favorite meal. I put a sundress on, got all dolled up, and waited for him to show up. And waited. He finally called me an hour late and told me it wasn't a good idea if we even hung out anymore. I was crushed. Numb. Devastated. The day we had broken up I had secretly hid a combination of pills in a jar that I knew would interact and a small bottle of water...just in case. Well, today proved to be that day. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">It took me an hour after ingestion to fall off my bed and let my parents know what I had done, and they rushed me to the hospital where they stuck a tube down my throat and pumped my stomach. I saw my mom watching through the little window in the door and it broke my heart. Since this was the third (!) suicide attempt they had to commit me involuntarily for 72 hours. The same week my ex was graduating from high school, I was in a psychiatric hospital. A close guy friend, who is still one of my best friends to this day as well, would call to check on me and I would always ask about my ex. He informed me that at his graduation party he hooked up with...new girl. By this time new girl wasn't just pretty she was stunning. She definitely grew into her looks. I was crushed, but I also gained the resolve to move on and not look back. When I got out I didn't hear from my ex for about two months. He and new girl were official, and I was busy preparing for my senior year. One day out of the blue, he called me to see how I was. He had told me he missed me and wanted to come over. I didn't want him to but, I admit, I missed him terribly and would do anything he asked. He came over and...we slept together. As soon as it was over, he told me he regretted coming over because he really liked new girl and said he wouldn't see me again. I wasn't hurt. I was </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">MAD</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">A week or so later I was ready to execute my plan. I called my ex and invited him over by using my feminine wiles. He was more than happy to oblige. He came over and we chit-chatted, talking about how hot this August day was. He started kissing me and one thing of course led to another. When it was over, he told me it was a mistake coming over, that he liked his girlfriend a lot blah blah blah. I told him okay, I understand, no problem. He started to leave and I shut my screen door and locked it. He said "see you around", and I said, "no, I don't think you will". I held up my tape recorder, rewound it, and pressed "Play".</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'd like to interject into this part of my story and tell you that until this day, I never had a mean, sadistic, vindictive bone in my body. If someone didn't like me (just like how I feel today), I would be devastated and would do anything to make them see I was a good person. I had gone through so much over my ex that I snapped. I wouldn't let him take advantage of me anymore. I wouldn't let myself be sucked in by his power and my love for him. I look back and have to tell you this incident was the only time in my life I a)constructed a great plan, but b)had the balls and hatred to actually do something this heinous. Most of my ex-employees would hear me after going back into the kitchen area say, "I am going to stab that bitch at table 54", but those are just words. I've never punched or slapped anyone. I've never spit in anyone's face. I don't have it in me. Except this day. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">My ex was furious. He threw a full soda can at the door and screamed at the top of his lungs every expletive in the book before he got in his car and sped away. I knew where he was headed, he was on his way to do damage control after I dropped the bomb on his girlfriend. Like I said, new girl and I were acquaintances by this time, so I had her telephone number. War always inflicts casualties, and unfortunately that was new girl. I called her up and before I could even get it out, I started to cry. This wasn't her fault. My intention was never to hurt her, I wanted my ex to feel as bad as he had made me feel. I apologized over and over again as I told her what had just conspired. She was devastated. She asked me to play the tape. I did. She hung up on me. I deserved it. That was the last time I would ever see her or hear from her again.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">They stayed together for only a couple of months after that, and without my ex I had the best summer and winter of my life. I was happy, I hung out with friends that I had set aside for my ex, got a new boyfriend that lived in San Diego (I would secretly ditch school and drive two hours to see him-best memories of my life), and was full of life. Six months later my ex called me and told me I was the best thing that ever happened to him, that he was so sorry for putting me through any pain, that he would do anything to get me back, and after a month of groveling I gave in and it really was amazing. Three months later I got pregnant, and the rest is history.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">The thing is, it eats away at me. Some of my best friends are her friends as well, and when I know she will be at an event I won't go. I'm too chicken. I would like to think that the past is behind her, but it's not. At a party my best guy friend was at (the one that would call me when I was in the psych ward), he ran into her and my ex talking. They are still friends after all these years. He said hi to her, and the subject of my son popped up. She called me a "loser", and a "terrible mom" because I don't see my son that often, that my ex has full custody of him. My friend, the wonderful guy that he is, tried to explain it wasn't like that, there are circumstances other than me just "not caring" (namely my bipolar), but she didn't buy it. If I was in her shoes I would hate me too. Venomously. Like wish her dead hate me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I've gone on to her Facebook. She's married now. She's beautiful, like oh my God you could be a model beautiful. That's all I know about her. I've wanted to talk to her for a while now, to tell her how sorry I am, to try and explain my side of the story, that she was just in the crossfire, but I can't bring myself to do it. I feel like now, saying goodbye to my friends and family before I live overseas, may be a good time to talk to her but I don't know if I'm ready to hear the reply. I don't want to dredge up old wounds for her. For all I know she could have completely forgotten the incident and I'm the stupid one who hasn't. I'm really conflicted. Just in case I never muster up the courage to do so, I'll do it here.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">New girl, I know that you probably think the absolute worst of me. I don't blame you if you saw my name and deleted this message before you even got a chance to read this. I've thought of you for a long time now. I know some of your friends are my friends and you may hear my name in passing. I know you still talk to my ex and hear the things he says about me regarding our son. I'm not writing to you to defend myself or change your mind about me. What I am here to do is to tell you how unbelievably sorry I am if I ever made you cry just one tear. What I did to you in high school with my ex, your boyfriend at the time, was unforgivable. It was not meant to punish you in any way. The only reason I did it was because I was selfish. I wanted you to know what a terrible person your boyfriend was and I wanted to hurt him in the worst way possible, which meant going through you. If you have forgotten about this, I'm sorry to have brought it up. I also know you have a very poor opinion of me regarding my son and our relationship. Due to his issues and my issues, it was better for him and everyone involved if he lived with my ex and not me. A lot of things happened during the years that cemented that. You can think what you want of me, I don't want to sway your opinion, but please know that I do love my son with all of my heart, and that's why I know he is better off without me. I don't expect a reply or forgiveness, I just wanted you to know my side of the story and apologize to you. Take care.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-6165783953945856742010-06-19T08:09:00.000+10:002010-06-19T09:47:08.466+10:00America! F*ck Yeah!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">So yesterday my husband and I made our final answer to go to Australia. It's funny because we were driving, and I burst into bitch baby tears. He says, "are those happy tears or sad tears?" and I said "both". Happy because we are entering a new leg into our marriage, and sad because well, this is my </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">home</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">. Up until five years ago, it's the only place I have ever known and cared about. I always daydreamed about moving to Australia, but I don't think the reality ever took over until now. Of course now I'm driving around going "I'll miss that. And this road! I'll miss this road. Look at the view! I'll miss that" etc. I decided to compile a list of what is awesome here, the stuff I will truly miss. Since I am a pessimist at heart, I'll post what makes me want to leave ASAP as well.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">The good:</span></span></u></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*My family-We are a solid bunch, and no one in my family lives more than 30 minutes away from the other. My brother and sister moved to our hometown as soon as they got married and settled down. The house my grandpa lives is the house he and my grandma bought when they got married in 1950. The biggest thing in my mind is my grandpa. I can talk to everyone through video chat on the computer, but he doesn't own one. And...he's almost 84. I want to think he's invincible, but ever since my grandma died I always have the thought in the back of my mind that he will die sooner rather than later. All I ever wanted was to be successful and know that he is proud of me. He has dug me out of so many holes. I know in my heart that when I say goodbye to him physically, it may be the last time, and that kills me. My son, my nieces and nephews-I will see them grow up through pictures. (P.S. Yes, I am leaving my son here. He belongs here, and he has a wonderful life and family without me that he has had since he was 3. One day I'll have the courage to write a blog about him, but not today.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*My friends-I always write that I am a terrible friend due to my depression, but they keep on chugging along with me. Everyone around me at the moment is popping out babies, and like my family, I will only see them grow up through pictures. I will make myself have the strength to say goodbye to everyone before we leave. I don't care if I'm fat, scared, self-conscious-I will find a way.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*My cats-Oh, this one breaks my heart. They don't have a computer. They can't call me. I won't know if they are taken care of, or separated, or dead. Yesterday I got an amazing break in the clouds because a family member said they will take them if we can't find a family for them. It lowered my stress by about 92%. But still, I will never have two cats as amazing as Sam and Portal. They really are our kids.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*The American system of weights and measures, and the language-I am five feet eight inches tall. My husband is one hundred and seventy eight centimeters. WTF? I can't even remember how many centimeters are in an inch. Who even uses centimeters? I say "it's half an inch" or something similar. And even though Australians speak English, it's very different. Lets use this American sentence as our example:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"I am headed to the neighborhood gas station for three gallons of gas and to check the air in my tires" becomes:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"I am headed to the neighbourhood petrol station for twelve litres of petrol and to check the air in my tyres".</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Tomato? Toe-maw-toe. Produce? Praw-juice. Theater? Theatre. Vomit? Vegemite.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*The food-New York Cheesecake, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I am aware that they actually have food in Australia, but no matter what my husband says, it does not hold a candle to the melting pot awesomeness of American cuisine. There's a reason bigger than stress and depression on why I am so fat. I'm not going to lie, there has been more than one time I have walked into the chinese food shop, gotten shrimp fried rice and cream cheese wontons, walked out, walked next door to the mexican chicken shop and picked up a rotisserie chicken, then walked next door to that for some Coldstone ice cream. Yeah. I can imagine sending a picture to my mom in six months and having her exclaim, "oh my gosh you've lost so much weight!" and me replying "I want to eat! The food here is </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">AWFUL!</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">". On that note:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*America has </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">everything</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">-For a minute I have to put on my better-than-you hat. Everything that other countries have we have x 1,000. Our landscape is vast and different in every nook and cranny. There is a reason why other countries' tired and poor, their huddled masses yearning to break free came to this place: it is the land of opportunity. It's also why we have the problem of illegal immigration, but still, after watching the "America" mini-series on the History Channel, I was ready to put on a "God bless the U.S.A." bumper sticker on my car. We.Kick.Ass.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*California-I am honored that I am a Cali girl, born and raised. I live in a place where the mountains and skiing are an hour away, the beach and surfing are an hour away, amusement parks are an hour away, wine country is an hour away, and foreign travel is two hours away. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*Las Vegas-Two words: </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">fuck yeah</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">. A four hour drive to decadence on the highest level. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*Big cities-Where my husband and I are moving to there are 7,000 people. My hometown that no one can find on a map and is tiny to me has 60,000. California alone has 1.5 times the number of people than the entire </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">country </span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">of Australia. I like freeways! I like having everything I need no more than twenty minutes in any direction!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*Freedom-No, not the "Home of the free" type, the "I am an adult and do what I want" kind. When we move we will be shacking up with my husband's parents for at least a while. Borrowing their car. Eating their food. Don't get me wrong, I love my in-laws! But I'm a night owl. I 'm bipolar. I have furniture and crap that I have to sell that I have had for years. Everything is going to be back at square one. It's kind of exciting because then my husband and I can buy things together as opposed to him just moving over here and what's mine is his.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*Television-Yes, Australia has T.V. But I don't know if they have my shows! Is The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air on in the middle of the night? My husband never seen Three's Company until he moved here. Television is a small routine, but it's something that I've gotten used to. House. Mad Men. Grey's Anatomy. Intervention. Desperate Housewives. Meh, I'll just buy the DVD's lol.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*Concerts-any band, no matter how small, plays a show in Los Angeles. World-famous bands may come to Australia every few years, and even then it's in cities like Brisbane, which is 14 hours from where we will be living.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*Starbucks-Also 14 hours away from where we will be living. To all my friends, any time you get a caramel macchiato, you need to pour a little on the curb and say, "this is for my homie Hed".</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">The bad:</span></span></u></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*The government-I know the same thing happens in all countries, and we're not as bad as some who have complete dictatorship, but our government is so selfish and corrupt. What benefits them and their pocketbooks matter the most. They have no intentions of trying to pull our more-polarized-by-the-minute country together. There is so much mudslinging covering America that we are sinking in it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*Health care-I have to pay over $200 for nine migraine pills. My best friend broke his leg from a hit-and-run and it bankrupted him. Our people (mostly) work to bring in taxes and keep commerce flowing. If our government turns a blind eye to a fallen American, what's going to happen when our strongest workers all become unworkable?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*Religion-God? He's a cool guy. I think he lets you be who you are and as long as you choose a good path he's supportive. So it pisses me off royally that the bible-belt, religious-right is just sucking the life out of everything in this country! Our forefathers came to this country to be freed of religious persecution. Our constitution and our money talks about "God", not a Christian God or a Muslim God or a Buddha God, but </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">GOD</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">. Stop cramming your beliefs down my throat, and stop blaming every freaking thing that goes wrong in this country on the lack of God. On that subject:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*Ignorance-we are so bubbled in here. It's so bad. Our school systems are some of the lowest in the world, yet we are one of the foremost first-world countries. So many Americans have their mentality set on "if it doesn't affect me, then I don't care". People don't vote, whereas other countries make you (I don't know if that's good either, because face it, lots of people everywhere are ignorant!). My nephews couldn't find Australia on a map. I don't expect all Americans to have a "Jeopardy"-like memory about everything, but opening their eyes would be a good start.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">*Guns-Yes, I am scared of guns. Just recently there was a news segment about shootings on one of my local freeways. People sit up in the hills with a rifle and randomly shoot at cars. WTF? School shootings are on the rise. "Guns don't kill people; people kill people"-sure, but it's a hell of a lot easier with a gun in your hand!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">So yeah, its six one way, half a dozen in the other. My husband simplified it for me and said, "wherever you are is my home". Aww. I just hope that our new home is the right decision.</span></span></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-29972474778225428332010-06-17T09:19:00.001+10:002010-06-17T10:29:03.085+10:00F*ck This!<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></u></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:georgia;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"I spent my entire 20's being overweight, and I'm tired (literally!) My goal is to be healthier by my 30th birthday (September)."</span></span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:georgia;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:georgia;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Oqtj05u2krU/TBlqMT4B-nI/AAAAAAAAAEw/4OJnJHfrQJQ/s400/Weight+Chart.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 187px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483530781026548338" /></span></span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:georgia;"><b></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">(my weight graph, Oct 09-June 10)</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">This is the quote that greets me on my diet tracker web site. I joined it October 1, 2009. That was just before what we can call "Hed's Great Depression" that </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">occurred the next month. I actually did well. I joined a gym (and went!), tracked everything I put in my mouth, and focused on healthy items that would fill me up instead of give me a quick burst then drop me. At the time I had just started working at Starbucks, where I could drink my glorious caramel macchiatos every day if I wanted to. When we would sample pastries I would have a sample bite without going ape-shit and eating an entire piece. I miss working around coffee sometimes, because seriously, the anorexic models were onto something! I get coffee right before I start grocery shopping, and all (okay, most) impulse buys are gone. Now we are dirt poor and usually scramble to eat what we can. I've been so depressed lately that spending an hour in the grocery store planning meals is the last thing on my mind. I want to run to Del Taco, get food, and go home. Two things yesterday made me look at myself, my situation, my fat, and see there has to be a change.</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">My husband and I went to the local drugstore to get updated passport pictures-I had to change my married name and they needed new pictures since mine were from 2005. I had done my make-up and hair, which I haven't done lately unless we are really going somewhere I would be uncomfortable without make-up on, like dinner with the family. And I love make-up, so not wearing it should show you just how crappy I've felt lately. Anyway, I look straight at the camera and it's done. We walk around the store while they are getting processed, and I overhear a clerk asking another clerk, "do we have any wheelchairs?" I brush it off and wait for the photos to finish. I look at them and oh.my.God. These aren't my pictures. That's not me. This person has this face with no structure and is a fat blob. She has a bowl haircut and the color is dirty brown. Her make up looks terrible. Never have I taken a picture of myself and have truly been shocked at how I must look to others. The guy asked me if I wanted to redo them, and I sheepishly said no. I thought, <i>no camera in the world could cure my ugly, so why bother</i>. They were awful, not self-conscious girl-type awful, but awful like I wanted to soak the pictures in gasoline and light them on fire awful.</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">We walk the 20 steps from the photo booth to the cash register, and J forgets to pick up soda, so he runs to get some and I wait in line. A lady slowly passes me with a cart of only three things; what looked like gauze, ointment, and something else. She had to be twice my size. She was a big woman. And she was </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">exhausted</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">. She was breathing like she just ran a sprint, was all sweaty, and started hunching over the empty cart like it was a cane. I didn't want to be a hypocrite by looking at her because I hate when others do that to me, but it was a wake-up call. I'm tired when I walk up the stairs to my apartment. I see the sad beginning of cankles. I gasp for breath when I fall asleep. When she got to the cashier, she kindly asked the clerk why they didn't have wheelchairs or motorized carts, and I realized the clerk in the back of the store I had passed was asking for one for her. She walked in the store, went through one aisle, walked back to the front of the store and she needed a freaking wheelchair. I don't want a wheelchair someday. Unless I break my leg, I'll walk, thank you. I felt sorry for her, and I hate that I did, because she was once my size and nothing stopped her from getting larger. I saw myself in five years in her.</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">There are always articles I read about obesity, and the comments are shocking. Some say "they should be able to control themselves, they are disgusting, vile people". Others make fun of fat people lightly, and even more say they should "do themselves a favor and kill themselves". I don't want to be made fun of. I don't want people to snicker at me. I am so aware of my movements, how my clothes are fitting, my facial expressions, how I talk etc. when I am around strangers. Just like with everything else I want them to only see me as a nice, kind person. I don't want them to know I hate myself. I don't want their pity. I want their approval. And obese people are unacceptable in the minds of many. </span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">My home is my comfort zone. I can do what I want there with no prying eyes. I sometimes even have to ask my husband to leave the room if I'm getting dressed or feeling miserable. The thought of moving to a new country is terrifying. My main thought is if I'm out and about, the minute I open my mouth someone will think, "heh, a typical FAT American" and automatically dismiss me. I think the ratio of me thinking about what people think of me versus me thinking of me is 95/5. I'm so sick of it. It all boils down to all the stresses in my life and what I can do to change them.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm no good about taking care of myself. I do what is the easiest and what is the path of least resistance. In any avenue of life when I hit a wall, instead of climbing it or breaking it down, I just run the other way. I have to get out of this pattern, or I will die. Die from either something weight related, or something depression related. (I've always pictured my death as driving on a freeway overpass trying to eat a cheeseburger and *BAM* fall off the bridge. Seriously.) I didn't plan on waking up this morning and saying to myself </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"okay, today is the day!"</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">, I just </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">did it</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">. I'm not going to be excessively detailed this time. I'm going to go with the flow. No power scooters in my future. No more back pain from walking from a parking lot to an office building. I' done. I'm DONE. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-70534001822257678992010-06-16T06:22:00.000+10:002010-06-16T07:44:50.117+10:00What's your definition of "fat"?<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">First off, I'd like to share with my readers that I am typing this naked in the middle of the day. Because my brain never turns off, my mind wandered to the look of my own body while I was in the shower so I sat at my computer in my towel and started to write. In the shower, I came to this conclusion: I think there is an invisible weight limit for each individual where you cross the line from-</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"skinny" to "trim"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"trim" to "healthy"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"healthy" to "curvy"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"curvy" to, gosh, there's so many, "plump", "chubby", "chunky", etc.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"chubby" to "fat"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"fat" to "really fat"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">and finally, "really fat" to "I can't lift my legs out of bed fat"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I am the second to last one. Really. I'm not some tabloid mag that shows Beyonce with jiggle and proclaims "FAT!!!", I'm the one you would say to a friend, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"I can't believe she got so big!" or "she always had such a pretty face". I do have a pretty face, damn it, it's just hard to see the actual shape of it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'll lay out the grim, uncomfortable details: my thighs don't just touch, they stick together. I'm starting to get stretch marks on my knees. My knees! The stretch marks I was blessed with when having my son have actually risen upward and backward. That horrible back fat near the bra area some of us are plagued with? Mine actually rests on my lower back fat. My ears are fat. (No, not really, I just wanted to break the gross visuals with some comic relief.) It's hard to lift up my body, like when you pull the blankets out from under you when you are lying down. I walked the other day to our mailbox and by the time I </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">got back my back was aching. The worst part about my fat is that I got passed down an apple shape via my grandmother. I'm all stomach. My ex said I was "shaped like a boy", because I carry all of my weight in my middle, as opposed to actually hot fat girls who have boobs and booty. I'm still a C cup. I used to have to buy jeans that were tight up top but baggy everywhere else because I didn't have big legs. Now I wear track pants, which is ironic because I've never been to a track in my life. My feet are fat. I wear slip-on because tennis shoes are too tight.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">By the way, I'm not writing this for you to feel sorry for me. I heaped this on myself. Mr. McDonald and the Colonel and Jack were merely accomplices. The thing is, I want to be invisible. I want to walk somewhere out in the open and not have one person lay eyes on me. When I am in the grocery store, I make my husband go with me because I can make him be the culprit if we put Oreos in the basket. People may look at him and pay no mind, but I feel like if I grab cookies, people are like, "doesn't she </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">know</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> how she looks?" I only go through drive-through, because you are anonymous and people can assume all that food you are buying is for a family of six waiting for you at home. I feel instantly guilty whenever I say "and one Reeses McFlurry". I refuse to eat a hot fry or take a sip from my milkshake in the car while waiting for more food. Even one fry in public means I am a fat, lazy cow who belongs in Wal-Mart on a Jazzy scooter. Of course this is the main thing we talk about in therapy, because my outside is what I convey to others. I can be whomever I want on the inside to anyone, because that is what I do. I can't hide my outside. I can only hide inside-I mean, in my house, away from any eyes.</span></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> When I was younger, 130 pounds was fat. See how fat I was?</span></span></div><div><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Oqtj05u2krU/TBfuzqapsmI/AAAAAAAAADg/2VMhuTZtmaM/s320/hed.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483113642673680994" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">(Face covered to protect the innocent fat people. Namely me.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> I wanted to slap my 90 pound friends when they said </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">they</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> were fat. Where??? I used to work in a plus-size clothing store, and I loved it, even though I was a size 12-14. So many insecure girls would walk in and it was like the store was a safe haven. It screamed "look at everyone around you! You are not alone!!!" I wasn't the smallest girl that worked there and I wasn't the largest. Other than my stomach, I was okay with my body. I still had food issues back then though. I would try and hide the food I would eat when I had to leave the store on lunch and go to the food court. Us big girls always had plenty of snacks to go around, and I would make sure I would only eat either in private or when another girl was eating the same thing. After that job I started in the restaurant business, and as a manager I got all my food for free. For free. I would buy the massive desserts all the time because I knew that my servers would offer to split it or I could half it right away so I wouldn't seem like a fat pig. That way, instead of them looking at me eating, it would be like a reward for them and take the emphasis off myself. Fried foods were a daily indulgence. The cooks were so awesome, and I could ask them to make special stuff with the ingredients they had that weren't on the menu, like patty melts or crunchy fish tacos. Even after a ten-hour shift, I would still pick up fast food on the way home. It's like it was never enough.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I've tried to rationalize to myself that overeating is self-destruction, so it wouldn't be a big deal if I became bulimic or started to starve myself. Bulimia is out-I can't believe some people get a high after they puke, I feel awful and shaky and just want to lie down. And starving myself? Fat chance (pardon the pun). If I don't eat after eight hours *BAM* instant migraine. If I block out foods they become all I think about. If I only drink liquids I crave solids. I can't take ephedra or fat-burning supplements because of my medications and my somewhat bum ticker. I don't know what is scarier: walking into a public gym or being in the same room with a cockroach. They are both paralyzing.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm not gonna lie: I want the surgery. I want something that forcibly says, "you want that slice of cheesecake? Oh hell no! *Puke*". I know the drill people. I can't expect to succeed even with surgery if I don't change my routine and eating habits. When I buy a candy bar, I tell myself, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"just today. Tomorrow I will cut out a sugar item"</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">. Then I eat another candy bar. It sucks. I have an addiction. It's not like crack, where you can learn how to recover from the dependency. You have to eat to live. And I live to eat.</span></span></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-48093147338598281232010-06-14T20:59:00.000+10:002010-06-14T22:16:47.446+10:00There's no "I" in "We".<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I think I write my best blogs when I'm alone. Most of my ideas spring up when I just dropped my husband off at work. I get to actually be in solitude in my car, listening to whatever song I want, and my brain starts to get off of auto-pilot. I'll sit down at my computer and start typing out my stream-of-consciousness writing and by the time I'm done, I have to go pick J right back up (that makes it sound like my blogs take like nine hours to type; he works four hour shifts). I'm typing this at 4a.m. with my husband next to me playing Pokemon of all video games (funny observation: Pokemon is in the dictionary because when I typed it out, the red line under it didn't show up as a misspell or an unknown word. Huh.). We have been having heart-to hearts all week relating to our upcoming "Decision 2010" move to Australia. We also have fought more than we ever have before this week, and also got to go back to how we operate individually instead of as a unit. Let me elaborate further...</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">One of my first long-term relationships was with the sweetest guy in the whole world. We would spend hours laying on the grass near his house, content with the fact that the two of us were together. A rift came regarding our relationship, and we had to choose each other or family that wanted us apart. We, of course, chose each other because we couldn't imagine not being together. We started off well, functioning as a unit. I had been at my job for awhile, and I had already accumulated my own bills and routines as an adult. In the beginning he was a beacon of light, working at a low-pay job and helping out around the house and being there for my emotional outbursts. Then he had gotten fired for something he swore he didn't do, and, of course, I believed him. We fell behind on bills, but it was okay because we loved each other enough to survive any hardships we came across. Since all of the bills were in my name, when we got too far behind I was the one who had to file for bankruptcy. Seven to ten years of rebuilding credit was okay because we were together and we would make it through. My boyfriend seemed to get fired from every single job he had, and there would always be a reason (always </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">their</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> fault, not his). I started to get sick on a regular basis, so I went to a doctor that put me on temporary disability so we could figure out my stomach ailments. After a bit my boyfriend would be M.I.A, coming back home in the middle of the night reeking of pot. He wasn't supposed to be driving my car, but he would ask and I would tell him just to make sure he was home by a certain time with it. He never was. After a year of going to the doctor every couple of weeks, they told me my stomach problems were all stress-related. One day I just literally woke up and told him, "I'm done", and never looked back.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Love is a drug. Doctors have proven it triggers the same brain areas of cocaine. I can still look back and remember how happy and carefree I was lying with him in the field, that no one else on Earth mattered except he and I. Once the drug effect wears off, that's when you're confronted with the cold, hard facts of your significant other that you may have denied looking at or accepting that they could possibly be flawed. I still happen to think my husband is perfect, but this week has really tested my limits on the subject of love.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Being a unit, an "us", is a HUGE undertaking, especially if you have different opinions on a subject. When you get married, even small things become a big deal (I hate that he leaves his wet towel on the bed after he takes a shower; he hates that I never replace the toilet paper roll). When we first fell in love, our journey involved a massive game plan, considering we lived on opposite sides of the planet. Our love got us through, and we were able to come together and live happily ever after. Right? Well, yeah, up until this week for the most part. Our biggest decision has been where we are going to get dinner from that night. We rarely argue, which is odd because I can have a temper and usually sulk if things don't go my way (I'm the baby of my family). We are both non-confrontational, so when we do fight, we make up usually like an hour later. The first big life decision we had was getting married and country-hopping, and we were so infatuated with one another and knew that everything was going to be alright because we would be together. This time around I want to strangle him!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Australia's motto must be "no worries, mate", because if my husband saw a car burst into flames in front of him he would be like, "did you see that! Wow". He's so laid-back. Not only am I a Virgo, but have been a manager almost all of my adult life. I'm built to set-up plans and lay things out on the table. When the offer to move to Australia came up, I instantly got a piece of paper and started listing the main concerns we would have to deal with, like bills and visas and our cats. By the third day, I found out what my car was worth, what visa I would have to get, how to update my passport, and the best way to ship boxes. He's been sitting on the computer upgrading his Poke people (I know nothing about Pokemon). I'm asking him questions about Australia like, "do they have Excedrin in Australia? What about soy milk?", and he says "I have to wait for later on to finish playing Pokemon because the one I need only comes out at night". I'm figuring out our budget and international banking, telling J the cheapest time to fly is in August, and he's playing </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">POKEMON</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">. I'm starting to get a stomach ache.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">By the middle of the week I popped my top. I was asking him about setting an actual date so I could be more aware of when I should start giving 30-day notices and letting friends and family know, and he tells me, "let's just see how it goes, okay? Let's wait and see if maybe your disability gets extended another month, that way maybe by next month I'll get a part-time job, and then maybe I could still try for a full-time job. Let's wait until we have exhausted all of our options here". Oh my God, cue the steam coming out of my ears. I start screaming at him that I'm not going to screw up my seven-years-in-the making credit and getting evicted because we took a "wait and see" attitude. I told him I don't need him, that I can do this all without him, and if he's not going to "man up" and start weighing the pros and cons of this decision, then he can GTFO. Once the psycho-bitch smoke cleared out of the room, we were able to talk rationally.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">We still are giving it seven days until we make a solid choice, but every minute that passes I'm unbelievably stressed out. J has been much more helpful (he probably doesn't want a chair thrown at him), but I can't do anything until </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">we </span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">decide. We. I've never felt more married than I have this week. I read a quote once that said something along the lines of, "love is the residue left over when the effects of being in love have washed away". So I've sobered up, kicked the in-love addiction. I'm in it for the long haul. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-33377801257145967452010-06-13T12:58:00.000+10:002010-06-13T16:22:10.862+10:00G'Day Mate? or "Will Whore for Australia", part 2.<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">(This is a continuation of my previous blog because my previous blog was not what this blog was supposed to be about! Damn it!)</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">After 6 arduous months of being apart, J's visa was approved and he moved here three weeks later. No muss, no fuss. I ended up supplementing bits and pieces of what he left at home, like extra clothes, DVD's, his computer, etc. During our long-distance talks I would grill him about leaving everything he's ever known behind. Would he resent me? Would he miss his pets? What if a friend or family member died? How do your parents feel? He answered, in his laid-back tone, that:</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">No, I wouldn't resent you, you're my family;</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">My pets will still be taken care of and we could get more pets later;</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">We'll have to cross that bridge when we get to it;</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">My parents want me to be happy, even if that means far far away.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">(By the way, if turned around, my answers would probably be:</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I may resent you! What if it doesn't work out? Then I'm stuck here?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">We are taking our cats with us, or no dice;</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Omgomgomg the minute I leave someone will die and I won't be able to say goodbye and I will cry and never forgive myself and omgomgomg;</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">My mom asked me, "What if I die and you're over there?")</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">After twenty months of us both living (and struggling) in America, we now have an option to move to Australia. The country I was born to live in! Let's go! A part of me is 100% gung-ho. Leave this smog-ridden, overzealous religious, politically polarized, horrible school system, illegal immigrant-laden country? Where's my ticket? J and I always planned on living over there in the long run anyway, who cares if it's a few years early? We said if we ever had children it would definitely be in Australia (the kids there wear "Harry Potter" type school uniforms! My kid would call me "mum"!). It seems, on the surface, so easy. Yes, it would be a pain to sell my car and break my apartment lease and transfer credit cards, but it is doable. Yeah I would miss my friends and family but it's not like I'm going overseas alone; plus international communication is so easy nowadays. But, the more I prepare and research the move, the more I realize how much in America I take for granted.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">First off, the only thing I think about leaving that makes me burst into tears is the loss of my cats. (Crap, now I'm crying while writing.) You're allowed to move animals to Australia, but not after a minimum 6-month quarantine for rabies and other U.S diseases they may have, and every day your cat is quarantined is $30AU. Times two for both cats. And flying them both on a plane. We are talking probably around $1500. We can't even afford groceries! I am seriously considering writing Oprah a heartfelt letter. Seriously. (Ooh, then being on her show and she's like, "not only are your cats COMING WITH YOU but you are ALL being flown FIRST CLASS! YEAH!" *applause and tears*) I plan on selling everything not nailed down, and I'm still debating using that money for the cats instead, oh, I don't know, a savings account for beginning our lives in Australia?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Yeah, I'm selling everything that's not nailed down. I have four piles: Yard sale pile, Ebay pile, Storage in US pile, and Coming with me pile. Every single item I own I have to look at and say, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"do I really need this?"</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> Pictures. Snow globes. Art supplies. Gifts. Clothes. Anyone who knows me knows I am completely obsessed with Paul Frank. Over the course of 10+ years I have collected hundreds and hundreds of stuff with Julius branded on it. My oath to God is I will never get rid of any of it, ever. I still have Paul Frank purses from the '90s with broken straps. Now I'm making a list on what I will Ebay. Pure blasphemy! Oh, and electronics? My $100 flat iron, hair dryer, ipod alarm clock, DVD player, "A Christmas Story" leg lamp? </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">THE PLUGS DON'T WORK IN AUSTRALIA.</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> Yard sale. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Other than my cats, my biggest American sacrifice is all the food I am leaving behind. Come on, I'm obese for a reason. Yeah, they have ice cream, but not Haagen-Dazs. I'm going through Reeses Peanut Butter Cup withdrawal. Mexican food in Australia is a can of refried beans and ground beef in a taco shell. I'll be closer than ever to China, but furthest away from Panda Express. Australia's bacon is like an abomination from God. Starbucks. No Starbucks! I am so fat I am writing an actual list of food items down to send to my in-laws to see if markets carry the items. Oh, and J swears up and down my horrible salmonella poisoning I got three days after coming back from Australia has nothing to do with the food in his country. It was just a coincidence! (Isn't it awful I'm actually thinking, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"at least I lost weight that week"</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">?)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I love my friends and family, but I rarely see them due to my depression. Maybe I'm in denial, but I know I won't be homesick for them. I will probably talk to them as much over there as I do over here. Plus, they will all have a vacation home in Australia, right? The one big blow, though, is my grandfather. My grandmother passed away four years ago, and I'm still not over it. To think that my grandfather may die and I won't be there is heart wrenching. To think that when I say goodbye to him in America, that will be my last contact with him. (Okay giant tears and sobbing. Give me a minute.) I haven't custody of my son for nine years, and as he's grown, we have grown further apart. It's a long story, but I know he is better off without me. That's not to say I won't miss him-I just know he will be okay with his father. It's funny, my mother was diagnosed with Melanoma last year and is now in remission, and I'm not worried about not seeing her again. She's got superhuman strength. She'll be fine, with or without me. I'll just have to come back to see her, as she really does swear she won't fly over the ocean ever. (I tell her, "that's what Xanax was created for!" Best know that I will be on about twelve of those bad boys on my flight. I hate flying. Haven't you seen "La Bamba"?)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Lastly, Australia is a whole other culture. Yeah, we're both descended from the English, but Aussie descendants were raised to loathe pompous, bloated, stupid, ignorant "Yankees". I'm terrified that I will be judged or looked at differently because of my accent. Trust me, getting attention is the last thing I want. What if I can't get a job because I'm American? What if I can't make any friends? My husband assures me that Australians hating Americans is a stereotype, but even </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> hate the stereotypical American! Plus, I can't fake an Australian accent to save my life. It always ends up sounding British.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">So, to all my American friends: Expand your horizons, but don't forget how much we have in the United States. (Except Universal Healthcare, thank you Uncle Sam.) J and I have eight more days to make a final, set in stone decision about our future, so I'm completely stressed out. I'm going to go eat a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup dipped in Haagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream now.</span></span></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-19274337481826998172010-06-13T11:17:00.000+10:002010-06-14T22:17:01.127+10:00G'Day Mate? or "Will Whore for Australia", part 1.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I was born to live in Australia. Okay well, that's not </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">entirely</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> true. Until 2004, I was living in the happy bubble we call the United States. I didn't care if the people in Rwanda were dying-what the hell does that have to do with me? I never bothered to vote because, to be honest, I would listen to the news or TV commercials and decide who I wanted as president based on the facts they laid out in 30-second increments. Then I'd just forget to vote that day. (I almost voted for Bush. I ALMOST VOTED FOR BUSH!!!) I became closer, in the biblical sense, to my male best friend and hung on his every word. He talked logically and rationally about current events, politics, the environment, religion, etc. Most of the time I'll admit I turned on the happy music in my brain to tune him out when he started to go on and on about something like gun control, but he helped open my eyes a little bit when it came to "real" news. My news was Angelina Jolie adopting Maddox or a celebrity dying. One day it dawned on me that I wanted something more from my best friend then a friend, and laid it out for him and spoke from the heart on why we would be a great match. His response? "You're not girlfriend material". </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">You're not girlfriend material. </span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">That sentence has forever been branded into my head. I asked him why, and he compared me to his ex: She had a bookcase full of books, she was an English major at a University, she cared about what was going on in the world. Hopefully you have at least read <u>one</u> of my blogs to know I like to mold myself into whatever shape the other person needs me to be, so I tried to become everything he told me I wasn't. At the doctor's office, I picked up Newsweek instead of Entertainment Weekly. I subscribed to MSNBC news feeds on my computer. I volunteered to be an election officer at the 2004 elections. Something funny along the way happened: I actually </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">liked </span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">news. I liked knowing about global warming. I liked being able to have an opinion about Republicans vs. Democrats. And I know in my heart the guy I was doing this all for liked me more because I cared about what he liked. I'm still annoyed he refused to watch "America's Next Top Model" with me, though.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Damn it, this was supposed to be a blog about Australia! Let me get back to that (damn my ADD!). During the time I was trying to be Ms. Perfect-to-Him, I met a guy online that lived in Melbourne, Australia. At the time we would just chit-chat about video games and he would rib me for being American, and I would drool over his accent. I didn't know much at all about Australia, let's see: Koala Bears, Vegemite, Kangaroos, Shrimp on the Barbie, Sydney Opera House, Heath Ledger, G'Day Mate, and the stupid "u" they added to all their words. The guy, by the way, wasn't my type at all; I have a 5-year boyfriend age limit up or down, and he was older than my brother (9 years). He smoked pot. Listened to death metal. But he was a good guy, and he liked me, which automatically got me interested in him. He was the first guy to ever send me roses (at my work no less! Women, you know when other girls fawn and hate you for flowers, it's the best feeling in the world!), and at that point I was all-in. He offered to fly me over, and I was able to get a week off of work. My poor mom was terrified: What if he is an axe-murderer? What if the plane crashes? What if you die, we can't afford to ship your corpse over! Thanks, mom. I had never taken a chance, so I held my breath and crossed the Pacific.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I fell in love the minute I landed. To the country, unfortunately, not the guy. Melbourne was so... contemporary! People on cafe sidewalks drinking espresso (2005 was </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">long </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">before my coffee addiction), a tram that carried you around the city, art galleries. We made spaghetti one night and didn't go to a supermarket: we went to the butcher, the produce stand, the bakery, the mom and pop shop for noodles. One other giant difference, though, was that their "world news" really was <b>World News</b>, not "how this world event affected America" world news. They were very aware that there were, in fact, other countries/wars/people/events out there other than only their countries struggles. I would sit and muse that I would just stay here and not take the return flight back. I could always get my clothes and things shipped, right? Well, reality set in. Where would I live? What about my job at home? What about friend/boyfriend in America? I took the flight home and cried and cried on the plane. I would never be back to Australia. I'm incapable of saving that much money for a trip. Ever.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">When I got home, I would yearn and cry over my dream country. I realized how closed-minded and exceptional a lot of Americans thought they were. I would read blogs online how every other country was inferior to the United States, and how no one would ever be better than us. I joined a video game circle where everyone was Australian (but me), and I loved it. I fit in. I would ask them questions about Australia, they would rib me for being American. In late 2007 I started talking to an old friend from the circle and he ended up being my husband a year later. Hmmm...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I ended the previous paragraph early. I re-read my story and can only assume the title of this blog should be "Will Whore for Australia" or "I Caught Another Aussie!", or something to that effect. It reads like I was waiting to spring my claws into some poor mate and ride his coattails into the land Down Under. I have to admit, there is nothing sexier than an Australian accent (I'm still privy to English or South African as well). The reason I started talking to my now-husband (J) is because around Summer of '07, I was in a hole. Not like the hole I am in present-day, but everything fell apart around me and I was sitting around thinking, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"who am I?"</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> I never talked in online chats, but I did give my e-mail to J who had quit the video game circle. I remember him as always being friendly, courteous, and really funny. Anyway, one day J popped online and I vented to him about all the things that were going wrong and he listened. The end. Three or so months later he saw me online and said hi, and asked me about all the things I had vented to him about in the summer. I thought that pretty decent of him to remember and genuinely care, so I decided to continue to talk to him online. J could have very well been a little-brother type, honestly: He was five years younger than me, lived at home in a town of 8,000, and had very little real-life experience. We started talking via voice and although his accent was very Outback/Crocodile Dundee (Melbourne guy's accent was so...contemporary! Like he drank out of a brandy snifter and had eaten caviar before), he was incredibly funny and kind. I would talk and talk and talk and he would listen and remember little details. One night, I was bitching about my new cell phone not working and he Googled it for me and walked me through the set-up like a sweet Indian tech support would. At that moment I told him, "this is going to sound cheesy, but I just developed a crush on you". He told me he felt the same way. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">The level of communication we shared was the deepest I had ever shared with someone, perhaps even more so with my best friend. By the time my best friend became "kind of boyfriend", I didn't talk to him as much about fears and stress because I wanted him to see me as perfect so we could one day live happily ever after. The way I saw it, my best friend loved me for who he thought I could one day be; J loved me for who I <b>am</b>. J never judged me, and his wisdom was that of a man much older than 22. I was working at my brand new restaurant job and every day I would come home and look forward to telling him about my day. Around Christmastime, we started talking about visiting one another one day. Australians happen to have awesome vacation benefits (thanks for my one week a year Uncle Sam), so we decided since I had been to Australia before, he would come visit me in the States. (So to everyone reading that thinks of me as an Australia slut, I gave up a chance at spending a week in Australia!)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">As soon as he landed I fell in love. With the guy fortunately, not his country. He was what I expected. No doubts, no lies or fallacies, just J. We had an amazing holiday all over California (FYI-if you EVER go to Las Vegas, go on St. Patrick's Day. Best.Vegas.Trip.EVER!). It took him nine days to ask me to marry him, and nine seconds for me to accept. We immediately started discussing our trans-continental relationship. We decided since my job/assets/established life was better than how his was in Australia, J would move to the States. (So to everyone reading that thinks of me as an Australia slut, I gave up a chance at LIVING in Australia!)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Damn it, this blog was about MOVING to Australia, not my Australi-an! I'm going to make a "Part 2" of this blog, so keep reading (Damn my ADD!)...</span></span></div><div><br /></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-46267744603994317452010-06-10T12:28:00.000+10:002010-06-14T22:17:09.795+10:00Is the grass always greener?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I happen to be married to someone who has the best accent in the world. With me being a shut in and he being a video game nerd, we found each other over the vastness of the world wide web. Once we met and knew our relationship was a done deal, we had to make the big choice of living in America, the land of opportunity, or Down Under, the land of snakes and vegemite and the best accents in the world. I had wanted to live in Australia since 2005, when I was lucky enough to spend a week in Melbourne (best.city.ever!) and was immediately smitten. We listed the pros and cons of either country, and America won out due to my job as a restaurant manager and my life experience. Don't get me wrong, my husband isn't a child, but he is five years younger than me and comes from a town of around 10,000. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">We got married in America, and all was right with the world. For about a month. After that, anxiety and depression slowly crept in and eventually tore my world down. We have been getting by on his part-time job and my disability checks, but just barely. Also, my checks run out in about five months at the most, and I don't see myself working as a manager anytime soon with my social anxieties at an all-time high. The end has been looming around us for awhile now, and we have been trying to figure out what we are going to do very, very soon. In the midst of all of our worrying came a break in the clouds: My husband's parents offered to move us to Australia and live with them until we get situated *cue the "Hallelujah!" song*. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I don't know about most people with depression, but I tend to run. All the time. Having a hard time at a job? Quit and get another one. Bad boyfriend? Quit and get another one. No consequences. You start fresh with a clean slate each time, and when the going gets tough, run. I had to look at myself in the mirror before I got married and tell myself that marriage is a run-free zone, and even at my last job I stuck it out because the good outweighed the bad. Now we are given a choice: stay where we are and suffer, maybe fail, or move to a land of milk and honey and start fresh with a clean slate. Where's my luggage again?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Of course, whenever I am faced with a big decision, I call on Jesu...no wait, I call on my best friend S. He sees me as transparent. I can't hide my true, bare self from him, and even if I tried he would see the real me anyway. So I call S, and tell him about my options. He tells me everything that I have tried to keep locked away in a box in the back of my brain: You're running away from your problems, what if your depression is just as bad there as it is here, do you want your husband's parents to live with the you that you are now, etc. He always makes sense out of everything. It's almost like he lays an outline down of an idea and we work on it together. Of course this drives my husband crazy, as he doesn't understand the bond I share with my best friend. Sometimes you need someone out of the box to look in with an objective point of view, you know? Everything he says make sense, and of course I fall into more despair because I am secretly convinced that no matter where I live I am going to be miserable. My brain will always be my brain even if I lived on the moon.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">So now I have to get out of bed and really figure out my life. And it's not just </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">my </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">life anymore, I have a better half I have to consider. Moving to another country is a HUGE undertaking. It's not just BAM! plane ride g'day mate, it's selling my assets. Figuring out what to sell and what to keep (I'm a girl! I have knick knacks from third grade I can't bear to part with!), and then figuring out what to store in the U.S. and what to ship over. What about my cats? They are my children. What about my </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">actual</span></b></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> </span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">child? He would be staying in America, obviously, but what if something happens to him? Could I afford to come back? And my family? My friends? A lot of these thoughts I have to cancel out, as my husband left his friends and his family when he chose to move here. His grandfather passed away just last month and he couldn't be there. Will there be resentment if the same happens to my grandfather? *knocks on wood* I'm not too concerned with leaving my friends and family because I rarely see them now anyway due to my social anxiety, and there is this wonderful invention called the Internet. In Australia I will have to rely on my husband to take care of me. They drive on the left. They use the metric system and add "u" to all of their words, like colour and neighbour. They don't have Mexican food. Or In-N-Out. OR IN-N-OUT!!! But...they do have a universal health care system and they take care of their own people, and their economy isn't in a hole like ours. Lastly, there's that part of me that cares so much about what other people think of me. I would be living in Australia. Here's what I am imagining in my head:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Jane: "so, what's new with you, Hed?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Me: "oh, I moved to Australia last month."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Jane:"no way! I'm so jealous! I'm stuck here in CALIFORNIA."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Forget the fact that I'm severely depressed, 100 pounds overweight and poor, I am living in Australia. That's the first thing people will see. I even think of it as a plus for my family, like when a friend or co-worker of theirs ask about me, they can say something decent about me like, "she moved last year with her husband to Australia", as opposed to, "oh Hed? Yeah, she's doing okay". That fact alone is making me scramble to get a plane ticket. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">So what am I to do? Live here and pray my depression will go away and we will eventually prosper here? Or live there and pray my depression will go away and we will eventually prosper there? This truly is a win-win or a lose-lose situation no matter how you flip the coin. If I could choose anything, I would choose to live. Happy. I don't care where that would take me.</span></span></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-89413501087797621232010-06-06T12:25:00.001+10:002010-06-14T22:19:07.597+10:00Dear hed.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'll be 30 in three months. 30. Where is my house that I'm supposed to own? My 2.5 kids? My recreational vehicle? My food in pill form? (Okay, I didn't think we would be THAT FAR into the future.) I still feel like a teenager. I feel emotionally stunted. When I see high schoolers, I think, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"wow I just graduated"</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">. No I didn't. I graduated 12 years ago. My son is a year away from being a teenager. I look back at my twenties with nothing but sadness. I did everything wrong, wrong, wrong. My friends and family that are just barely becoming an adult, I want to shake the crap out of them and say, "enjoy this time in your life! Don't be stressed! Don't be sad! </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">LIVE!!!</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">", but instead of going to jail for assault, I thought maybe I could write a letter to my 19-year-old self.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Dear hed,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Hi! It's you from the future. You are doing well for 19. You have a part time job that is paying $2k a month. SAVE IT. Trust me. Don't stress about the stupid people in the world. They will get theirs in the end. You are in a volatile relationship. Either work through it or get the hell out. Don't wait for another guy to catch your eye to leave. You will be fine alone. You have an 18-month old son that is starting to slip away from Autism. Be by his side. Your mom will fight you, and try and protect you, but prove to her you are capable of being a mom without her help, and </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">mean it. </span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> Research everything you can on Autism, and make your son your number one priority. Wake up early. Get used to it. You will have to do it the rest of your life. Your best friend is your lifeline, and 10 years later, you will look at her and smile, because she is still there and living the live you should have lived alongside her. Don't let depression rule your life. On your days off, do an activity. Get used to the outdoors. Use sunblock, damn it. In two weeks you will have heart surgery, and you are scared. You will be fine, I promise. Please take this surgery to realize your health is a gift, and try to eat well. Exercise. Get used to it. You will have to do it the rest of your life.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">When life hands you lemons (or a terrible boyfriend), make lemonade. You are okay single. I promise. The only man that is important in your twenties is your son. By the way, you are soooo not fat. Trust me. No one thinks you are a fat old hag for being a single mom. Spend more time with your grandparents and your great-grandmother. They are getting older. Enjoy the comfort of living with your parents. Yeah, it sucks, but you are living there rent-free. Go to as many concerts you can afford. Take road trips with K. Get more tattoos, you will still love them at 30. Breathe. Take pictures, lots of pictures. There is nothing at your age to be anxious about. Learn how to overcome roadblocks. It's okay to cry. Don't love a man just because he seems interested in you, learn to love yourself first. If you don't, you never will. </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">GO TO SCHOOL</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">. The still-fresh knowledge from high school will start to fade, do everything you can to preserve that knowledge to better you and your son's life. Read lots of books. Your son's father is a good dad, just not a good boyfriend. Appreciate him. Breathe more. Take your life one day at a time. Moisturize your face daily, and take off your make-up before you go to bed! Get a hangover. Have a blast. Don't stress, don't stress, don't stress. You will be okay. You will be loved. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">hed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Obviously I can't go back in time (oh, how I would), but I hope that my young friends, even my friends hitting 30, that they could take their days one day at a time, and know that every day is a gift. Wake up and smile that you are healthy. I have about 90 more days until my twenties are a memory, and I don't see some sort of turning point for myself before the big 3-0. I pray, I </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">pray</span></span></b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">, </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">that I can wake up on my thirtieth birthday and wake up and smile that I am healthy. And alive.</span></span></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-12765101489335276742010-06-04T17:47:00.000+10:002010-06-14T22:19:01.114+10:00Cancer.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Depression is a cancer. It takes everything out of you and sucks you dry. Like cancer, even though you are the one fighting for your life there are so many people that are affected by it. I wish I could internalize my depression like I'm assuming others can, wearing a poker face and working normally, functioning normally until they go somewhere in private and just crash. When I'm on an upswing, I can do anything. My last job was so far-fetched that I actually called the HR recruiter and said, "would I be someone you would consider for this job?", and surprisingly I got it. Everyone I knew doubted I would last because it was a 50-hour workweek and very stressful situations. I wanted to prove them all wrong. After a lengthy training, I was told by my training manager that I was one of the best she ever trained. I wore it like a badge going into my location. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I was the smiling, happy boss. I was the boss that took away your stress so you could have a good shift, or talked an angry customer out of his anger. I lived for my job. I was happy to get up every day and go to work. I had the energy of ten men. In private, I was starting a new and exciting relationship, and my happiness carried over into my job. I was a great manager. I wanted to learn everything so I could be supermanager, but my boss was telling me one day at a time. It annoyed me. I knew I could take on big projects and keep focused on the day-to-day aspects of the job. A year in and I was still doing well. My relationship had progressed into an upcoming wedding, and I was doing great. I think. I kept telling myself that. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">When there would be an un-salvageable customer situation, I blamed myself. When I had to be the bad boss and give it to one of my employees, I would stumble around for words in the conversation for fear that they wouldn't like me anymore. When the other managers would bring up an idea that I didn't like, or talk about an employee that wasn't a good one in my opinion, I would get MAD. I was running around with a ball of stress in my belly. When I came home most nights I would go straight to bed. I couldn't hide my emotions at work. If I was sick, I wanted to go home right away. If I got hurt by a comment, I would lock myself in the manager's office and cry my eyes out. When I was angry or depressed, it was written all over my face. I hated it. I wanted everyone to see happy Hed all the time.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I finally cracked three months into my new marriage. I was so depressed I almost quit on a whim. My boss and her boss sat me down and told me I needed help. I went on temporary disability for five weeks. The first three weeks I couldn't get out of bed. I went to the doctor three times that month and a psychiatrist to try and fix myself with medication. When I came back from "vacation", I was back to my old self and better than ever. I heard comments from my employees that I was doing great, and it fed me. I took on mini-projects at work and at home, enrolling in college on the side. All was right with the world for a while, but the cancer came back and slowly spread. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I woke up one day and couldn't go to work. I didn't have the energy. I drove all the way to work then promptly left. My boss texted me that if I didn't come back right then and there, there would be severe consequences. So I quit. I quit. I quit my dream job. I quit my job that my husband and I relied on to live. I quit my work family, just cut them off without warning or notice. I quit my boss, who had been invaluable in my growth and demeanor as a manager. I rationalized my decision, and a few weeks later I ended up dropping out of school because I was about three weeks behind. I started up a new job with half the pay of my previous one and was doing well. I missed a lot of work, made a lot of excuses and lies to stay at home until one day I couldn't get out of bed for it. Or anything else. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I thought, like all of my other depressive episodes, in a month or so I would get better. But it didn't happen. Two months passed. Three. Four. I am now typing this at over six months in. I fought at first, going to doctors once a month to tweak my medication, to extend my disability a few weeks longer. I got fired without anyone notifying me at my new job. I found out by calling their corporate HQ while checking on my health benefits. I lost our beautiful house, the house my then-fiancé and I moved into together, and became husband and wife in. I can't imagine starting a new job, meeting new people, being happy. I stopped fighting. I died the day I couldn't get out of bed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Like cancer, you hope that somewhere in the arsenal of medicine and therapies there is a cure for depression. You hope you will recover. I haven't yet. All those times my depression went into remission without treatment have come back to haunt me. I hurt every day, and the people around me watch me waste away.</span></span></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-67932809956640562182010-05-31T09:51:00.000+10:002010-06-14T22:18:55.186+10:00Food=Love.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I like being alone. I always have. At family events at my home growing up, I would come downstairs to make an appearance, then go back up to my room and shut the door. Maybe it's because I can do what I want when I'm alone; no one is judging me or telling me what I should or should not do. The funny thing is, I was never without a boyfriend in my high school years. I think the idea that even though I liked being alone, I liked the thought that there was someone that loved me, that wanted to be around me, and I could share my thoughts and ideas with. I was so co-dependent with guys. I felt like if we broke up, it was the end of the world. I'm pretty sure that's not the depression-I'm pretty sure it's because I was a </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">teenage girl?</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> As soon as a relationship would end, I would latch right on to the next guy that showed interest. It's funny, I started writing this blog to profile my love affair with food, and it kind of went in a different direction. The segue with being alone was the fact that when I am alone, I can truly do whatever I want, which includes eating whatever I want and how much of it I want without anyone watching me or telling me that it's wrong or bad.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">As a teen, I was "average", varying between 130 and 140 lbs at 5'7". Of course I always thought I was fat because I was still wearing the higher junior sizes of 9 and 11. Food wasn't really on my radar; I can't look back and picture a day where I binged or went out of my way to eat copious amounts of food. Actually, I would get lunch money every day while some of my friends did not, and I always shared my food with them. When I got pregnant at 17, I was 150 when they weighed me for my first prenatal appointment-a true heffer. I ended up gaining 51 pounds because I subscribed to the fact that I was "eating for 2", "it's all baby weight", "I'll be the weight I was as soon as he's born", etc. On my son's first birthday I was 159, which was unacceptable, but I had never had to diet or exercise before. By this point I was not a teen, I was an adult working for a living, and I didn't feel like I could be careless as a parent. In my high school years I dabbled in drugs, but even the thought of doing them as an adult was out of the question because I have to be a role model for my son. I worked in a casino where all of the snack bar food was half-off, and they had my favorite foods: nachos, patty melts, chicken fingers with ranch, ice cream. My job was also a sedentary one, so I ended up putting on 20 lbs in a year. When I met my first boyfriend after my son was born, I would go to his place after work and we would rent movies and stop by Circle K and pick up Ben & Jerry's, pumpkin seeds, and one-liter Pepsi's. I was about a size 14 or 16 then, and even though I was "fat", I was still finding clothes that fit at The Gap, NY & Co, and Hot Topic, so it was okay.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Fast forward a few years and I'm in a bad relationship, not working due to stress and depression for a year, and barely making ends meet. My live-in boyfriend was out doing God knows what, and I was driving through McDonalds getting a large Double Quarter Pounder meal with 20 chicken nuggets and a McFlurry. Daily. It was the only time I would leave the house, and it was the only time I felt satisfied. I would bite into the burger and the comfortable feeling would flood into my head and I would be happy. I would continue to eat even when I was stuffed and the food had no more taste to it because there was still food on the table. By the time I left my boyfriend and moved home, I was 221 pounds and in a size 18/20 at Lane Bryant. When I moved back home, I had to sleep in my son's race car bed. I had to put everything I owned in storage. I had no boyfriend, and I needed a job. I needed to get my shit together. I went to the doctor and found out I was pre-diabetic, which meant my blood sugar levels were on the threshold of becoming out of whack. My best friend was my savior. His own diabetes helped me realize I really didn't need that cheesecake slice when we would go out to eat. (Doesn't that sound awful? "Your diabetes saved me!") He also was my object of pure love and affection, which he fought off on a regular basis due to the fact that I had a LOT of demons I needed to figure out before I could be in a healthy, stable relationship (summed up in this statement: "You're not girlfriend material"). He also happened to be a black belt in karate, and taught me how to kick box (hes a triple threat!). I had gotten back down to 180 pounds, had the confidence to get my dream job, and to also make it on my own by moving out of my parents house after three years and moving out and relying on myself. (P.S. We finally ended up together)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Now, everything is a blur. You may have read my blogs where "Old Hed" is not me. I don't know where it went wrong, but I slowly gained weight after getting into a truly healthy relationship where I was unconditionally loved. I'm pretty sure that's not the depression-I think it's because I was a </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">happy girlfriend</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">? I weighed 200 pounds on my wedding day, roughly 18 months ago. Something clicked in me shortly after where I realized I had the great husband, the great job, the great house. I started growing increasingly anxious, that something terribly bad was going to happen; that there was nowhere else to go but down. I quit my job without notice, stopped going to school, and shut down completely. I am now 260 pounds. Yep. 260. I haven't told anyone that magical number. I am now closer to 300 pounds than I am to 200. I am over 100 pounds overweight. I can go on and on. These are the thoughts that run through my head on a regular basis. I don't spend intimate time with my husband anymore. I wear sweat pants. I've stopped wearing make-up. If you're like me, you may have watched a morbidly obese person stuck in a bed because they are so fat and thought, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"how could they have let themselves get that FAT?" </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Well, if you're also like me, you have just stopped caring. Feeling. Being happy. When I have slept so much I can't sleep anymore and my husband is away, I am alone. I binge on food. I immediately feel at ease and happy when I eat. Even the feeling of fullness afterward makes me happy. When the feeling goes away, I am left with myself and my body and nothing else to feel. I truly loathe myself.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I have mentioned more than once to my husband if something like heroin wasn't illegal I would definitely try it. I see the emptiness behind addicts' eyes and I relate to it. The only way for them to take the pain away is to be high. That's how I feel with food. At this point, I don't know what else to do because I don't have the energy or motivation to make a change. See you at 300 pounds.</span></span></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-82200798027043306442010-05-30T11:18:00.000+10:002010-06-14T22:18:48.188+10:00The List.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">So, I found something that oddly made me so peaceful: fishing. On a boat in the middle of a lake. When you're out there, all you hear is the lake, all you see is the sky and the water, and when you fish, all you are thinking about is if you're going to catch the next fish. While cruising from one spot to another, the wind and lake water was zooming right past me and I was so at ease, so calm, I didn't even have time to register how at peace I was until we got in the car for the ride home. I was exhausted and sore from keeping my balance, and driving into the setting sun I thought to myself, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">"this was a great day. I almost caught a fish, haven't eaten in nine hours, and I feel great"</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">When I saw Dr. J the next day, I was still very tired and awfully sore. I apologized if I was loopy, and explained to her how I was feeling and how I had felt the previous day. She was happy I had found something that made me happy and mentally drained me. Even the time I was with Dr. J I was too tired to be anxious. We started talking about our usual topics: socializing more, finding ways to re-route the anxiety into something constructive (for example: when I think someone is staring AT me, find a positive reason why they would be looking my way, like my car is sexy. Something like that. Or when I get anxious, focus on breathing, or my hands, or a focal point.) I was doing my usual blabbing to her, and she had an epiphany: every time I said something positive about myself, I always finished it with "but" or "except". It's like every time I would give myself a +1, something negative would off-set it and I would be back to zero. It was genius and true. I never noticed it before. Even with that observation thrown out in the open, I was still doing it in our conversation. She stopped me and said, "this is what we are going to do. I want you to write down, right now, twenty things that you are good at". Seemed easy enough, right? Every time I thought of something, my brain automatically gave me a counter thought to squash that thought. We ended that meeting with thirteen written down, and even with those I have reservations on how confident I am with that list. Another thing that was noticed is that when I would say a characteristic, it would usually start like, "my boss said once I was good at..." or "do you think I am...?" I never once told Dr. J "I am good at (blank). I am kick-ass at (blank)". Everything I think of myself, I think of myself as that because someone thought that of me, I didn't think it about myself first. Just another reason that my entire self-worth is based on views by others. One reason I always thought of myself as a good manager was because I meld very well with lots of different personalities. The real reason I do that is because I don't have a personality. I almost base it on who I am with, or what I need to be that day. It's hard to write that down, because you don't want to think of yourself as this blob of Jello that is only molded when someone else puts their hands on it, but that's me. I have always been great at conflict resolution (ooh, I need to write that one down on my list) because even if I KNOW I am right I will still come to you and apologize. These problems with myself I have no solutions to. If I did I probably wouldn't be seeing a doctor every week, eh?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Here is what I have so far, and in parenthesis is why they are still not great:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">1. Writing (I was TOLD I am a good writer. I think I am too, BUT I seem to lack a conclusion a lot of the time.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">2. Video Games! (BUT you won't see me in some world-class tournament, I'm not that skilled)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">3. Love (BUT only towards others, not towards myself.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">4. Conflict resolution (Damn! It was already on the list!!)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">5. Friendliness (BUT I am a terrible friend. I don't follow-up with my friends at all.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">6. Funny (I have been TOLD I am funny)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">7."Sexy Time" (I have been TOLD [many times hee hee] that I am good at this, BUT it's been so long since I've felt sexy I wouldn't know where to start)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">8. Smart (BUT my brain is so full of thoughts and ideas it's extremely hard to follow thorough)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">9. Make-up (Yes, once upon a time I would do my friends' make-up for special occasions and just for the hell of it BUT I am so ugly now, I don't even do it on myself anymore.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">10. Bowling! (I love bowling, BUT I could use a lot of skill and technique)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">11. Communication (EXCEPT my mind wanders so much it's hard to follow through, see #8)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">12. Small Talk (I can BS with the best of them, BUT with my social anxiety popping up I usually mumble at strangers or acquaintances.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">13. Relatable (I have been TOLD I put people at ease, BUT I'm usually lying or I'm molding to whomever I'm talking to)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">So that's the list I made with her. A couple of things I know I'm good at that wouldn't be on the list are:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">14. Food (I can eat and eat and eat some more, and eat when I'm sick or sad or sleepy)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">15. Being Lazy (I've said it a million times, if there was an Olympic sport for sleeping, I would win the Gold)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">16. Depression (It's been six months straight, the longest run of depression I have ever had. It's hard to see a light at the beginning or end of the tunnel now.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">17. Bad Thoughts (every minute of every day I am convinced something bad is going to happen)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">18. Being Fat (At this point I don't even recognize myself)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">19.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">20.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I can't even think of negatives at this point. I just wish there was a such thing as a brain transplant. Maybe you can tell me what YOU think so I can add them to my list. Oh wait, I'm supposed to figure these out by myself. I don't even know what "myself" is.</span></span></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-22064487036283178962010-05-24T09:43:00.001+10:002010-06-14T22:18:41.147+10:00Random.<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I've had so much on my mind the last week, yet I don't really have a "theme" for this blog. I guess I'll see where my stream-of consciousness takes me.</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I saw my therapist Dr. J last Thursday, as I have every Thursday for the last two months at least. She is a student therapist, and part of her schooling is to intern at the clinic I go to for nine months. As of the end of June, her time is up and she gets to transfer to UCLA. I'm happy for her (and unbelievably jealous that she is in medical school to begin with) but also really upset. The sessions it took for me to really open up to her and the time I have had with her feel wasted now. Our last session will be with her but also my new therapist that's taking me on, who happens to also be female. That's a little comforting. I feel that if I break down in front of a woman it's okay; but in front of a man I would be perceived as weak. Even though a man psychologist would still be obligated to use his "psych" brain, I think in all of us we have subconscious cues about how we observe, judge, think, etc. My anxiety is overwhelming at the thought of meeting someone new who I have to pour my heart out to-again. What if she isn't welcoming? What if she doesn't do as good a job? Anyone who has ever been to more than one therapist in their life knows that they have to be a good fit for you. Dr. J put me at ease right away; she was honest, sincere, and laid-back-I think her essence always calmed me down. Wish me luck. I don't want to lose all the progress I've already gotten.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">The past two weeks have just been a complete spiral. Three Mondays ago I woke up miserable with a sinus cold or something, and I didn't have the discipline that day to plan my meals, so I ended up blowing my diet. My diets require strictness, because just like everything else in my life, if I cheat or falter </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">just once</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> I'm doomed. It's like a snowball effect. The day after that I binged at McDonalds. I mean straight up binging. After that all bets were off. I felt the change, too. I had the energy to first start the diet because I had started new meds that gave me a pep in my step, and after the toxic effect of fast food and junk food left my body I felt </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">amazing.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> Two or three days after the binge, I am miserable. Thoughts of suicide have crossed my path (FYI-Not only did I make a promise to Dr. J I would not harm myself, I made a vow to my husband, and the love I feel for him is so strong I would never, ever want to cause him harm-so don't worry about me vs. suicide: I'll win.), I've slept longer, stopped doing regular chores like the dishes, the laundry, and feel unbelievably depressed at the most random times. Just yesterday I was in the shower and I just stood there and stared at the wall for about five minutes. I can't shut off my brain when I'm depressed or anxious, which is 99% of the time, so I always have something on my mind to ruin my 1% state of well-being. Friends tell me all about the wonderful effects of exercise, fruits and vegetables, schedules; they share with me their success stories and how it worked out for them. Are any of them bipolar? No, pretty sure they are all functional adults. I listen to their advice, and try my damnedest to follow, but when you can't leave your house or your bed, exercise is the last thing on your mind. Tomorrow I am going grocery shopping (my fridge is literally a condiment-and-diet soda only zone at the moment, and milk-less cereal) and I have no plans to buy crap food, so that's a start. Something I do before I shop is stop at the Starbucks and grab my venti macchiato before I cruise the aisles so I'm not hungry at all. My husband goes with me most of the time, and we get one "cheat" food, and mine is almost always ice cream. Because I am on disability at the moment, our food budget is limited, and it makes me SO MAD that good food is TWICE as expensive as crap food. I could probably write a whole other blog about why that is causing obesity in America. I want to buy a big balance ball so I can do </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">something</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> while I'm confined to this tiny apartment. Wish me luck on </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">that</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"> too, please.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I think the worst thing ever about the past few weeks is that I am becoming more and more disassociated with me and my former self. I look in the mirror and see a stranger. When my husband touches me or kisses me, I start to cry. I don't want him to touch my skin, or look at my face because it almost feels like he is kissing someone else. If you read this you probably think I am going crazy. Well, that's how I feel too. I am Hed. But I am not. Even my brain functions are changing. Little glimmers of my former self pop up, but as soon as I realize that's not me anymore I stop feeling happy. When I kiss my husband more than once, I have to stop because it makes me sick, literally sick to my stomach that he is kissing </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">this</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">. I've tried to explain to him that I am not the person he married, that he should call it and leave me, but him being him, he is by my side. Fat Bastard from the "Austin Powers" movies, in a moment of clarity, says "I eat because I'm unhappy, and I'm unhappy because I eat. It's a vicious cycle". That describes me at the moment. I should name my present self "FB".</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">So this is the past two weeks in a nutshell. I don't see much change on the horizon. As much as I wish I could will it all away, I can't. I never have been able to. But don't worry about me, I'm stuck here and something will happen sooner or later that will make the present me become the past me and I will look back and have insight and wisdom. I at least know that. So, until that happens, wish me luck.</span></span></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854015997324948854.post-80995698915295698992010-05-20T06:15:00.000+10:002010-06-14T22:18:35.492+10:00I'm Obese.<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><b>Sometimes I wake up to random songs in my head, and I'm always thinking of funnier song lyrics instead of what they are singing. Here's one of them, to the tune of "Imma Be" by Black Eyed Peas. COPYRIGHT! ©</b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm obese, I'm obese, ima ima I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm obese, I'm obese, ima ima I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm obese, I'm obese, ima ima I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm ob-be-be-be im I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm ob-be-be-be im I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma be at the next buffet</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma be droolin' at the dessert bay</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma be chuggin me some Mountain-Mountain Dew</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma be full from all the food I'm gonna chew</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma be up in Mickey D's</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Eatin oreo flurries</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">And maybe a double-double cheese cause</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma be eatin some fries</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">You gonna hear me "super size"</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma be eatin them chips</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Wipin my mouth and chins</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma be the fattest chick (so fat!)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma be eatin chicken wings</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma be dippin onion rings (dip it dip it) okay!</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma Imma eatin this plate</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma Imma Imma be eating that plate</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">It's fatty fat fat</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma Imma eat me some steak</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">The Sizzler restaurant can't keep me away!</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm obese, I'm obese, ima ima I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm obese, I'm obese, ima ima I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">(Big baby big big) ima ima I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">(A pig baby check me out) be ima ima I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">(The last drop never stop) be be ima ima I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm ob-be-be-be im I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">(Ima be freakin fat) ima ima I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm ob-be-be-be im I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima be upgradin robes and mumus</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima be gettin extra large in my shoes</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima be trying to see my toes</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima be washin myself with a hose</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima be thunder thighs watch my belly rise</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">No not with breathin just from me eatin</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima be big from my diabetes</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima be pourin sugar on my Wheaties</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Honey and jam baby goin on my toast</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I don't really mind if it gets on my clothes</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma be ima be ima I'm ima be (big baby)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Imma be ima be ima I'm ima be</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Sick from the food and the goal was to eat the whole bowl</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima need some Pepto, Ima need some mo</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Reason that I ordered all my food for "to-go"?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima shove all of it in my piehole</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima be up in my house</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Eatin whatever I like</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima be eatin that nacho cheese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Eatin it every day of my life</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Oh lets make this last forever</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Goin on a milkshake bender</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">On and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and...</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima be eatin like this </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Philly Cheese smothered in swiss</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Munchin and scarfin like a slob</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Eatin like it's my job</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I don't care if it's old and stuff</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Cold or hot or it's soft or tough</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Finish it all, I'm not full enough </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">A million plus spent on greasy junk</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm obese </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima be eatin that fast food</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima be eatin that food food (x4)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">(Whip.....cream.....crave it)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm obese </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">(Nau-nau-seous)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Ima ima ima be eatin it</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Don't care that my pants just split</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">E-A-T is definite</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Hope that I do not vomit</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Future is I'll probably be</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">at the nearest KFC</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Bucket or a family feast</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Throwin trash in my backseat</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Across town is a Wendy's </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Have room for a large Frosty</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Hamburger, why not three</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Throw on there some extra cheese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Reese's, Milky Way, Hershey's</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">In my purse for emergencies</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Every day, you will see</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">Eatin food like I'm obese!</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C3D9FF;">I'm obese</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>hedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08238318473453113791noreply@blogger.com0