Once upon a time I could control myself.

I’m still twelve. I haven’t changed a bit.
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.
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.
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:

             she scratches a letter into a wall made of stone                                            

maybe someday another child won’t feel as alone as she does

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 here 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.
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:

I see the world feel the chill which way to go windowsill                                     

  I see the words on a rocking horse of time I see the birds in the rain               

Oh dear dad can you see me now? I am myself like you somehow

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.

Once upon a time, I could control myself                                                         

  Once upon a time I could lose myself                                                                

  Once upon a time I could love myself                                                                  

Once upon a time I could love you

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.

Rinse and Repeat.

So for the past five weeks I have been keeping myself busy with my Australia blog, 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.

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.

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.

I get served 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 meat”. I wish it were that simple. I couldn’t eat the rest of the night.

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.

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 NEW! 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.

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.

Seven days.

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.

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.

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, “would I kick myself if something bad DID happen to him and I never got to spend time with him?” 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, “gee, my handy dad lives right next to me now! He’ll fix it!” 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.

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.

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.

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?

Thirty.

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.

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.

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, maybe this is God's way of me cleaning up so when I die, my family won't have to deal with it all. 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.

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.

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 life topped with the fear and anxiety of boarding a plane for thirteen hours. No one gets it. I am fucking bipolar. This is me. I can't imagine changing anymore. I am getting unhappier and unhappier as the days go by.

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.

Cancer.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The List.

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, "this was a great day. I almost caught a fish, haven't eaten in nine hours, and I feel great".

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?

Here is what I have so far, and in parenthesis is why they are still not great:

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.)

2. Video Games! (BUT you won't see me in some world-class tournament, I'm not that skilled)

3. Love (BUT only towards others, not towards myself.)

4. Conflict resolution (Damn! It was already on the list!!)

5. Friendliness (BUT I am a terrible friend. I don't follow-up with my friends at all.)

6. Funny (I have been TOLD I am funny)

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)

8. Smart (BUT my brain is so full of thoughts and ideas it's extremely hard to follow thorough)

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.)

10. Bowling! (I love bowling, BUT I could use a lot of skill and technique)

11. Communication (EXCEPT my mind wanders so much it's hard to follow through, see #8)

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.)

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)

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:

14. Food (I can eat and eat and eat some more, and eat when I'm sick or sad or sleepy)

15. Being Lazy (I've said it a million times, if there was an Olympic sport for sleeping, I would win the Gold)

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.)

17. Bad Thoughts (every minute of every day I am convinced something bad is going to happen)

18. Being Fat (At this point I don't even recognize myself)

19.

20.

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.

Random.

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.

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.

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 just once 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 amazing. 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 something while I'm confined to this tiny apartment. Wish me luck on that too, please.

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 this. 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".

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.