F*ck This!

"I spent my entire 20's being overweight, and I'm tired (literally!) My goal is to be healthier by my 30th birthday (September)."

(my weight graph, Oct 09-June 10)

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 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.

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, no camera in the world could cure my ugly, so why bother. 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.

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 exhausted. 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.

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. 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.

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 "okay, today is the day!", I just did it. 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.

What's your definition of "fat"?

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-

"skinny" to "trim"

"trim" to "healthy"

"healthy" to "curvy"

"curvy" to, gosh, there's so many, "plump", "chubby", "chunky", etc.

"chubby" to "fat"

"fat" to "really fat"

and finally, "really fat" to "I can't lift my legs out of bed fat"

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, "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.

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 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.

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 know 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.

When I was younger, 130 pounds was fat. See how fat I was?

(Face covered to protect the innocent fat people. Namely me.)

I wanted to slap my 90 pound friends when they said they 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.

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.

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, "just today. Tomorrow I will cut out a sugar item". 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.

There's no "I" in "We".

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...

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 their 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.

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.

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!

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 POKEMON. I'm starting to get a stomach ache.

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.

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 we 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.

G'Day Mate? or "Will Whore for Australia", part 2.

(This is a continuation of my previous blog because my previous blog was not what this blog was supposed to be about! Damn it!)

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:

No, I wouldn't resent you, you're my family;

My pets will still be taken care of and we could get more pets later;

We'll have to cross that bridge when we get to it;

My parents want me to be happy, even if that means far far away.

(By the way, if turned around, my answers would probably be:

I may resent you! What if it doesn't work out? Then I'm stuck here?

We are taking our cats with us, or no dice;

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;

My mom asked me, "What if I die and you're over there?")

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.

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?

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, "do I really need this?" 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? THE PLUGS DON'T WORK IN AUSTRALIA. Yard sale.

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, "at least I lost weight that week"?)

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"?)

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 I hate the stereotypical American! Plus, I can't fake an Australian accent to save my life. It always ends up sounding British.

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.

G'Day Mate? or "Will Whore for Australia", part 1.

I was born to live in Australia. Okay well, that's not entirely 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". You're not girlfriend material. 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 one 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 liked 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.

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.

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 long 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 World News, 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.

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...

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, "who am I?" 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.

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 am. 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!)

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!)

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!)...

Is the grass always greener?

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.

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*.

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?

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.

So now I have to get out of bed and really figure out my life. And it's not just my 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 actual 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:

Jane: "so, what's new with you, Hed?"

Me: "oh, I moved to Australia last month."

Jane:"no way! I'm so jealous! I'm stuck here in CALIFORNIA."

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. 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.

Dear hed.

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, "wow I just graduated". 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! LIVE!!!", but instead of going to jail for assault, I thought maybe I could write a letter to my 19-year-old self.

Dear hed,

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 mean it. 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.

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. GO TO SCHOOL. 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.

hed.

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 pray, that I can wake up on my thirtieth birthday and wake up and smile that I am healthy. And alive.