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Without deep reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people .

8 Jun

I stand in front of myself.

The mirror is no friend. It never has been. A scrawny child turned too tall and broad teenager turned adult with more bumps than roads, I’ve spent a lifetime staring away from myself. No matter how healthy I have been, how in shape, how active, I scorn my reflection. It has never been good enough.

Too tall.

Too broad.

Too fat.

Too curvy.

Too unattractive.

Too nervy.

Always something.


I have never been a little girl.

Around other women I feel awkward and oversized, my height, the sheer heft of my shoulders, the calves that never fit into those sleek black boots, the boobs which double as bird feeders and get in the way when I talk with my hands. I watch other women, they of tiny hands, thin bones, in some cases, the blessings of genetics, and I feel envy, as well as shame. Womanhood, is it not in delicacy? Is it not in the lovely flutters of fine boned hands, soft and pointed? Have they not the trappings of will, or at the very least, a slot in a lottery I lost out on, my own blood full of the tall, the thick hipped, those who will survive famine. Hearty stock. Peasants maybe.

My unease with women may stretch back to the fact that I always feel like a giant among the munchkins, and I am the problem. Rooms full of svelte and tanned, bellies that lie flat, arms that rarely jiggle. Pants that stay put.

When the world, or at least the one presented to you, is a consumptive tea party of flounce and vanity, of slimness and restraint, how does a girl look around her if it’s her ass that doesn’t fit in the party chair?


I haven’t worn a swimsuit in public for years, not openly without something over it. Does it matter if crazy gained me weight? If medications did? If stress, lack of time, the natural progression of my body? I haven’t worn one without covering since I was 14 or so, when, relatively skinny, someone still called me “lard-ass”.

Of course, I’ve also heard this in varying combinations while walking down the street minding my own business, flung from a car window like so much trash. Sure, sticks and stones. But the 10th time. Then 50th. How long until you believe it, random words from adolescent idiots? How long before the world reinforces that regardless of your actual strength and health, it’s how someone else sees your ass in those pants that matters as you walk home late at night.

If you’re lucky, someone only throws something once.


I am pleasantly surprised at the ease push ups start to come, at the smooth feel of my body as it relies on itself. I smile as muscle replaces slack in places. I make conscious decisions to eat better, to eat less.

I am however, still fat. Judging by the biological members of my family alive, I will always be fat. But does my fat dictate my health? Can the people who drive everywhere, who rarely take the stairs, but who perhaps don’t eat, or who are lucky to be blessed genetically, are they more healthy? The fat women doing biathalons-are they unhealthy? I will always be a size above, unlikely to ever slip under an 18. (I haven’t been a 14 since the summer I spent high without eating, having maybe 200 calories a day while I cycled everywhere. I still had a stomach, even then.)

But how does that determine judgement? If I recoil from a skinny woman, who to me, is far too slim, I see judgement cast at me. Yet recoil from me, and people will join you. I’m fat. I’m not welcome at the tea party. I’m disgusting and unhealthy.

I am, essentially, invisible, and yet, visibly judged. Even though you may know nothing about me, and how I live. I am your perfect whipping boy for your own vanity.


I love to run. I always have. And yet, I’ve never been able to without my lungs seizing up, and rendering me breathless, culminating once in passing out during a basketball game, legions of 13 year old girls newly trained in CPR wondering if they would get to try it out on the fat girl.

(Ironically, just writing about this makes my chest seize up in anxiety.)

I try to run. I try to run away from the body I have, because it is, quite simply, not the body the world condones, and is one it barely tolerates, no matter how fit it might be, no matter how healthy each doctor deems it against their own judgement. But I cannot run. And I am faced with raising two daughters in a world which makes weight and either or proposition, which it may not necessarily be.

I can’t run my way out of my body. But I can’t seem to run my way out of expectation or judgement either.


30 years in, 33 this year somehow, I can stand in front of a mirror, and face myself. I am imperfect. I am lumpy in places I’ve been lumpy since 14. But I am also strong.

I’m tired of letting you keep me from myself.  And it stops now.

2 More Sleeps!

14 May

2 more sleeps til Blog’er-Atlantic Canada’s answer to Blog’her, but with more talk and less ad revenue.

I’m excited. I get to meet Mad (who is nice enough to cart my ass there and back) and Kate and Hannah and Bon, and a few others I don’t believe I know. Very excited for an entire weekend of no kids, aside from small babies who I won’t mind holding and can be given back. An entire weekend of sleeping in. Oh I need this-mania has been trying it’s damndest to bleed through lately, and I need a mental break. The detrius is filling up, and it basically needs to fart.

Ah, the attractive way with words I have. Lovely isn’t it.

I’m not really nervous-not too nervous, not really. My only wrinkle is the fact that I’m bigger than everyone else, a situation which puts me ill at ease constantly. I can feel my bulk taking up space compared to smaller, more compact people. Even if I’m skinny, I fill up a room. I’ve never liked that. Despite my acceptance and often mute devotion to my own body, I cannot stand to be held up against “normal” women-it makes me feel like I’m not a woman, which is the most asinine thing a person who has all the undangly bits can say. I am a woman.

I just often feel like I take up too much space.

And yet at the same time, I love the fact that I rarely, if ever have felt threatened, truly threatened in strange situations. Other mother’s would let their daughters out if I was with them. (Of course, I’ve had the opposite affect on mother’s as well) I have never known fear the same way my smaller friends have. Mostly because men don’t look at me the same way-I am not attractive, yet I am not “easy” prey. So I am segregated into the netherworld of “it”.

And I’m fine with that. It’s safer that way. I hardly think I’m the only bigger girl who feels this way, sexless and safe. It’s an awful dichotomy really-that safety is only asserted when sexuality is neutralized. But in a way, it’s true. A few belly rolls, and you are no longer worthy, no longer worth risk. Some extra tush, and you cease to be a woman in the traditional eye. You cease to be female.

I do not expect that anyone will make me feel any of this over the course of the next few weeks-this is my shit, internalized crap, frustrated crap, “how many miles before I lose even a pound!?!? crap. I’ve always felt this way, springing up to about 5’6 at 12, and hitting puberty in a very apparent way, without my mother, I was the grade school equivalent of a sore thumb. I stuck out. I was tall, long legs, “child-bearing hips”-I constantly needed to be careful around the more “delicate” girls who couldn’t bear to break a nail playing basketball or get dirty playing rugby with the boys. Crap-crap that made me think a woman couldn’t be all things-delicate when she wanted, strong when she needed, dirty when it made sense. It’s all crap-it’s crap that I feel these things, that I worry about pictures that might be taken. Not because of my weight-but because of my size, and my frequent urge to blend in to the background, and just be.

It’s all crap.

I’m a big girl. I will never be the size of most the women I’ll meet this weekend. I have a genetic inheritance that seems to be a cross between Churchill and Monique, but with legs. I take drugs that keep weight on, I fight what is likely some sort of disordered eating, and have the metabolism of a slug. I live with the hands dealt to me, and I’m ok with that. I have never been a size 4, or 8-shit, I was a size 14 AT 14, and that was with virtually zero fat on me. I am not a small girl. I am a big woman. And it’s ok.

So this weekend, I’m going to smile. I’m going to laugh, and crack bad idiotic jokes (but not the one about the buffer) and I’m going to enjoy myself without once worrying that I’m this huge elephant in the room. Sometimes, elephants are fucking kick ass too.

Bipolar and PMS-My personal Axis of Evil

11 May

The last few months have been unpleasant. 26 days of the month are normal, copacetic, happy, sometimes sorta down, tired days.

3-5 days of the month are not.

My natural state is one of fairly rapid cycling. I can, literally, go from giggling uncontrollably to crying in a minute. I’ve done this. I hate it. Mixed states are my favorite either-being agitated and manic, really not a great combination.

So lately, with my menstrual cycle being it’s usual insane clusterfuck, I haven’t been enjoying the accompanying swings. Vast swings. Yesterday I was peaceful getting a manicure, then panicked getting a pedicure, then wistful, the manic and happy dancing with the girls then sad and weepy, turning into full blown suicidal urges by 10pm. I kept hearing things and seeing things, flashes out the side of my eyes. I spent the day repeating “This isn’t real.”

My doctor claims it’s normal, and I believe she’s right. For years I’d have what we called “freakouts’, and they always coincided with that time of the month. I, in my paranoid state, always assumed it was Mogo’s way to not taking any blame. Now I know that isn’t the case.

It’s disorienting, because you think you’re ok. You feel ok, until you don’t, and suddenly the persecuted thoughts start, you start staring at yourself thinking you’re too fucking fat to live, you’re useless and it hurts to much and then suddenly you’re ok, like a tornado came and went and you’re laughing and you can’t believe you felt that way! except for the lingers delusion that something is going to go terribly terribly wrong.

The delusions I can handle. I have a grip on them, even though my doctor didn’t seem to care much when I mentioned them-maybe I didn’t make them clear to her. But these intermittent spurts of DIE DIE DIE I want to DIE! are a but much to handle, and they worry me. What if they linger long enough? What if the lithium stops working? What if the illness overcomes me and wins?

I shouldn’t fear as I do, but I can’t help it. Once you’re out of the storm, you cannot imagine going back in and surviving. Maybe if my manic periods were more satisfying, or longer, maybe then I’d not mind the thought. But they aren’t long enough to make anything feel good. They are short, and angry and brutal, and the depression always feels like it lasts for months anyway.

I want this to be easy. I want it to stay shut behind the lithium door and leave me be. But it won’t.

The ongoing why the hell can’t I breathe right saga….

29 Apr

I’m getting tired of hearing my doctor try and pin everything on anxiety.

I’ve been having trouble breathing, on and off, since mid February. It came on without any cause so far as I can tell, and lasted well over 3 weeks. It went away. It came back. It went away and is now coming back again.

We did chest X-Rays, I’ve tried inhalers and acid reflux medication and ulcer medication. Nothing. We did blood work an EKG and Ativan, nothing.

Nothing helps. This irritating issue goes away on it’s own, comes back when it pleases. It seems to be vaguely connected to what I eat-I eat too much or too crappy, I bloat and the sick cycle starts again.

Now he’s talking about anxiety again, and how he thought trying an antidepressant might help.


I would feel anxious, wouldn’t I? I would feel like I used to, terrified and secretly worked up about everything? I would know, right?

He also mentioned possible IBS, maybe Celiac disease, and his own bafflement. Hence his falling back on anxiety, the good ole catch all. Can’t find something actually wrong with you? Must be teh crazy.

I am usually more than willing to accept that, but not this time. I feel no anxiety over anything in my life, aside from occasional work stress, I’m not stressed out.

He wants me to do a stress test anyway.

I didn’t even get around to mentioning the fact that my periods have gone insane. So I’m hoping my PAP comes back clear.

I’m just tired of not knowing, of worrying when this will come back and stay for however long it stays. Feeling like you’re suffocating for weeks on end just ain’t cool.

“can pregnant woman eat pizza hut wings”

17 Feb

HELLS yes. I lived on Pizza Hut my second pregnancy (as my ass and 50 lb weight gain can attest)

You can eat what you want, with the exception of the usual suspects-beer a 40 of vodka, crack cocaine, sushi  fish from Lake Erie, six pack of Jolt.

More than likely, everyone and their Mother has been telling you “You can’t eat that!!!” in the same tones that one would warn small children from open flame. Ignore them. Frankly, anyone who dares tell a pregnant woman what they can or cannot eat deserves to be kicked, repeatedly in the vicinity of where a baby might come out. Welcome to motherhood-a land where everyone else knows better than you.

Don’t overdo the eating of crap (trust me-50lbs….but I quit smoking, so I figure it works out) but don’t listen to people with their stupid unfounded prejudices about food either. OR, levy some advice of your own-something like “Hey, that purse makes your ass look big” or “that chest hair makes you look like a wookie.”

And then, go have a big honkin’ pile of wings. And hot sauce.

Reasons 6 and 6.5 that I know the drugs are ok

3 Dec

Aside from the pudgy weight gain. It’s annoying-my appetite is down, WAY down, yet I still seem to be putting on a bit of weight. I looked in the mirror the other day and saw an honest to goodness FAT girl there. I’ve never totally internalized that-my chub always spread itself evenly over me, so while I was a big girl, I never felt fat-you know, LAZY fat, or “eats too much” fat.

But somehow, it didn’t bother me that much. Sure, clothes don’t fit that well, but I’m happy, Mogo loves me the way I am, and I’m no unhealthy. So who cares? I could be slimmer, and I’m gonna start doing more yoga to help with that, but really, do I care? Not that much. A little, but it’s not the end of the world.

The bigger reason I know the Lithium is working on my bipolar is that I don’t feel anxious when presented with social events anymore. There’s still a little, but it’s normal, the way I used to feel about going out. A slight bit of trepidation, but nothing more. I actually signed on for our company Xmas party this year, which caused more than 1 person to hover at my desk asking WTF? (In my defence, it’s at a theme park this year instead of some stuffy hotel) And I’m excited-I’m doubly excited because we’re going to get a hotel room and have a night to ourselves for the first time in, well, ever since having the kids.

We’ve never had a date night like this. I’m looking forward to hanging out with my husband for a night, maybe getting drunk and sleeping until we wake up the next morning. Eating breakfast without fingers in it. Having some adult conversation. (Playing mini-putt while half tanked!) It’s been so long since going out wasn’t filled with fear and anxiety-for the past 10 years or so, I’ve mostly just not gone out. It was safer, and easier to stay home. Less variables. Less people to try and talk to or interact with.

You know how hard it is as an adult to admit that you’re too scared to go out and mingle with people? To have friends get very angry with you because you can’t move past the fear and go with them somewhere, meet them in a busy bar? To not even have a name for the anxiety that eats you alive when you do something as simple as go out to a new restaurant to eat?

I’ve been doing these things lately, and with glee. It’s so freeing, and in some ways, depressing. It shows me exactly what I missed for most of my twenties, frozen and stagnant, unable to move.

Now my fears are more exotic-what if the lithium stops working?


14 Nov

Anyone else read CNN on a daily basis?

Lost among the stories of murder, rape, pillage, amputated limbs and burning buildings have lately been some rather odd stories.

What exactly is newsworthy about people losing weight?

All around the world people starve. In our own countries, people are malnourished because they can’t afford the proper food, or they don’t know what they should be eating. We’re at war. Our economies may slip into recession in the near future.

And yet some guy loses weight and that’s worth tacking on a major news site. He didn’t save a child, or a platoon. He didn’t rescue a dog, cure cancer or fly around the world in a balloon. Yet he’s front page news.

Is fat really so repulsive, such a scandal, that someone who loses a ton of weight is a hero? Will they write a story about him in a few years when he’s likely to have gained the weight back? Will he be as special and delightful when he’s chubby? Will we write odes to his name?

I’m fat. I may stay this way forever. I may find a way to lose it after all this time. I don’t know. Most of the time I don’t much care. What I do know is that it’s bloody insulting and infuriating to see these little articles devoted to weight loss on a news site, articles telling me that I’m not special unless I shrink down in size, that I don’t matter unless I’m little.

I don’t want to be little. I’m perfectly happy being a giant, thank you very much. I don’t want to hear about their caloric restriction. I want to hear about people doing things, real things, writing novels, solving murders, fixing wars. Meaningful things. How is losing weight meaningful? You’re still gonna die! What you weigh will have no bearing on how meaningful your life was-not if you truly live your life.

I’m tired of it-I’m tired of the celebrity of skinny, of anorexia, of denial. My body wants food like a car wants gas. It shall have it’s gas. My tongue wants taste like the sea wants water. It shall have it’s taste. My life will be defined by more than my waist size or by the amount of chub that hangs over my belt. I am more than the sum of my ass.

Now why isn’t THAT newsworthy?

So foul

18 Sep

I’m foul foul foul.

It’s “that” time of the month. You know what it’s like being bipolar and then getting your period? It’s like World War Three. Shit falls down, breaks apart, blows up and generally is unpleasant to be around.

I feel so fucking fat I don’t even look in the mirror at this point. Starving myself is beginning to look better and better everyday. I feel so invisible.

I’m depressed. I’m fucking tired of being depressed, or feeling like I should be happy when I just don’t feel anything. Weren’t these drugs supposed to help this?

I’m angry. I’m fierce and fiendish and loud and all I want to do is scream my lungs out for days. I can’t even go anywhere and sing, the one real vent I normally have. (besides, not singing loudly for so long has left me bereft of the little bit of control I normally have over my breathing)

My back fucking kills, likely because I’m becoming disgustingly fat. My self loathing knows no bounds this week.

The pills must not be working, because the dreams are back. The horrible fucking death dreams are back, and I sleep the sleep of the tormented.

AND I turn 30 next week.


The body is a house of many windows: there we all sit, showing ourselves and crying on the passers-by to come and love us.

5 Aug

The other night I took a mommy need latte break and wandered into the wilds of the armpit. After changing a few times into something that merely made me look pregnant instead of obese.

Not that it matters.

Sitting waiting for the bus to come home, I started thinking. Watching another “fatty” walk down the sidewalk, and then two young slim “thangs”, it occurred to me that one of those types could be sexual. But not both. Guess who wins that race.

Not the fatty.

It suddenly struck me that I’m now at a size where I’m no longer a sexual being. I’m no longer glanced at, my boobs rarely stared at. I have attained the ultimate thinghood. The thinghood of giant floaty dresses and elastic waist pants. The thinghood that imagines the giggles behind her are about her giant ass. I am becoming IT.

You suddenly become invisible. People are even ruder than normal. They feel justified in creating obstacles for you because anyone who’s that big surely doesn’t have any self worth or dignity to worry about. They glance through you.

That’s the worst part of it-becoming something people look past, or around. You can’t eat in public if you’re this big-lord knows, even if it’s an apple, you can hear the silent “tsk tsk” in the background somewhere.

But wouldn’t it have made sense, biologically speaking, for bodies to do their damnedest to hang on to food, to energy, to store it just in case? Wouldn’t I be one of the people who won the lottery? When did it suddenly change? When did being someone who cannot store any energy become the end all and be all?

When did I stop mattering?

I don’t know what to do. I feel like I get puffier and puffier every day-I feel like I cannot ever get full. I feel empty and without a soul, because I live in a world that tells me I do not possible matter if I cannot stay skinny, something I have never been.

Something I have never been. I live in a world where everything around me tells me to be something I will likely never be, and never was. And it depresses me. They give me more pills, which slow things down further, act like weight gain is avoidable by just eating right. I beg with my eyes for help, not wanting to admit to my inability to find fullness, not wanting to see that look, that fat hate in their eyes.

Why? Why does the size of my ass reflect my intelligence or worth? And why have I judged others with the same paint for so long, when I knew there was a good potential I would go that way too.

It hurts to write this. It hurts to be fat, still. It hurts to feel powerless and sexless and full of anger and fear about something that controls me. My willpower left me when I quit smoking, and left me with an extra 50 pounds. Others have had great advice before, with one exception.

You aren’t crazy.

I’m worse than double blind. I’m totally screwed in a world that hates the fat and the crazy. What next, 40 cats?

  Continue reading

Binge the pain away

24 Jun

For those of you sick of hearing me bitching about

  • my fat ass
  • my bipolar
  • the shit state of my meds

Feel free to turn away now.

I can’t stop eating. I can’t. It’s not an emotional issue-I’m not anxious, not really bored. I’m single minded in my pursuit of something to eat lately, and it’s disgusting me AND scaring the crap out of me. I’m FAT. Gross fat, not cute fertility goddess fat. Weak willed fat, not shite gene fat.

My antidepressants aren’t really working, and I’ve decided to stop taking them. My moodstabilizers havent been doing a kick ass job either, and that’s been worrying me. I’ve been sleeping like I did prior to treatment-that is to say, like crap. I’ve been up and down and out of control and feeling like someone floating through ectoplasm in space, unaware of where anything ends or begins.

Something isn’t working.

Today, I stopped to really think about why I was eating. I couldn’t control it, I couldn’t stop it. I HAD to eat. And eat.

So just a little while ago, I didn’t a little research online regarding binge eating and bipolar. Apparently, I’m not the only one who thought about it. So now I’m thinking about looking into Toprimate to control the eating issues, which really only began when I started taking SSRI’s in January. I had been doing pretty good up until then.

I already had an appointment regarding the Wellbutrin in July. Now I have to go back saying “but let’s try this one now!”, knowing that my doctor won’t have any input unless I have some.

Everytime my weight bothers me, I can hear the voice of an old friend circling in my head, basically telling me I’m weak and lazy because I always complain and never do anything about it. And it’s fucking horrible to feel at the mercy of this whatever the fuck is wrong with my brain, this leech that seems to get worse instead of better with each drug I try. I feel powerless, hopeless and weak. A failure because I get bigger and bigger and more disgusting. Looking in the mirror today, I wanted to punch my hand though it. But then, i went back to eating regardless. I’m never full. I always want something, and I can’t control it. I was able to resist a cigarette better than this right now.

It’s to the point where I wish I was anorexic. I’m dreading going to my doctor about this, because I can see the judgement in his eyes when I’m there and discuss my weight. Like I’m something he stepped in because my ass gets bigger while he shrugs and offers nothing helpful. Telling myself that binge eating and retaining fat easily was likely an evolutionary advantage at one point isn’t helping either.

I feel so fucking helpless with all of this, you know? My weight IS leading me down that rocky path of dreaming about death. Because I am NOT happy in the body, but this body isn’t listening to me any more. This body makes me weak, and I’m tired of fighting with it, I’m tired of feeling the space I take up, the stares of people, the unease in public. I don’t like going anywhere, since anything I own barely fits suddenly in the last few months. Clothes I just got in January barely fit!

It all just makes me want to curl up in a corner and cry. I can’t win! Either I’m sorta fat and crazy, or I’m really fat and sorta crazy. I’m tired tired tired of trying to accept something i WILL NOT find acceptable, but I cannot fight. I’m sure someone is judging me for that right now, but I’m sorry. I can’t fight it. And I am alone with this, because no one ever wants to believe that food can be an issue like this-it’s not heroin or anything.

But what if my brain is so fucked up with the wiring right now that the simple impulse and release of good feelings is tied into my eating? How do I change that? How do I get strong to overcome that? Cause I’d really like to know, instead of being made to feel like shit because I can’t fight this every single day.

I’m seeing things again too-everything feels like it’s crumbling, and my giant fat ass which grows each day is only making my misery worse, as I try and hold in it tight.

When does it end? When do I get to see the goddamn sailboat? When do I get a fucking break with this shit, with this chronic fucking unrelenting bullshit eating my brain? Anything else, I’d either die, or get better. Period. This? This is like mold-you can bleach it all you want, but it’s still there in some form, and if you’re not careful, it will all grow back again.

I need to stop reading. This article reassures me that Hey! We don’t really know WHY you’re fat as all hell, but it might be normal, and for a bunch of reasons we can’t fix yet! WOO HOO! What’s REALLY frustrating is that all the abstracts that could help me are medical journals that are either sub only, or are like 50.00 to read!

Me on a what?

20 Jun

So I went and checked out the “You on a Diet” website.

I can start out with all the intentions in the world, but every single time, I stop eventually. (Add in things like feeling bigger despite stopping drinking sugar pop, and one wonders why I bother)

I’m not good with willpower. I’m not good with no sucumbing to my wants. I’m very much not good at getting anyone else in the house to participate with me, which might be half the reason I can’t keep it going. If I’m eating well, and everyone else is eating crap, it’s VERY hard not to fall off the wagon.

And like I heard someone say-if you’re addicted to alcohol or drugs, and you quit, you can stay away from temptations. Not so easy with food, since you need to eat.’

I just had a pudding and a few of my cookies for lunch since I forgot to bring a bowl for my beans and rice. I feel so bloated, my stomach is pushing against my waistband, and I’d kinda like to throw up. What the hell is with my stomach? I can eat well and exercise all I want, but anymore, it doesn’t seem to matter what I do. So it’s incredibly frustrating even trying. It just feels like my body is slowly betraying me. (And yeah, I’d LOVE to go to my doctor, but we’ve seen where that goes)

I just don’t know what it will take, aside from starvation, to get my metabolism moving at all. I feel like I’m alone in this, without any real support with making anything happen. Has anyone else been able to change their eating habits without the support of their household? Cause I don’t know if I have that kind of willpower, to avoid the good things someone else is eating, to retrain my tongue and tummy through that.

I know I “can” do it. It’s getting there that feels so fucking difficult and far away right now.


16 Jun

How to you reconcile views when you hate your body, and your partner loves it?

I’m having some body issues, just like I do every summer. More specifically, regardless of any changes to my eating habits (like, oh, no more sugar pop, less junk) I seem to be bloating, if not gaining weight. I’m assuming it’s some weird bloat, since everytime I weigh myself nothing has changed.

I didn’t have the best night with all of this last night. I feel like I’m trapped within this fat fucking body, trapped within a mind that can’t control how I eat, what I eat without this total focus on food, something I’m not sure I’m willing to do. I get exercise, to the degree that I can, and I’m trying to up it again. But I can’t help but feel like it doesn’t matter, that it won’t help.

I’m about 300 pounds. That’s right. 300 POUNDS. I’m a baby elephant. After quitting smoking and eating through my last pregnancy, I gained 50 pounds. And I can’t help but feel I won’t get it off. The only time I do lose weight is when I’m so depressed I eat nothing. At this point, that seems like a good time.

But Mogo says he doesn’t see it. He says he likes my size, my shape. But how do I live comfortably with either view? How can I enjoy his contentment when I loathe myself somedays?

I don’t want to be this big. I’ve always been active but fuck, anymore walking hurts my feet so bad I limp for the rest of the day after walking for 40 minutes. I can’t breathe when I walk fast-it’s like my lungs seize up. My calves burn. I feel disgusting walking up the road trying to hide myself under a giant sweater when it’s 80 degrees outside.

I feel like I take up too much room. I feel like I become sexless, personless at this size. And I hate it.

I feel so powerless with this. I find myself eating when I’m not hungry-if I stop to analyze why I’m eating and stop, I crave and crave and desire that food until I either eat something else or break down and eat it.

Why am I always addicted to something? At this point, I’d rather be smoking since I wouldn’t look so fucking grotesque.

Shit…I dunno…I’m just tired of feeling so fucking bloated and fat all the time. It’s all I think of at this point.


19 May

I’m bored and it’s raining…so what happens?


Peanut Butter Cookies! and Peanut Butter with Peanut Butter Milk Chocolate Chips!

The recipe I’ve linked to isn’t exactly what was done-whole wheat flour was mostly used, 1 cup instead of 3/4 a cup, used light brown sugar…NO peanuts. (I hate nuts in food) I made half the cookies with Peanut Butter & Milk Chocolate chips (can’t find them in Canada, so I make my brother bring them from the states.)


Now if I can just figure out what to make for dinner.

Jiggle, jump….

17 May

My salt shakers jiggle on my desk.

Outside it’s cold rain, ice rain, like the frost on the side of a bottle of vodka fresh from the freezer.

I’m not hungry today. How does that happen, that one day my stomach has had enough, and listens to itself? Does it turn on itself, tell half to shape up or ship out? I always wanted to be one of those women who stop eating when stressed or sad. I eat. Unless I’m really really bad, then I eat nothing. Nothing for days and days.

My body has been in flux, jiggling and settling, trying to find my middle ground. It states in mirrors that it is far too large, too soft and jelly. Too much. I take up too much space. I feel that I should apologize for taking it up.

So much space. I fill more than I ever wanted to. I stare at my thighs thinking, there is a woman somewhere whose waist is the size of one leg. One. I stare at my arms wondering when exactly they became the arms of some old lady, when the wrinkles started, when the dimpled cellulite because visible.

If I could half myself, I would. I no longer wish to jiggle. I no longer wish to be that woman who takes up too much room.


15 May

Being depressed at least has one benefit for my family.

It makes me want to bake. Not just cook, but bake yummy bad things. Last week I made vanilla and chocolate cupcakes from scratch. (Totally worth it-SOOOO much better than from a box) Today, since I couldn’t work because the brain surgeons at work didn’t load the correct network profile, I made Chocolate Date Cake.

Can you say yum? Or fat ass?in

I have to do something. I’ve always done this, even as a teen. The only difference is that now I can actually cook and bake.

I figure next up will be my chocolate peanut butter cups. You have NO idea how good those are.

Again guys, thank you for the kind words and support. It does help, even if I lose my voice when I try to tell you.

Thanks for hanging in with me.

Especially Mogo. Who I will now torment with some sappy Cure action. (which I incidentally listened to a lot when I first fell in love with him. This song specifically. But what chick doesn’t love this song?)

Dear Mom

12 May

I’m hungover today, a sure sign that Dad has gone for the summer. We had a great night, but now? My head hurts. But that’s ok, since both of my daughters are giggling madly.

It’s a dark cold morning. It’s been warm all week, but suddenly, the clouds roll in and the sun hides and I find myself tongue-tied, at a loss for words that mean anything more than what I ate for breakfast (veggie dogs, lemon yogurt and berries, if you’re wondering. I can’t eat eggs, and I crave protein in the morning)

Mom, would you have an opinion on everything I do? My brother does, chastising me for us not having a car, despite me explaining the 500+ we save each month, despite my desire to not exhale crap everyday on the earth because I’m too lazy to walk or take the bus. Would you find it so odd that I can’t eat certain foods, and have to make up for it somewhere else? That my inability to digest things leads me to eat safe, crappy food? That your daughter is digustingly fat, and feeling increasingly sullen and lost about it? The weight piles on without effort, seemingly spun from the air. Counting calories makes my head hurt. Mom, I’m just so fucking lost with it all.

Should I stop taking my pills? I don’t think they’re helping. I don’t feel like I can get the help I need unless I take all my pills, all at once. I’ve been feeling this lately, increasingly, as I notice my life is almost worse than it was before. I’m failing at everything I touch, and I’m losing the words to put it into perspective.

Mom, I dreampt of zombies last night, again. It’s always fucking zombies, and me running, trying to avoid becoming swept into a world that I rise against, that I refuse to become part of. The mindless gibbering masses, blindly spending money to fit in, however that is. (And hell, the stuff I did at 16 to NOT fit in people do now to FIT in. How in the HELL can someone rebel now? Eat a dog raw?) I woke up scared and wanting to escape. Trapped in a corner, I could not escape being devoured by something simpler and yet stronger than I. Something worse.

I thought I was happy-I thought I had finally figured out the secret, found the switch but fuck hasn’t someone hidden it again. I’m tired of this Mom. I’m tired of being unhappy, of being tired and sad and short-tempered and mad and useless. Ugly. I’m tired of fighting with medications, trying to get a doctor to understand that yes, weight gain and sexual dysfunction IS a FUCKING BIG DEAL. I’m so tired of feeling disconnected, lost, unmotivated.

Somedays Mom, I’m tired of being alive. I hate myself so much somedays that I so want to die. I want the waves of life and death to spin me from my own grasp, and take me away. And I hate myself even more for believing in taking the easy way. I mean shit, you waited for us as babies, you watched us grow, you tried to hang on through the cancer. And I can’t even get excited over the things you wanted so much. I take it so much for granted, and I wish I couldn’t, wish that I didn’t. But I know no other way. I do not know how to enjoy being alive for longer than a few months.

I hate this. It’s eating me alive, this “disorder” this chaos and I’m lost within it. WHo the fuck am I? Did I know as a child? Did I have a personality that didn’t change from day to day? Was I even nice to anyone? I know that other people are suffering more than I, in many many ways, and that what’s happened to me, and what goes on in my head is nothing in comparision. So why do I still want to not exist? It’s that numb too-I don’t want to off myself. I just want to not wake up, to not be weighed down by all of this life that hates me so.

See, if I look at things from a biological standpoint, eventually my line of crazy will kill itself off. So maybe then I won’t have existed at all?

I hate even more the idea that my children will have this, that they will sit, 15 years from now, talking, dreaming about not being alive. About no longer suffering this obscure petulant shame and sadness. That they will wish they were never born. I wish that sometimes, and I know you’d hate it. But everytime I see one of those pro-life “save a life, your mom did!” signs I think, “Why? Why did she bother with it? What possible difference have I made on a grand scale?”

I’ve caused heartache and suffering. I’ve hurt people, accidentally almost, the way bipolar folk can. I’ve made my life into a shambles I don’t recognize. (Shouldn’t I have finished university? Done something with my life?) I tell myself that raising children is this great job, but I lie.

I fucking hate it. I fucking hate the mindnumbing boredom and irritation that it brings. The constant struggle I have to not lose my mind and spend the day screaming at them. I end up eating instead, eating cause I’m bored, mad, sad, upset. Can’t get out and run the shit off me-can’t get far with two small kids. I can’t get anything for me in that regard-there’s no time. So maybe I should stop eating instead. Something has to give.

Mom, I hate this. I hate it. I don’t know how to change it. I wish I was someone else.

Happy Mother’s Day.

I’m annoyed, with bonus

10 May

I’m annoyed that I’m always craving crap to eat, and then eating it. I’m annoyed that I seemingly have no self control. I stare longingly at runners swiftly moving past me, their bodies compact and ready. I stare down at my expanding self, and wonder how long until there isn’t enough room for me to spread into any longer.

I can’t control my eating. Why is there always one thing I seem to be unable to resist? And is this the trade off from not smoking? 50lbs or more? Why can’t I ignore that screaming need to eat the worst thing within my sight?

How do I retrain myself to eat only good things, especially when those around me are uninterested in trying to, or learning with me?

I’m annoyed that things that fit 3 months ago, loosely, are now tight. I’m annoyed that I haven’t gained any actual weight, and this is still the case. I’m annoyed that my foot hurts so much when I walk, keeping me from walking more.

I’m annoyed that there are days when I hate my body so much that I would tear it apart with razors. I’m annoyed that there are days when I hate myself so much, hate that I’m running out of sizes, annoyed that it’s all so far out of my reach and control.

I’m annoyed that I don’t have a doctor who will help me. I’m annoyed that I won’t be able to find on who will. I’m annoyed that all of this makes me feel even more helpless.

I’m annoyed that I have no will anymore, that it’s been leached out of my by childbirth, or tiredness, or by the simple sense of wanting to find something for me. Since I quit smoking, I’ve always been craving something, anything. I silent craving that seems just as, if not more dangerous than the smoking.

I’m annoyed that I want to cry, that I feel trapped within this body that isn’t me, within these feelings that I don’t own, behind this mouth I cannot stop.

I’m annoyed that I don’t know how to help me either.

Doctor, Doctor, gimme the news…

1 May

So this morning I went to see my doctor, which was the pain in the ASS it always is.

I mentioned wanting to raise my Wellbutrin dose. He did so. We’ll try that for 2 months, and see where I stand. I’m hoping that this, in concert with me upping the Trileptal to 900mg a day, will help curb the swings and the rage. The awful, awful rage.

Although the appointment was worth the look on his face when I told him my fit of breaking all my favorite dishes scared my family.

I then also mentioned that I was concerned that the bloating, dermographism and tight chest/can’t get enough air or yawn feelings might be a food allergy of some sort.

“Try a high fibre diet” is all he said.

I eat fibre. I loves me some All Bran bars. I eat fibre cereals, veggies, fruits, things with “bulk”.

And last time I checked, a diet low in fibre wouldn’t case an allergic reaction, right? And the sudden itching accompanying the dermographism wouldn’t happen because of a lack of fibre. It doesn’t make sense.

Ever get the feeling that your doctor doesn’t really care about your well being? Welcome to the dark side of the Canadian Health Care system. Dude doesn’t have the time to even think about getting into the subject with me.

So I’m gonna start cutting stuff out of my diet, and it’s gonna SUCK. I love dairy, but it’s painfully (literally-the reaction to the small amount of Parmesan on my salad 20 mins ago is killing me) obvious to me that I need to give it up. I’m gonna try to give up wheat products, or at the very least, refined wheat/sugars. Something is hurting me, and since he can’t be bothered to help me, I’ll do it myself.

A friend suggested trying to get to see a nutritionist, and I just might. Something is off, and it’s painful, not to mention frustrating in terms of my self esteem.

Or maybe I’ll just be fat and gross forever!

Anyone dealt with food allergies? Nutritionists? Idiot doctors?

All right bastard fat ass

9 Apr

I  think I’m ready to fight you off for good this time.

I restarted my Sparkpeople account. I tallied up my calories for today. (Not bad if I don’t eat dinner). I’d walk home if there wasn’t 3 feet of snow everywhere.

I’m tired of feeling tired, tired of not setting an example for my children. But I don’t want to try some stupid diet that I’ll never stick to. I can’t not eat flour, since my buttermilk pancakes aren’t nearly as good with whole wheat flour. Live without potatoes? HA!

So I’m going to try again. I’ve done this before, and when I was motivated to do it, it was working. I’m hoping that the Wellbutrin will allow me to maintain a level and stick with something for the first time in my life.

Cause you know? It would be nice to get back into even a size 18 pants. I won’t get much smaller than size 16 due to hips that shifted, but hell, being able to buy pants in a “normal” store would be a step up.

I know that the majority of my problem is far too many calories ingested, and ZERO exercise (It’s winter). So it’s time for me to shut up, and stop eating! right? (And it’s also time for my father to stop making pies, but I digress)

Any advice for good cookbooks for lighter eating? I’m picky, and like weird stuff (like plain rice cakes-yum!)

I quit smoking cold turkey. I can lose the flubber, right?

She’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes…

3 Apr


I went to see my doctor today, and had my Wellbutrin wish granted. I’ll start tomorrow, since as usual, the pharmacy needs to order them in. (sigh….)

Any reading I’ve done have stated that it has minimal affect on sexual function and weight gain, and that it’s been fairly good at moderating bipolar’s in one study. It can’t hurt. It’s also know to help stop compulsive behaviours, which I can use right now.

Celexa was good for my mood, but man. How can you have a close relationship with your partner when you don’t want them near you? How can you want to do anything when eating any food makes you gassy and explosive?

I weighed myself. Despite my pants being FAR too tight, and feeling bloated as all hell, I haven’t gained a pound in a month and a half. People have confirmed that I look bigger. So what the FUCK?!?!

So I’m crossing my fingers that this will work. I just want my body to do it’s own thing, instead of something else. It seems like anymore, I just end up taking more and more pills.

It’s enough to make me want to grab Rosalyn’s ‘Elmo Bankie” and crawl under the deck.

So, we’ll see. I’d like to get under 250, my weight when pregnancy with Vivian, sometime this summer. It just seems like everytime I start making progress, something messes it up.

Le sigh.