Word Count: 1842
Summary: It's Sara's birthday and for the first time in a long, long time, she's really fucking happy.
File Info: mp3, 15.4MB, 16m46s
Download: go to Box
Notes: First 14 minutes is the fic, the last 2+ minutes is me singing a lazy version of Snowfall by Ingrid Michaelson. Also, this would probably be a good podfic to fall asleep to. My voice tends to be a bit soporific. ;)
Anyway, I'm going to verbalize something here before I start talking about it on tumblr because this is a much, much safer space. I think.
Most of you who've known me forever, are very, very aware that I have been obese my entire adult life and overweight for the rest of it. I've had times where I was eating well and exercising consistently, but due to a weird quirk of my body where I don't really get biofeedback when my stats (blood sugar, blood pressure, etc.) go wonky, as soon as I step off track for even a day, I end up off the wagon for years at a time.
I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes seven years ago at age 27, the youngest of all my family members to get it, and have been facing a decline in health just as I want to really start and build a career that sort of demands you be someone functional physically and is best when you're in the type of shape where you can squat and hold that pose for long periods of time, or handle someone's feet pressing against your knees while you sit on a low chair and they use your body for leverage. I made it through a year but came out the other end exhausted and weak and with the realization that something drastic had to change.
Four weeks ago I started to talk to my diabetes doc about getting bariatric surgery. Something I swore I would never, ever do. Ever. Why the fuck would I cut my stomach. How could that be considered healthy? How could that be considered sane? But the truth is? What I've done to my body is not sane.
And I've done it. Yes, there are contributing factors. My mom had gestational diabetes with me that she more or less didn't control. Despite being breastfed and active as a little kid, I ended up with a shit ton of allergies and really bad asthma, which put me on a medication that they've basically taken off the market because it speeds up your heart so much that you can have a heart attack. I took that medication from age 6 to age 18. I basically didn't sleep from age 6 to age 18 and then I slept for the next decade only coming out of my hole long enough to go to work and make the occasional trip out to CA to go to conventions. This wrecked havoc on my metabolism, but hey, at least I didn't die from asthma. I mean that seriously. That medication, one of the only ones they had at the time, kept me alive.
I ate a shit ton of shitty food because I felt horrible all the time. I didn't recognize this and I still have to very purposely check in and evaluate my body in order to recognize when something hurts or I feel nauseated or dizzy or anything negative. I made mindless choices. I make mindless choices.
I am now on 8 different regular medications. And I'm 34. And I can change that. Obesity is a chronic illness that, in my case, can be put into remission. Hell, with the type of surgery I'm likely to choose, my diabetes will likely be put into remission as well. That's huge.
At 15 I watched my grandma die a horrible, horrible death due to uncontrolled diabetes. I don't want that to me my death.
And I can make a choice now that could radically alter my body and, at least for a time, help me make different choices going forward, hopefully long enough for it to stick. Statistically, there's a good chance the changes will keep after having the surgery.
Making this choice feels a bit like a failure. I admit that.
But more? It's a relief. It's such a fucking relief.
There's still a lot to do before the surgery. There's still a lot of decisions to make. There's still a lot of emotional and spiritual shit I need to work out so I don't fall down a depression hole when I no longer have food as a security blanket.
So that's the decision. The first of many.
I imagine there will be some things I need to journal about. Starting with how awesome I think the body/fat acceptance movement is, but how many things I think they kinda get wrong even as a lot of what they get right is so fucking important and good. But that's for another day.
Anyway, I'm wrapping up my time here in El Paso and at MLL and am trying to figure out a way to be able to afford the last bits of getting certified and licensed and could really use your help if you're able and interested! It's been a crazy, crazy year and I'm stoked to be closing out this chapter soon.
( Tremors )
On a completely unrelated note, I'm wondering if anyone that has bought floppy issues 1 & 2 of Black Widow still has their digital codes and would be willing to give them to me. I can gift them back to you once my copies come in (in a week or so and then in another month or so.) Because of the way I'm ordering right now I don't get my books for months but this is one book I'd like to stay relatively current on since there's been so much good discussion on tumblr about it. Just thought I'd take a shot that someone could help me out!
( Orphan Black: Holy Crap This show (spoilers for the whole show here) )
I am overfed. I overfeed my body regularly. I'm obese, fat, overweight, whatever word you choose to use, I don't particularly care, but at this stage in my life, I'm choosing overfed. It's not something someone's done to me, but something that I actively and regularly do to myself. I eat too much. I eat too many calories. I love food that's horrifically bad for you and I really enjoy eating a lot of it.
Or do I? I know my brain seems to think I enjoy it. But really I spend the whole time either not paying attention to what I'm eating, even though I've spent hours or minutes anticipating what I was going to put into my mouth, hours thinking and planning, etc., but when I'm actually eating, if I really think about it, there's nothing there. I don't love it. I enjoy a taste and then it's gone. No matter how large a portion I consume, the pleasure is going to end. Assuming that there was pleasure at all.
This is insanity. This is ridiculous. And it's hurting me. It's hurting my pancreas, it's hurting my heart, it's hurting my liver, it's hurting my knees, and fingers, and back, and feet. I am sick. So sick. Even if I don't usually even know it or feel it.
I'm educated. I know every diet out there, both sane and insane. I know what different foods do to the body, I know what I should eat and why. I have even managed to pull off eating those foods for months at a time. I know I should move my body more (or any, really). I know that this body I currently have is severely limited.
But it's not as limited as it could be or will be.
And then there's the emotional/relational side of things. I am overweight enough and have been for long enough, that my body shape doesn't make sense. It's weird and lumpy and my belly is lopsided and strange. I'm not attractive. My face is far from hideous, but my body is ridiculous. That's just...reality. Specifically, I'm not sexually attractive.
I am learning, though, as an adult, that not being sexually attractive is not the same as being repulsive. Are there douchebags out there who probably find me repulsive? Yes. But they also find perfectly normal women repulsive. That's on them, not me. I'm finally to a place where I can accept that people don't mind looking at me in neutral settings. That people, friends mostly, can find my face cute, adorable, pleasant, even. Real adults have the ability to ignore the ugly and see the beauty. Or at least the tolerable.
The thing is? I want to some day be attractive. I've spent the last ten years "knowing" that because of my weight gains and losses that even if I did ever lose a ton of weight or "get in shape" I would always be weird physically. There's always going to be weird elephant-like skin on my inner thighs. My arms upper arms are going to be permanently in 70-year-old grandma mode. My body is, visually, FUBAR. Unless the repair there is going to be surgery and then there's a whole other list of issues.
My point is I want a guy to want me.
That's my point? Yup.
I've spent my entire physical adult hood saying that I didn't want to ever be in a relationship. And it was true. But I'm starting thing it's also true that a little bit of it was about "knowing" that I was never going to be wanted and nipping any want or desire or hope or longing for companionship and physical affection (and sex) in the bud.
I have no conclusion. This revelation changes very little. I have no crushes, thank God. I continue to over eat. I continue to lay in bed on my days off, doing the tumblr, twitter, facebook, lj circuit over and over and over. It's safe there. No one can see my face. I don't have to make any sort of effort. I don't take up any more space there than anyone else does. But, doing this, my body gets softer and sicker, my mind gets more and more rewired to expect and want this habitual laziness and is probably growing duller as a result.
Everything in moderation, yeah? Except I don't know what that looks like. I don't know how that works. I am so completely undisciplined.
Not sure if I feel better by writing all this out, but I don't feel worse. Yay?!