You Want Me To Eat What Now?

The road to being approved by your insurance company (and your surgeon) for weight loss surgery has a lot of components.  For my husband and I, first, we had to lose 10% of our body weight over the course of 6 months prior to surgery, documented monthly in your primary care physician's office.  At the time I remember thinking, "Dude, if I could lose weight on my own, I wouldn't need the surgery!"  But we went on a crazy low calorie diet (like 500 calories a day crazy low) and made it happen.  

In addition, we had to undergo a psychological exam and get a letter of approval from the psychologist basically stating that we weren't nuts.  I guess we both fooled him.  lol  It was an odd process.  We had to take a quiz and then spend an hour in discussion about the weight loss journey, familial support, etc.  The quiz was a really weird assortment of true/false questions.  I asked the psychologist about it, and they essentially use it to weed out people who lie (by making things seem overly good, or overly bad).

We also had to see a nutritionist/dietitian.  It was a little over an hour of this woman telling us what a normal and balanced diet looks like.  We each paid nearly $200 for her to tell us how we should have been eating all along to not be obese in the first place.  What she did *not* tell us was what we needed to eat after surgery.  I mean, I guess it's fine and dandy to have the information, but literally in a few weeks time, it would be meaningless.  What is the point in telling me that I need 46 grams of protein per day, if my surgeon is going to immediately rebuke that as being too much?

Which is exactly what he did.  He asked if I thought I was prepared for eating post-op and I said I was confused because the amount of food the nutritionist told us we needed to eat seemed like too much.  Then he yelled at me for not realizing I needed to follow his post-op diet in the workbook he gave me.  The post-op diet is very specific for the first couple of months after surgery (pretty much so you won't blow your stitches, explode your stomach, and die).  However, there wasn't a whole lot of guidance for what to do with the rest of my life after the surgical recovery was over.  And the nutritionist I had just seen made that more convoluted for me rather than less so.

So, my husband and I have muddled through for the last 4+ years.  For the most part, the restriction in the quantity of food we can eat has continued to keep our weights in check.  But it never was really because we had moved on to a phase of our lives where we were necessarily eating the "right" things.  The year I spent at home binging on chips and gaining weight was a testament to that.  Because although we cannot consume a large quantity of food at one time, snacking every hour is absolutely possible particularly with "slider foods" like chips that process quickly and (in general) don't fill you up (like protein would).

So, here I am 4.5 years after having gastric sleeve, back to maintaining the 100-pound weight loss, still not really sure what I should be eating.  Add in the layer that in the last year or so I have been diagnosed with binge eating disorder, and this gets pretty messy.  Working with my therapist is helping me with getting to the core issues of why I am binging in the first place, but it doesn't really address the dietary piece of the puzzle, which is why she recommended that I see a dietitian to get me on a better eating plan.

I have been maintaining a keto lifestyle for most of this year and thought I had finally found an eating plan I could stick with.  I am definitely addicted to carbs and they are 100% my favorite binge foods if I had to choose.  So, mostly eliminating sugar and carbs from my diet helps me two-fold.  Not only did I lose the weight I gained in 2017 and have been maintaining that, but I also don't really even have any of my favorite sugary binge foods on hand when I get overwhelmed.  Of course, I was still binging on other things, just things within the keto-friendly world.

You can imagine my disappointment when I visited my endocrinologist earlier this week and learned that 8 months of keto increased my cholesterol by 36 from just below the high limit of within range, to the high cholesterol range.  My doctor asked me if I had been doing the keto diet (she knew!).  She prescribed me a statin drug to take and advised me to change my diet.  So, I asked if I should continue doing low carb since it has been a good thing for my progress with my eating disorder, maintaining the weight loss, and keeping my hyperinsulinemia in check.  "Yes, you should continue doing low carb, and do low fat as well."  Really the only staying power with the fact that I gave up sugar and carbs was that I could still have cheese and bacon.

I decided that I should probably consult a dietitian after all, because information about food and what you should be eating is really confusing (all things considered).  I looked in the online directory for my insurance company to see if there were any covered providers and there was a list of 18 (2 of which were not even in Tennessee - West Memphis and Southaven).  The first group of 6 or so were all at the office of the same dietitian I had seen prior to my weight loss surgery.  "Great!" I thought.  I figured they would be the most qualified since they had already seen me and they consult with bariatric patients regularly.  

Apparently not.  They told me they couldn't treat someone with binge eating disorder and gave me the number to the local in-patient facility for eating disorders.  WTF.  I don't need to be hospitalized, or my therapist would have recommended that.  And so I proceeded calling down the list of providers, only to find that they either worked within a hospital and only treated patients of the hospital, or they worked in an endocrinologist's office and only treated patients of the doctor at that office, or they worked in a diabetes treatment program and only treated patients who were in the (year-long) program.  There was one (1!) dietitian covered by my insurance who was even willing to make an appointment with me.

I will concede that there are a lot of dietitians in Memphis that are not covered by my insurance plan.  The group that was recommended by my therapist does not even bill to insurance, you can just try to be reimbursed after the fact.  It is $185 for the initial visit (1 hour and 15 minutes), $95 for each follow up visit (45 minutes).  Alternatively, you can sign up for a basic coaching package including 4 visits for $425, or a solid nutrition coaching package including 7 visits for $650.


And the powers that be wonder why this country has a problem with obesity.  


Seeing a dietitian isn't even covered by a lot of insurance companies.  And the ones that are all seem to be affiliated with diabetes treatment in some way.  Here's a novel idea... perhaps if we had access to see a dietitian for coaching BEFORE we are diagnosed with diabetes, it may actually save everyone a lot of time and money in the long run (and lives).  I managed to get my appointment set up.  But I know that there are a lot of people who would not have access to this via insurance in the first place, and definitely wouldn't be able to afford to pay for something like that out of pocket.

But, Mary, you can find all of this information online or in a book anyhow.  It isn't like you have to see a professional to tell you how to eat!

Sure.  Right.  I spent the better portion of this week researching what I needed to be eating that is both low carb and low fat.  You know what I found?  That "food experts" argue over whether you should eat fat or not, and which fats are bad vs. good.  Some say to avoid all fats.  Some say just healthy fats (then define that however they see fit).  Some say avoid saturated fats only, or trans fats only, etc.  That's just fats.  Let's not even try to talk about whether the cholesterol in an egg is good or bad or if it matters at all.  The only conclusion I arrived at was going vegan and eating uncooked organic fruits and veggies for the rest of my life - but not any that are high in carbs!  Doing something like that is absolutely not sustainable for me.

I apologize that this turned into kind of a rant.  I'm mad because I can't do keto (when doing it seemed like the only thing that has ever really worked for me).  I'm frustrated with everything I have gone through this week to get the appointment with the dietitian.  I'm pissed off that I am probably going to have to eliminate cheese and bacon.

Honestly, I'm mostly upset about the cheese.


TL/DR: The healthcare system sucks.  Not eating sugar sucks.  Not eating cheese sucks the most.

Turquoise And Elephants

'Who are you?' said the Caterpillar.

Alice replied, rather shyly, 'I — I hardly know, sir, just at present.'

That's where I am at today.  Mid-life crisis?  Existential crisis?  All of the above?  

Two weeks ago I went to see my therapist and we talked a lot about my recent struggles with my eating disorder.  Specifically, I've been eating a bunch of crap I don't need to eat every time my husband is out of the house.  He's been going to more music shows recently, and so I've been left to my own devices in the evenings more often than usual.  I take advantage and binge on food while he's gone and I'm "unsupervised".  

At first, I spoke about it almost as if I was acting out like a child.  Nobody is here to see what I'm eating, so I'm going to eat all of the things that I'm not supposed to have.  There will be no judgment from anyone, because there's nobody home to judge.  The thing is, he doesn't judge what I eat anyhow.

But in talking more about it with my therapist, and thinking more about it on my own, it wasn't really about me taking advantage of being left alone to eat what I wanted.  It was more so some level of anxiety of being by myself.  One could immediately assume I mean that I'm anxious about being without my husband (for whatever reason), but I arrived at the conclusion that it was specifically about me being alone with myself.

Binge eaters eat to numb whatever uncomfortable feelings they are experiencing.  Identifying what is uncomfortable is one of the first steps to not binging anymore.  It could be for a lot of different reasons (or feelings) and it isn't always the same reason over and over.  In the past, I have binged for a lot of feelings that were uncomfortable: grief, loneliness, sadness, failure, etc.  2017 was a year long binge because I had a shit bag and it was my only old faithful coping mechanism for a LOT of feelings about that whole situation.

Driving more to the root of my current binge eating problem, being alone with myself, my therapist asked me, "What is so uncomfortable about you being alone with yourself?"  And the answer that kind of slapped me in the face is that I don't really know who I am, and it is uncomfortable sitting around alone with a stranger: particularly when that stranger is you.

Thinking over the course of my life, I cannot think of a lot of instances where I have done things, or liked things, or been really devoted to certain things, just because I (me) had a passion for them.  If you ask most people what their favorite movies, music, books, general things in life are; they typically have an answer for you.  Even if you asked someone to pick 5 albums, books, movies, etc that define them; they would be able to come up with a list, and maybe just struggle to limit it to five.

The thing is, I can't answer questions like that.  There are periods of my life that I was really in to certain bands or whatever and the root of the reason is that the person I was dating or the friend I was hanging out with was really in to them.  The movies I saw were based on someone else's desire to see them.  The books I read were based on the favorite books of my friends.  Even when I did my Cherry Mary booth, it was because so many people had told me over and over again, "You should do this, you would be good at it."

Maybe that was why it was such a failure; because my heart wasn't really in it.  I mean I worked REALLY hard on all the stuff I made, but it wasn't because it was my passion.  If you show me cute little paintings on pinterest or etsy, I can usually copy whatever it is and make a cute little painting.  But you sit me down in front of a blank canvas and tell me to create something, and my mind is as blank as the canvas in front of me.

I don't feel like I have a passion (a real passion) for anything.  When I have days off from work, and I don't have some sort of outside obligation for things I need to do, I struggle with what to do with myself.  There are lots of things I could be doing, but nothing drives me into any particular direction.

I do not know who I am outside of who I am to other people: my husband's wife, my mother's daughter, nana's granddaughter, my siblings' sister, someone's friend.  I don't think I am alone in feeling this way, I just think most people (particularly women) don't even think about things like this.  As adults, it's easy to get caught in being defined by being someone else's mother, or by your career, but that isn't really who you are; it isn't your passion.

But although I think a lot of women fall into being defined by the roles they play in their lives, families, careers, etc; I still think the majority of them could tell you what their passion is outside of those things if you asked them.  They would still have a favorite book, a favorite album, a favorite game, a favorite hobby, a lot of little things that define who they are.

I know my favorite color is turquoise and I love elephants.  That's all I've got that is just me.  My favorite author for a while was Anne Rice, and it was because of my best friend in college.  I have a lot of tattoos that I got when I was dating a guy who was really into body art.  Don't get me wrong, I love them all and designed most of them myself.  But at the end of the day, it was under his influence.  I hear a song on the radio and I think to myself, "Oh I was super in to that band when I was hanging around XYZ."  Now, my feeling about that music is mostly indifference.  I've created a lot of artwork because other people suggested I should.  I've tried out a lot of things because other people thought I would be good at them.  

The other day, I had a conversation with a coworker about what we would be doing if we didn't work the jobs we have.  Like if money wasn't an issue and we were doing whatever we wanted in the world.  When I asked him, he said he wanted to own and run a golf course.  Didn't skip a beat, it just flowed out of his mouth like it was something he had thought a lot about.  He's 25.  He asked me the same question and my response was, "I have no idea."

I feel like for the longest time, I just wanted to be financially secure.  As long as whatever I was doing paid the bills, I could find self-satisfaction elsewhere.  But what if you don't?  What if you don't even know what would satisfy you because you don't know what you want?  

I also spent a lot of my life defining myself as the fat girl.  And although I still technically fall into the obese section of the BMI chart, if I refer to myself as the fat girl now, I get some strange looks.  I don't want to be that person that is smaller than someone else, referring to myself as fat, and unintentionally making them feel bad about themselves because of it.  I know what that feels like because I have been there before.

The thing is, I don't know who I am if I am not Mary, the fat girl that does what everybody else wants her to do.  It reminds me of one of Tori Amos' lyrics: "She's been everybody else's girl, maybe one day she'll be her own".  (This is ironic because I was super in to Tori Amos because a friend of mine was at one point.)

My therapist gave me a suggestion today for trying to figure out who I am.  She said she wants me to start with this simple question: "If you were an animal: what would you be and why?"  My first thought was wondering what animal all of my friends and family members would say I am.  And there we have the source of the problem right there.  

It's a simple question, but at least it's a place to start.  

My name is Mary.  I like the color turquoise and elephants.  Check back later and maybe I can tell you something more than that.

Shane... Shame... Same

On Valentine's Day in 2013, my husband and I celebrated our elopement with family and friends.  My step-brother and his (then) wife did not come to the party.  (Please take note that I am speaking about my step-brother who is a year younger than I am, *NOT* my half-brother who is 11 years my junior; this distinction is important).  I don't really remember the excuse he gave and honestly at the time I didn't really care.  

We were never all that close.  We had very little in common other than the marriage of our individual parents.  He was a trouble-maker, a pathological liar, always causing drama, every few years getting a new girl pregnant, never could hold a job, still lived with his mom; you get the picture.  To say that I am his opposite is a vast understatement.  He liked to blame all of his issues on the fact that he was adopted (old school closed adoption in the 70s), but I know plenty of adoptees who would take issue with him using that as an excuse to be a fuck-up.  People will find excuses for whatever they want, wherever they want.

A few weeks after our reception, he came to my mom and step-dad's home to eat dinner with them and "talk".  He told this very convoluted story about him "accidentally" trying to have sex with a minor child (in the family).  My mom said the whole time he was talking to them, all of it seemed plausible (he is a pathological liar, after all).  But after he left, going over the details in her mind, it just didn't make a lot of sense.  She called his (then) wife, who told her the truth.  She called the victim, who told her the truth.  She chose to believe them, not him.

He had, in fact, orchestrated a series of events, to end up alone with this child.  And then tried to have sex with the child.  This all had occurred three years prior, but the child had just found the courage (and the voice) to tell someone.  His wife was leaving him.  A nuclear bomb went off in our family.  My mom called him and lit into him about ruining our family and that she was done.  None of us have seen or spoken to him since, though we try to maintain relationships with his ex-wife and his children (at least the ones we can see; 4 baby mamas makes it difficult).

The victim's parents had not pressed charges.  He didn't have to go to jail.  He didn't even have to admit to anyone what he did.  When the preacher in his church brought his divorce before his men's group, it was under the guise of him "making a mistake" that he couldn't repair in his marriage.  Are you fucking kidding me?  I wanted to call him out.  I wanted to post flyers on every car in the church parking lot with his photo on it.  CHILD MOLESTER.  I wanted his shame written across every public space he could possibly come in contact with children.  But I was not his victim.  Putting him on blast, would also put his victim's shame in the spotlight (at the time).  I had nightmares about it, but it was not my place to speak for someone else's pain.

He was banished from our side of the family.  He has disappeared from our family before (thanks to a different set of lies and circumstances), but this was permanent.  Maybe he didn't realize that, but we did.  Since he had disappeared before, it took a few years for extended family (aunts, uncles, cousins) to notice that he hadn't come around for the holidays in a while.  My mom and step-dad were ashamed of him and what he did.  But they finally came to a place of honesty with the family so they would quit asking about him.

A couple of years ago, one of his children posted something on Facebook that disturbed me to the core.  It was a smiling photo of my step-brother, his new girlfriend, and her children (two daughters) and a caption about moving into their new place together.  Alarms went off in my head.  He must have lied to her about why half of his family doesn't speak to him.  He must have lied to her about what happened, or completely omitted what he did.  There's no way she knows the truth and allows him to live under the same roof with her babies.  No way.

I struggled with what to do.  I wanted to write her a letter, but I also didn't want to get involved.  Again, I was not the victim.  And again his abominable behavior was hidden.  I tried to put it out of my mind, but the guilt about not telling this woman what he really is was overwhelming.  I would want someone to tell me if I were her, I would want to know the truth.  But I am not her.  I remained silent and stuck in the place of not really knowing how to handle it.

It has recently come to light that this woman is marrying him.  And not only that, but she has been told the truth about what happened.  The gory, painful truth directly from the victim's mouth, and from his ex-wife.  And her nonchalant response?  "Well, I had something similar happen to me."  You had something similar happen to you, and you don't think enough of your daughters to protect them from the same fate?  I don't understand.  I don't understand.  I don't understand.

How many people in your life (men and women) have told you of being abused as children?  How many of their abusers were family?  How many abusers never had to pay for it or even admit it?  And this person, this gentle soul who's childhood was marred with unspeakable horror, just has to live with it?  And try to make a life after it?  And try to overcome the shame, and hurt, and learn to trust people while on shaky ground (at best) for the rest of their lives?  And there this abuser is, just walking through life with the ability to do it again and again, and just left to the assumption that the next victim (and the next, and the next) will just swallow their shame down and sweep those deeds under another rug to be hidden forever?

You know, I am a big proponent of therapy.  And I have the belief that any person can choose (or not choose) wellness and progress.  I do believe in the possibility of rehabilitation for someone who has molested a child.  But that will never happen if they never have to see a therapist, or even admit what they did, or acknowledge that it was wrong.  The cycle will just continue.

I no longer have to live the with guilt of not telling this woman about what he did.  I don't have to warn her because she has been warned.  Now I sit in the uncomfortable reality of the choice this woman is making, despite every indication not to.  I absolutely cannot understand why any person would knowingly put their child in this fucked-up situation just to be in a relationship with a man.  And I never will.

Fleur De Lis

I have created rewards in my mind for myself for losing weight as long as I can remember.  More often than not, they were a food reward (I know, I know) of a spectacular cheat day at one of my favorite restaurants.  Of course, those days are over since eating in a restaurant with my husband is mostly just... well... awkward.

You are taking up the time (and table) of a server with a check that amounts to one appetizer or one meal.  We aren't supposed to drink anything while we eat, and we usually have leftovers from just the one thing.  There is inevitably this weird vibe from the staff that something is wrong with the food that is just easiest to avoid in the first place.

Anyways, I digress.  About six years ago, I decided that the next large tattoo I wanted was Ganesha, the Hindu god who is known as the remover of obstacles.  As some sort of motivation for myself, I also decided that I wasn't getting it until I lost weight.  I didn't set in my mind how much weight I needed to lose, I just couldn't have the tattoo until I lost it.

I still don't have a Ganesha tattoo.  I had weight loss surgery, and I have lost 96 pounds from my highest weight to where I am now.  But I guess that isn't enough to deserve my reward?  I don't have an explanation for it except that although I did lose a lot of weight, I am still not in the normal range on the BMI chart.  My weight loss surgeon would not call me a success story because I don't weigh 135.

The thing is, I am not ever going to weigh 135.  I don't even want to weigh 135.  The lowest adult weight I have seen on the scale was in the 170s and I didn't like my body when I was there because I felt it was too deflated.  I actually wanted to gain some weight after that, which I did, I just overachieved.

Anyways, I am getting off topic.  The point of this blog is that I want to have a tummy tuck.  The plastic surgeon I saw for a consultation suggested something called a "Fleur de Lis" procedure where you basically have a vertical and a horizontal scar.  The shape of the skin they remove is (in general) the shape of the stylized lily you probably recognize from the New Orleans Saints logo.

They remove skin from the middle that pulls everything in from the sides, as well as the loose skin (going out to either side) from the bottom.  I never thought I would have (or even want) something like this done.  My husband and I had surgery to lose weight for our health.  I have already found my life partner so who cares what my deflated stomach looks like?

That was all fine and dandy until I almost died in 2016 and had to have the exploratory abdominal surgery and the shit bag.  After it was removed last November, I have a horizontal scar where the stoma resided, as well as a vertical scar that extends from three inches above my belly button all the way down.  Which, again, who cares - it's just a scar and I am still alive.

However, the tight tissue of a scar right down the middle of a belly of loose skin creates what I can only describe as "front butt".  It makes finding flattering pants pretty difficult.  In addition, where the stoma used to be, I have hernia repair mesh over my abdominal muscles.  The skin hanging and pulling on this mesh is painful with every step I take.  I thought it would ease up at some point, but I am 8 months out from surgery and I have come to terms with the fact that this is just part of my new normal.

I could learn to live with front butt, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life in pain on a daily basis because of loose skin.  The tummy tuck would fix both.  Here is where we come full circle (and the beginning of this blog seems less random).  In my mind, I don't deserve to have it done.

In my mind, I am not a weight loss success story.  In my mind, if I haven't lost all the weight I need to lose, then I am not ready for the tuck to fix my skin.  The thing is, I am at the stable weight I was at before I got sick in 2016.  And I have been there for three months.  But for whatever reason, it is not enough.  In my mind, I need to lose ten more pounds.  Why ten pounds?  Who fucking knows.  If I lost ten more pounds, it would be my lowest adult weight (outside of when I was ill).

I question myself about this all the time.  Why don't you think you deserve this?  What about that ten pounds makes a difference?  If it is so important, why do you keep cheating on your diet and not losing the ten pounds?  Because in addition to deciding I need to lose this arbitrary amount of weight, I am also not sticking to keto and essentially self-sabotaging my efforts to get there.

I lose a couple of pounds after a week of sticking to my eating plan.  Then I eat ice cream sandwiches for a few days and gain the few pounds back.  I have gained and lost the same pounds for weeks by doing this.  The thing is, I know if I just stick to the keto, it works for me.  So what gives?

At the end of the day, I think this goes back to my lack of self-worth.  I would be 100% supportive of my husband having skin removal surgery if he chose to do so.  He deserves it.  He has earned it.  But when it comes to doing the same thing for myself, I balk at spending the money.  Or I make arbitrary goals for losing ten pounds, then do things to ensure I don't.  Or I talk myself out of having the surgery at all because I am still "fat".  I tell myself that I don't deserve it.  That I haven't earned it.

The ironic part about this is that if I had the tummy tuck, I would probably lose 10 pounds of skin.  It has been a difficult process, but at some point I want to arrive at a place where I can say out loud, "I deserve to have a tummy tuck."

AND a tattoo.

Death And Vacation

My husband and I arrived in Gulf Shores a day earlier than the rest of my dad's side of the family.  We decided we would drive down on Friday because we were leaving a day early to come back for a music festival he was playing in Memphis.  We got stuck in a hellacious (technical term) traffic jam because there is some major construction going on in Mobile on I-10.  The GPS sent us the wrong way and it added an hour to our drive.

About 45 minutes from our hotel, my husband got a call from his brother.  They don't talk super frequently, but he was so frustrated with the traffic (and the bitch GPS) that he just ignored the call until we got to the hotel.  But before we arrived, I received a message from his wife that simply read, "Betty died today."

Betty is my husband's estranged mother.  Estranged in the way that we have been together since 2010 and married since 2012 and I have never met her.  Estranged in the way that he had to keep deciding every few years to cut ties with her because she was a toxic narcissist who manipulated his brother and half brother against him and each other.  Estranged in the way you read about in psychology books regarding childhood trauma and the importance of maternal bonding (or lack thereof).

Since 2010, she has tried to come and go in his life whenever she wasn't the center of attention.  Pale attempts at reestablishing a connection that hasn't existed since she abandoned him and his brother when he was 9.  The first time I was supposed to meet her was his first time performing out, opening for a friend's band.  She didn't show up.  The next day, she posted a comment on his Facebook page about arriving too early.

My first instinct was to reply to her, "there's a really easy fucking way to remedy arriving early: you just sit your ass down and wait."  But our relationship was new and we were still refusing to even call it a relationship.  I didn't think it was my place to say that.  I regret not saying it.  I never ended up meeting her or having the opportunity to tell her what I thought of a woman like her and the damage she inflicted/continued to inflict upon other people; particularly her children.

I wasn't sure what repercussions to expect from that simple message, "Betty died today."  Would he want to turn around and go back home after just arriving?  He had decided two or three months ago that whenever her death arrived, he would not be attending her funeral.  At the time it seemed like a far off proposition: a determination for his future self, certainly not something that would come so soon.

There was (again) some bullshit started among his brothers that I can only assume derived from her.  There were some pretty hateful exchanges between us and his half brother.  Then there were equally hateful things said between his brother and his half brother.  My husband and I cut ties from his half brother and his mother (again) on social media, having only tentatively reestablished contact around a year before.  It was the same cycle of coming and going that had happened every couple of years in the past.

At the first sight of the message, my husband seemed relieved.  It was finally over.  He firmly stated he would not be returning to Memphis for the service and that we would stay at the beach with my family.  It was probably the best place for both of us.  He had already decided not to go months ago, but being 7 hours away added an extra layer of finality to it.  I hoped maybe some peace could be found watching the waves and thinking about it all to the soundtrack of sea birds and wind.

It was a hard week.  It's hard being on vacation including 7 adult family members and a new baby anyhow.  No matter the family or circumstance, everyone's expectations and routines are different.  I watched my husband cycle through relief, sadness, melancholy, depression, anxiety, confusion, anger; did I miss anything?  There were moments of peace and clarity, but always under a cloud.

We needed the vacation.  We needed the relaxation, the break from life and working and responsibilities.  I am not sure we got exactly what we needed, but I am glad we went.  And I am glad we stayed.  Seeing the collection of family members back in Memphis that were hanging out together in his absence (as if none of the hateful shit that was said a few months ago existed, as if the lifetime of her manipulation was imaginary), was some sort of online show of the ridiculous behavior that seems expected of families just because someone died.

This past Sunday, he performed at the music festival.  Musically, his path over the past 8 years has been similar to the waves of the ocean.  Opportunities coming and going, sometimes chaotic, sometimes slow, sometimes disappointing; always left to control that is not his.  I was hopeful that his show would go well.  The irony of her death coming a week before it is not lost on me.  In the end, it seemed to be good for him; a distraction, if only temporary.

I have several friends who have had toxic mothers.  I expect the death of Betty to be much like the others.  The grief for the person who has died is not really the thing they felt.  It is a grief for the relationship; the positive, motherly relationship that was never had.  The death is just the end of the opportunity for reconciliation.  But honestly, after a lifetime of this shit, what kind of reconciliation could you really have?

Betty will never know the damage she did to my husband.  No one ever told her.  It is not surprising that she was passing on abusive behavior of which she was once a victim.  But she didn't have to do that.  My husband is also a victim of abuse who is not passing it on to anyone else.  You don't have to do that; you choose to do that.  Everything in life is always a choice.  

She chose herself and a revolving door of men (who didn't show up to her service, by the way) over her sons.  The only thing my husband ever really wanted from her was for her to acknowledge what happened; even an apology was outside of the realm of expectations.  But one super fun piece of an abusive narcissist is the gas-lighting.  Nothing was her fault anyhow.  What was there to admit to?  What was there to apologize for?

I know that owning your own shit is not an easy process to work through.  I was not abused as a child and just working through everything that goes on in my head has not been easy.  I have people to call me out on my own bullshit that I am still blind to even now; though I consider myself to be fairly self aware.  I feel like at least I am trying to change the script my life has followed so far.

I honestly hope that clarity came to her at the end of her physical life.  I don't know that peace came to my husband on vacation, or will for some time.  But I am personally relieved of the anxiety that goes along with the unknown of her periodic entrances and exits in our life together.  What happens with his brothers remains to be seen.  I think the lies and manipulation she used for years to pit them against each other is too deep-rooted for repair in some instances.  I don't wish it to be that way, but there are some tangled webs you just cannot unweave.

Thoughts on Suicide... For Dave... Or Anyone Else Struggling...

Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the United States.  Among them, the largest percentage of suicides for the last 10 years have been among people between the ages of 45 and 54.  In the past two decades, suicide rates have increased over 25% across the US, over 30% in some states.  This data is conservative at best; because of the stigma associated with self-harm, suicides are not reported that way unless they can be proven.  I think you would be hard pressed to find a person that has not been touched by suicide in some way.  They have a friend, a family member, a work colleague... everyone seems to know someone.

This morning, I heard the news about Anthony Bourdain committing suicide.  It felt like a punch in the gut, that feeling that takes your breath away when you hear something you don't want to believe.  That moment in time when you know life is just different from that point forward.

No Reservations and Parts Unknown were both shows that my husband and I used to watch together.  The food was interesting, but the people and places that Tony visited, his interactions with them, the way he spoke and the words he used to describe everything were the heart of the story.  He was a celebrity who seemed to "keep it real".  He didn't shy away from intense conversations about himself, his struggles, his past, current problems in the places his visited; he laid it all out there.  He was genuine and eloquent.

I think when most people hear of someone like him (or Kate Spade, or Robin Williams, or Chris Cornell, or Chester Bennington, or Kurt Cobain, or ...) committing suicide, their first thought is why or wondering what happened that precipitated this event.  Some sort of speculation regarding their state of mind or whatever heartbreak must have prompted them to do such a thing.  But that is not my first thought.

My first thought is my husband.  How he struggles with depression and anxiety every day.  How he talks about how hard it is to continue just living day-to-day.  How his relationships in his family tend to be strained over systems of belief (politics, religion, racism, etc).  How he finds it so difficult to make new friends, people who have things in common with him; anxious about coming across the wrong way, about just being himself.  How sometimes he just can't leave the house.  How his support system tends to be a party of one: me.

Therapists will tell you that you need to find your joy, your passion in life and live it as the cure-all for depression.  That or take a magic pill.  Their advice is that my husband needs to figure out what his purpose is to find a more fulfilling life.  What the hell happened then to someone like Tony?  These people who have enough resources to find their joy and live their passion in whatever way they like?  And who at the end of the day, still couldn't find enough reason to just continue living?

I feel like it is just some sort of unattainable goal to keep you focused on some better future.  Like, yeah, everything may be shitty right now, but you never know what could happen tomorrow that would make you happier.  Tomorrow, you may meet your person: the one who will teach you everything about being loved.  Tomorrow, you may make a new friend that makes the biggest difference in your life.  Tomorrow, you may be in that new job, or new city, or new country, or whatever, that will finally be the place where you feel like yourself, like you fit in, like everything is right with the world.  Tomorrow... just hold on until tomorrow.

But Tony was already living a dream.  He was a best selling author.  He was a world renowned chef.  He was a world traveler.  He had won pretty much every culinary award you can win.  He was wealthy.  He was well liked.  He was an advocate for people who couldn't advocate for themselves.  He talked freely about his life when he was a heroin addict.  He was honest.  He had a support system.  He had a daughter.  

Maybe he felt like he had already lived life in all of the ways he could?  Maybe if he went to a therapist to talk about unhappiness, they wouldn't be able to tell him his life would be better if he just found his passion or his joy.  He already had.  He already did.  What do you tell someone who has a life like that who is still unhappy?

Personally, I have thought about suicide before.  I think everyone has thought about it at least once.  What would the world be like without me in it?  Once, I came too close to doing it after Nana died.  I found a therapist after that.  My reason for not going through with it?  My dog Casper wouldn't have understood.  That may sound kind of pathetic, but he was the only one for which a letter wouldn't change the confusion.

I don't think about suicide anymore.  I don't think I am the poster child for happiness or a healthy life.  If anything, this blog is a testament to the struggles I still have.  But I have built a life with friends and family that make me feel like I have a place in the world.  I think I was so enmeshed with Nana at the time that I didn't know what life outside of her was possible.  But living through her death, and later almost dying myself, showed me I still have some life left in me after all.

But I still worry about my husband.  Being an empath, I know he feels the weight of the world on his shoulders.  Limiting the amount of time he spends reading news or world events or the general way people continue to wreck each other every day helps, but only partially.  Tony was the kind of man with the kind of life and disposition my husband looked up to and aspired to be like.  If the world is too much for Tony, where does that leave him?

If I have a continuing point of anxiety, it is that one day the world will be too much for him too.  That I will come home and find that he has died alone and on purpose.  That at the end of the day, although this life with me was arguably the best part of his life, that happiness was still elusive enough that he gave up on the search.  It is the fear that plays out in the back of my mind particularly on a day like today.  When someone who was one of his few idols gave up his own search.

The past few years have been a struggle for him.  I know that being laid off from his long time job in 2015 was more difficult than he lets on.  It isn't a financial burden for us for him to be a temporary house spouse and take care of our home and animals.  If anything, I saw it as an opportunity for him to find himself and figure out if he actually wants to pursue music.  But the next year was what I would have to call a mini breakdown, or perhaps a mid-life crisis of trying to figure some things out and not really knowing what to do with himself.  He tried neuro-feedback, and although it helped with anxiety it didn't provide any answers.

When I almost died in December of 2016, the spiral was quick to morph into PTSD and a new level of anxiety I hadn't seen with him before.  2017 was spent in therapy working on coping mechanisms.  He was afraid I was going to die.  He kind of freaked every time I left the house by myself.  "Come back to me," he would say with tears in his eyes.  I could see the pain and fear there, but I couldn't fix it.  I think surviving the colostomy reversal without complications last November put his mind more at ease, but he is still doing the work of recovery for himself.

He has everything to live for right now.  To a lot of people, he probably has an enviable life.  But at the end of the day, if you have clinical depression, circumstances are irrelevant.  You just wake up some mornings overwhelmed with sadness that doesn't have a precursor, a trigger, or a source.  There is nothing that happens the prior day that causes it.  There is nothing that will force you out of it.  I can only offer my love and support, watch him fight with himself, and worry if he will be alive when I get home.

All of this to say, today I am sad that Tony is no longer.  I hope his family and close friends find closure in such a difficult situation.  I hope his daughter grows up loving him and his memory.  And I hope he has found peace.  

Let the people you love, know that you love them.  Sometimes, the persona that is strong and confident and happy and joyous is just that: a persona.  Sometimes people are battling demons you can't see and they will never feel comfortable sharing with you.  People need each other.  Particularly the ones who by all appearances want to be left alone.

Fat Slob Of A Woman

Roseanne Barr was recently roasted for a racist tweet she posted.  Some people were in an uproar (ie. you don't get to be a racist).  Some people were defending her (ie. you get to be a racist if you want to because - free speech).  ABC was quick to fire her.  Trump was quick to make her predicament inexplicably about himself.  The usual controversy.

In the 90's, at the height of her original show's popularity, she has stated her weight was around 350 pounds.  She had gastric bypass surgery to lose weight, she had a tummy tuck, and in the last 4 years or so she adopted an eating/exercise plan and lost even more weight.  If you search for old pictures of her, she was fat as a teenager.  I would say my weight loss journey has a similar timeline to hers; though I would also say that is where my similarity to Roseanne Barr ends.

Here's where it gets weird for me.  When the internet was in an uproar about the racist things she said, people immediately resorted to calling her fat.  I read comment after comment on articles about her firing full of hateful tirades about her body.  I even had a friend (whom I would consider to be one of the more open-minded people I know) refer to her as a "fat slob of a woman".  People's go-to insult to her was to call her fat despite the fact that she is currently taking care of her body.

This goes back to what I have said over and over again: fat-shaming is one of the last hold-outs in socially acceptable discrimination and hate.  I read those words on my friend's post "fat slob of a woman" and they reverberated through my mind (and continue to do so almost a week later).  It changed my perception of this person in an instant.  This open-minded, forgiveness-promoting, Jesus-loving, caring person said "fat slob of a woman".  No one even mentioned that choice of words in the comments on that post.  I was disappointed and hurt, but I kept my commentary to myself.  I have learned through therapy that I am quick to fight another person's battle, but not so quick to do so for myself.

This brings to the forefront another aspect of fat-shaming that people seem to forget.  If they will use this language to insult another person, it also applies to me and is also an insult to me.  I can presume, that if in the future there is some heated exchange between someone like this and myself, that my size (former or current) would be hurled in my face as an insult, or used behind my back.  You cannot use those words and then follow them up with "of course I'm not talking about you, Mary".  Because yes you are.  In the same way that you cannot use the "N-word" to refer to a specific person and not also imply that you would use that word to apply to all black people.  In the same way that you cannot call one homosexual a "faggot", and insist that your hate speech isn't sweeping across the gay community in entirety.

Around a week ago, I was a witness to an entire conversation about someone else's body and recent weight gain.  Disbelief that they had let themselves get so big despite the exercise they were known to typically participate in.  Nonchalant commentary about how unhappy they must be to "allow" themselves to be in such a predicament.  Speculation about the reasons why this happened.  I failed at defending them against these comments or at expressing my sadness that this group of people would be like that in the first place.  I picked up my phone and zoned out into another world and remained silent.

Well, I'm fucking sick of it and have arrived at a moment of clarity.  If I would call someone out for being racist, or sexist, or misogynistic, or anti-gay, or anti-poor, or what-the-fuck-ever else, then I should be equally ready to go to battle for someone fat-shaming another person in front of me.  I mean, I know why I don't.  I don't want to immediately be the target of the same insults.  I don't want to single myself out.  But the thing is, if you would say that about someone else in front of me, you would say that about me to someone else.  If you hate fat people enough to talk about another person's body like that, you definitely feel the same way about this fat person sitting right in front of you.

I am not going to claim innocence throughout my lifetime.  I have spoken very hatefully about fat bodies in the past.  Those words were directed at myself 99% of the time.  Self-deprecating humor is the fat chick's instant back pocket joke.  Here, let me point out all of my perceived flaws and laugh about them before you have the opportunity to point them out and laugh at me instead.  Being a fat girl, I also gave myself lenience in commenting on fat people in general.  Almost in a "I can speak for this community because I am part of this community" sort of way.  I have commented on other people's diets and weight loss attempts in the past, which mostly came from a place of self-loathing that I couldn't be successful at losing weight myself.  I can hold a mirror up to my flaws.  I am self-aware if nothing else.

I have realized it was just as wrong of me as it was for anyone else.  This is a commitment I am making to myself to reclaim my space and my voice.  To learn to view my body more positively despite what a lot of people and society in general constantly projects about fat bodies.  I am reclaiming the word "fat".  It is just a description of my body, similar to thin, or petite, or tall, or broad.  It doesn't equate to ugly or disgusting or some sort of failure.  It is just an adjective.  If you call me a "fat slob of a woman", I am going to take issue with the word "slob".  I am fat.  I have fat.  But that doesn't make me less.

So to anyone reading this, this is fair notice.  I am absolutely standing up for myself (and anyone who is the butt of the current fat joke) from now on.  You can look me square in the eyes and say whatever hurtful shit you feel comfortable dishing to my face.  But I will no longer silently sit by and try to make myself look smaller while you critique another person's body in their absence.  I don't expect my future responses to this sort of behavior will be very kind.  May the odds be ever in your favor.

This blog is not about food...

I have noticed something that has been bothering me lately.  To put it in it's most summarized form: the closer I get to a healthy place for myself, the less bullshit I am able to tolerate.

My therapist warned me in the beginning that seeking out change for oneself can lead to some uncomfortable places with the other people in your life.  Particularly for someone like me with the inability to say no, the overwhelming urge to be a people-pleaser, the unhealthy tendency to position myself as a rescuer to other people, etc.  When a person like me looks to make changes to their own behavior, it has repercussions within all of their other relationships.

Suddenly, you find yourself attempting to create better boundaries and (in general) the people who have always taken advantage of your lack of boundaries don't really like it all that much.  In addition, situations that you have been in (for years even) that never seemed to bother you before, are now irritating because the lack of respect shown to you is no longer hidden by your own insecurities or lack of self worth.

I think that for the most part, my transition to healthier boundaries within my closest relationships has been pretty gradual (and they didn't just start last summer when I sought out help for the binge eating disorder).  This has been a process I have been working through for many years.  I originally went to grief counseling after Nana died in 2007.  I discovered a lot more I needed to work on (besides overcoming grief).

I know I got a little bit off track in the years since ending that counseling.  Although I may have been at a better place dealing with grief and life in general, I definitely hadn't made the kinds of changes with my boundaries I needed to really make.  Since I have been married in particular (the last 5+ years), my husband has pointed out to me the times when I am in a totally neurotic people-pleasing state.

It has been a hard truth to face, quite honestly.  He would literally just repeat to me whatever I said I was going to do, then question if I see how or why that action should be above the expectations of me (or really anybody).  You know, most of therapy is just someone else holding up a mirror to your behavior and prodding you to determine (on your own) that it doesn't make any damn sense.

If anyone in my circle of friends and family have been disappointed by changes in the boundaries I have created for myself, they haven't made me aware of it.  I am guessing that anyone who was taking advantage of my kindness or generosity just realized that the joyride was over and moved on.  However, there is one area of my life that continues to be a challenge: my job.

I work in an industry overwhelmingly dominated by men, specifically of the older and white variety.  I refer to it as the "good ole boys club".  It is not news to me that I experience sexism (benevolent sexism included) or the repercussions of the wage gap on a regular basis.  In fact, I have been told directly by people who have left my department, the specifics of just exactly how my pay differs.  But that is a story for another time.

My issue right now is about respect (or lack thereof) within my office environment.  On a daily basis, people pop into my cubicle all day long to ask me questions (as I am the only one in my department who does what I do).  This is expected.  What is not expected is that they would just walk in, sit down, and start spouting off questions at me when I am in the middle of doing something else.  There is no "hello", no "do you have a minute", no nothing.

My job is very technical.  I have to concentrate on what I am doing to do it accurately.  If I don't do my job correctly, then every program the rest of the department uses is not set up accurately.  If I am in the middle of something with 10 spreadsheets open on my computer (writing a formula, for example), someone just popping in and spewing verbal diarrhea all over me eliminates any train of thought I had going.

In addition, I have noticed that before I can actually answer whatever question is being asked of me (while interrupting me without inquiring if I have time for this tomfoolery in the first place), I have male coworkers who just yell over my cubicle wall at the person asking me a question any number of arbitrary pieces of information.  As I said before, I am the only person who does what I do in this department.  The likelihood that anyone is going to answer the question better than I can is minimal.  I'm not trying to sound like an egomaniac or anything, it's just how it is in this particular job.

I then sit through the verbal diarrhea coming over my cubicle wall (either not answering the question at all, or only partially, or completely inaccurately) for however many minutes it lasts whilst literally staring at the ceiling trying not to let my eyes roll up into the back of my head.  Once everyone goes silent, my commentary usually starts with, "to actually answer your original question... blah blah blah" if it is something I can answer quickly.  However, 99% of the time, whatever they are asking me is something I am going to have to research anyhow (because they have broken something) and my response is, "I don't have time to stop what I am working on right now to research this, send me an email and I will get to it later today."

In thinking about it, nothing about anyone's behavior at my office has changed.  They have always barged into my cubicle.  They have always hollered over the wall.  The only thing that has changed is my perception of it in recognizing it for being incredibly disrespectful.  It's a complete disregard for my time and professional space for the ones who barge into my cubicle.  It is some sort of benevolent sexism for hollering over the wall to answer questions, maybe in some backward attempt to resolve the situation for me instead of allowing me to handle it myself.

We all do a lot of talking over the cubicle walls in my office.  And everyone interjects into each other's professional conversations about questions that come up or errors we experience when we have something useful to add.  Usually, someone has seen it before and knows a solution.  It is part of working in a cubicle environment and I get that.  I guess what I don't get is the assumption that you need to answer something for me when I haven't even had the opportunity to respond to the question in the first place.

I know I don't interject into someone else's conversation unless they clearly don't know the answer, or they are planning to implement a solution that's completely inaccurate, or they don't understand the ramifications for what else it could affect and other things they need to check first.  I certainly don't just assume my coworkers in the cubicles around me can't answer things for themselves until they prove that to be the case.

But here is where the work I am doing on myself comes into practice.  You see, in thinking about the past, this has always been my work environment.  Maybe I was more complacent about people talking over me or answering for me because I had put myself squarely into the position of a doormat and didn't think I deserved anything better.  Maybe I always dropped whatever I was working on and changed gears to work on stuff as people came in and out of my cubicle all day long because I didn't have the backbone to just tell them I was busy working on something else.  Maybe none of this ever bothered me because I was oblivious as to why it should bother me in the first place.

But here I am now.  I am less tolerant of people spreading their disrespectful behavior all over my life.  I think that's a good thing.  But I also think this is going to be an arduous process of growing pains in my work environment.  And in the meantime, I also know that specifically because I am a woman, it's not going to register with any of them to change their behavior according to what I am requesting of them immediately.  Immediately, the response will be, "oh, she must be hormonal" or "wow, she's in a bitchy mood" or "Mary's on the war path again" (that last one was accidentally emailed to me once).

Nothing has changed except my perception of it.  Modifying behavior is something that takes a long time to implement.  I'm not super confident that the "good ole boys club" will even be on board to respect my boundaries.  But masking my contempt when I am so completely disregarded is not something that I am doing very successfully anymore.

Authenticity

My therapy group (for people who have had gastric surgery - bypass, sleeve, band, etc - and who struggle with binge eating disorder) was cancelled this week.  I was kind of disappointed because I was actually excited to share some things I have learned about myself recently.

It has been sort of a process for me to be as open as I need to be with them.  I clearly don't have a problem sharing (if this blog is any indication).  I don't really care what people think of me because I am the only person who has to live my life.  But it is another story entirely to attempt to verbalize your feelings out loud, in person, with strangers, face to face.  Work in progress, I guess.

I truly appreciate their willingness to be authentic within the group.  Their honesty shocks me sometimes.  Not because I wouldn't be able to share something similar (or that I don't have a similar story a lot of the time), but because in the past I have not experienced other people being as open as I typically am.  I appreciate that they are putting themselves out there because it is kind of required for the group to be successful, but also because I don't feel like most people do that in their lives.

I think this is also why I don't have many true friends.  I don't want to talk about the weather or the latest celebrity news.  I want to know what you think about aliens, or ghosts, or the meaning of life (outside of organized religion).  I want to know why you think some people are afraid of science.  I want to know why you tick the way you do.  Why do you make the choices you make?  What are your secret pieces?

I don't really care what your favorite color is, I want to know why you chose it and why it brings you joy or how it makes you feel.  I want to know if you're happy with your life or if there are things you would do differently if you could.  I want to know what you dream you should be doing with your life, or if you're living your dream right now.

I guess I have been recently projecting that this is what I want from people.  I have had an unusual number of people who have come out of the woodwork to ask me for advice about their lives (over the past year or two).  People I haven't seen in years.  People I don't know all that well.  They share pieces of themselves with me that they don't seem to share with really anyone else.  It still surprises me when I see this willing vulnerability.

Since I have started this blog in particular, I have reconnected with people I have known for years.  They have shared deeper parts of themselves with me than I ever thought I would be privy to knowing.  I guess they read my words and feel more connected to me as a human since I try to write and share my true feelings.

It is within these conversations of authenticity and vulnerability that I have realized some really important things about perception.  Particularly, how my perception of people or circumstances in my past were completely different from someone else's.  How although at the time I thought I was completely alone in what I was feeling, it turns out I was surrounded by people who were feeling the same way.  We were just all too young and insecure to actually express any of it to someone else.

I have been thinking a lot about my life and the path I chose to navigate through it.  I have often said that if I had a choice, I would not relive my life and change anything.  I always sort of had the perception that things happened the way they were meant to and whatever bullshit I went through was for a reason or some sort of lesson.  But I think I have changed my mind about that.

If I got a do-over, there are lots of things I would do differently.  There are friendships that I would sacrifice from the timeline of my life to take another path.  There are relationships I would not choose for myself.  There are people I would seek out and talk to about my insecurities because I (now) know they felt the same way.  I would change how my health was handled when I was a teenager (with the lack of diagnosis on the tumor).  I would give myself permission to have this level of authenticity so much sooner than my 40's.

I have never really shied away from expressing my opinions about things going on in the world.  I try to make sure I have all of the information I need before forming an opinion, so I don't have a problem defending it if someone disagrees.  I never have the hesitation to share my thoughts.

I think my biggest hurdles in life have been figuring out who I actually am and expressing my true feelings out loud (rather than just my thoughts).  In the do-over of my life, I would tell people how I feel.  I would seek out friendships I didn't know (at the time) were possible to have.  I would take better care of myself (physically, mentally, and emotionally).  I would show and express the value of my true friendships to those people.  I would allow myself to follow my gut because it was usually right.

In thinking about all of this, I have come to realize that although I won't get a do-over for the past, there is no reason to not do this in the present.  I just wanted to put out into the world that I appreciate vulnerability, authenticity, and intimacy.  I don't consider myself to be an expert on much, but I am a master listener.  And although I may not have any answers, I welcome anyone who needs a place to voice their questions.

Oh, for the love of condiments...

I'm a lover of toppings.  I like pizzas with all the toppings.  Veggie lovers, meat lovers, supreme... if they had a pizza that was called "toppings lovers" it would probably be perfect for me.  It's almost like my brain is on board because hey, more calories and more taste varieties!  What's not to love?  

Salad is the same.  I don't care for lettuce, but I frequently ordered salads when I was fat Mary just for the toppings.  Each forkful would be one small piece of lettuce and a stack of toppings.  Somehow I convinced myself that ordering a salad with fried chicken, bacon, cheese, and croutons on top was somehow a better choice than a burger.  Because: lettuce.

Which brings me to a recent revelation I've had about my current eating plan (keto).  When I first started, I was logging everything in My Fitness Pal so that I could make sure my macros were on track for my daily goals: 70% fat, 20% protein, 10% carbs.  I was making recipes directly from keto websites exactly as they were written and I was losing weight pretty quickly.

Then I arrived at the inevitable plateau.  I hovered around the same weight for about 17 days.  Up a pound, down a pound, up a pound, down a pound.  It is incredibly frustrating when this happens even though (if you have tried and stuck with any diet over any period of time) you know it eventually will.

But by the time my plateau arrived, I already felt pretty comfortable with estimating the carbs I was eating as well as just winging it with recipes to make keto friendly food.  I had stopped logging everything in My Fitness Pal and had even discovered some sugar-free chocolates I could have (because apparently sugar alcohols don't count as part of carb intake - who knew).  And then, no more weight loss progress.

So this past week, I started logging my food again in an attempt to try to figure out what I was doing wrong and why I was not losing weight anymore.  And behold!  I say unto you brothers and sisters, the revelation of my findings should not be a surprise: CONDIMENTS. 

When I first started keto, I bought low sugar ketchup and made a mental log of all of the condiments that are low in carbs.  Note that I said LOW in carbs, not carb FREE.  I got comfortable eating low carb and was at a place of thinking I knew what I was eating.  I started just making up recipes based on my loose (very loose) recollections of the ones I saw on the keto websites.

So as I was logging everything this week, I realized that my brain had converted the idea of low carb into SAFE FOOD.  And I particularly started paying attention to the portions on the bottles of my condiment toppings.  You know, it's only 2 carbs if you actually only eat ONE serving.  One serving on most of these items is 2 tablespoons.  2 TABLESPOONS?  I can assure everyone that I have never only used 2 tablespoons of anything before or after gastric surgery.

So.  My conclusion was this: girlfriend, you can eat foods without toppings.  Because if adding ranch dressing, or ketchup, or sour cream, or salsa, or pickles, or cool whip to every damn thing you eat is going to push you over the carb limit every single day, maybe no toppings is a better path?  Just a thought.

I actually lost a new pound as of today, so maybe I have passed the plateau.  But I feel like this is just another example of how mental I am about food.  The simple idea that any one particular food is "safe" for my diet easily translates in my mind to: EAT ALL OF THAT ALL THE TIME IN AS BIG A QUANTITY AS YOU CAN STOMACH.  Lord help.

My most recent work with my therapist was in relation to how I have always used food as a coping mechanism; a rescuer to whatever anxiety life was throwing at me.  Having the gastric sleeve surgery eliminated my capacity for overeating.  But it did not change the way I think about food, or the way I still expect it to be my rescuer.  "It's not brain surgery."  

I am still hopeful that someday it will "click" with me and my relationship with food will change.  But as I travel this path in life, I have to continuously be mindful of the tricks I can play on myself about food.  Particularly the lies I can tell myself about what I can or should eat and what quantity.  I'm not there yet, but the process of identifying the source of my setbacks seems to be coming more easily.



As an aside: I went to my group therapy last week and there was a woman in the group I thought about adding on Facebook.  I have connected outside of group with one other person and the mutual support in between our monthly group meetings has definitely been beneficial for me (and I hope for them as well).  Anyways, I looked her up and realized immediately that she is married to someone I used to date 10-12 years ago.  Can I just say what are the fucking odds of that?  I am somehow in a small therapy group (less than 8 people) with a woman who had the same gastric surgery I did, with the same surgeon, who ended up in therapy with the same therapist, who struggles with binge eating disorder, and she is married to someone I have seen naked?  WTF kind of shit is that?  Obviously, I am going to have to take her aside and talk to her about it, but seriously WTF.