Gastric Bypass Barbie

Hot Air Balloons, Regain, & Ruby Red Slippers (Oh, My!)

This morning, while Enrique Elliptical and I were having our 45 minutes of cardio together, I got a visual of myself rising up into the air (like a balloon). I was frantically kicking and flailing my arms in a feeble attempt to stay on the ground, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t stop myself from drifting away.

Then, I visualized Dorothy, from the Wizard of Oz. Remember how she got into the basket of the hot air balloon with the Great Oz, after he promised to take her back home? Remember how Toto jumped out at the last second, forcing her to dive right out after him? Of course, we all know what happened next: The balloon drifted away because it didn’t have enough sand bags to weight it down. No matter what Dorothy did, she could not stop it from happening.

Though the entire movie, she tried heroically to get home, but once she missed that balloon, we were all convinced that she’d be stuck in Oz forever. That is, of course, until Glenda (the Good Witch) returned to tell her that she’s always had the power to go home; all she had to do was wish hard enough and click her ruby red slippers together.

So, how does this little tale apply to me in my Bariatric After Life™? Well, the runaway balloon represents weight regain. Remember how I said that I’d visualized myself floating away, unable to keep my feet on the ground? Remember how Dorothy couldn’t keep that balloon on the ground either?

As it turns out, the balloon (and all of the things Dorothy tried in Oz) represented OUTWARD forces – things that were OUT OF HER CONTROL. The ruby red slippers were the manifestation of all that was INSIDE; her INWARD FORCES. Ultimately, she needed to fail at all of her externally motivated attempts so she could finally see that, only by looking inside herself, would she be able to achieve her dream of returning home.

This is what codependency is all about; the idea that we are affected by and seek answers from outward forces, when we really should be looking WITHIN.

What I realized after this little movie played out in my head was this: I have the power to control my weight regain. I am not a hot-air balloon that is leaving without me — I am Dorothy who knows there is NO PLACE LIKE HOME because I have always been there. I’ve always had the control to be where I most wanted to be — and that’s where I stand today.

Today, I had to remember that I have the God-given power within me to achieve whatever I need to achieve – and I don’t need a wise and powerful Oz to live a healthy and happy bariatric after life.

It’s such a simple lesson, it’s hard to believe I ever missed it. But, I guess life is made up of lots of simple answers – which I just like to make more complicated.

Hey, I think I need a pair of cute little ruby red pumps. Uh, so I can always find my way home.

My Emotional Garage (and a bunch of bariatric boxes)

I don’t know about you, but our garage is the picture of semi-organized chaos. Now, this is no swipe at MexiKen, because he does the best can to keep a crap load of…well, crap arranged (after a fashion) in a mere 400 square feet of space. In all honestly, I rarely set foot in the garage, mostly because there isn’t much room to move around, but also because I’m afraid of what I’ll find…or what will find me!

Remember that I Love Lucy episode where they moved to the country, but had to store all of their junk in the Mertz’s apartment until the house became available? Yeah, that’s our garage, except that we have a small pathway that leads to the extra refrigerator (where I store all of my Protein Blitzs, Propel Waters and Labrada Lean Body RTDs).

The point is, our garage is filled with a ton of stuff. There’s stuff I’ve forgotten we had, stuff I never KNEW we had, stuff that isn’t ours, and stuff that has clearly begun to generate its OWN stuff. I have no idea where things are or why they are even there. Except for the beach chairs, the bikes, the ice chests, boxes of Christmas decorations (MexiKen is Mr. Christmas, trust me) and these little display cabinets where he keeps his miniature car and airplane collection “for his future grandson.”

That’s about all I know.

Don’t ask me where my wedding dress is (I don’t wanna talk about it), or where my high school memory boxes went. Don’t ask me who owns the jumbo Rubbermaid storage bins, those two mattresses, the futon, the ugly end tables, or the lamps without lamp shades. And DON’T ask me what’s up in the overhead rafters. I don’t WANT to know.

My point is, I couldn’t tell you about everything in my garage if my life depended upon it, which is unfortunate, because the state of my garage is really metaphoric to my emotional self in the Bariatric After Life™.

Hmmmm….You didn’t see that coming, did you?

Let me explain.

This morning, I had one of those “D’oh!” moments, where I realized that I was doing something seemingly innocuous, but which was most likely responsible for some nagging pounds I’ve been trying to shed.

Before I tell you what I was doing, let me paint a picture of how my emotional self (garage) looks.

Since I was born, I’ve been shoving stuff into my emotional garage. In the beginning, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t putting things in there in any sort of logical way, but over time (probably as space began to run out), I took greater care in how I jammed stuff in. Think “Tetris” and you’re getting close. I’d see an opening that “looked” like a perfect fit for an emotion, and cram it in, not caring what I was burying in the process. I mean, maybe I “needed” something that I’d carelessly relegated to the bottom layer. In the back. Maybe I “needed” to combine that thing just out of reach with the new thing I was bringing in. Maybe I needed to get rid of some of the junk that was accumulating. But, who would ever KNOW? Maybe OTHER PEOPLE were cramming stuff into my emotional garage without my knowledge. Maybe those people were also TAKING stuff out of my emotional garage (when I wasn’t even having a yard sale!)

The point is, much like the garage in my house, my emotional garage is packed to the gills with heaven-knows-what, and even though I have been cleaning and cleaning and cleaning, there’s still stuff I haven’t reached yet (and aren’t aware of). On the one hand, I have tossed out a TON of emotional garbage; on the other, I’ve unearthed emotional garbage, but set it aside when I wasn’t ready to decide whether to keep it or pitch it.

Of course, just when I feel like my emotional garage is in order, I turn around and look in the driveway, where I see all of that stuff I took out, but haven’t dealt with yet. (Okay, if this sounds a bit like something that actually happened with my physical garage, it is. We actually ended up with stuff for 4 other people in our garage, because they died and there was no place to put everything.) Ahhh, that brings up an interesting point: Why were we willing to take on OTHER people’s stuff, without really considering how it would impact our EXISTING stuff? Was it because we felt we HAD to? The plot thickens. Fortunately, we have successfully divested ourselves of a healthy 75% of the stuff, but we still have plenty more to contend with. And, SOON!

But, I digress (as usual). Back to my emotional garage.

While I’ve been cleaning my garage, I’ve gotten a tad lazy in my decision making about what I’m going to keep and what I’m going to pitch. One of the things I’ve “thrown away” (at LEAST 10 times) in the past three years is: COFFEE. Now, I realize that coffee is not everyone’s enemy, but I happen to know, it is not MY friend. That being the case, I continue to welcome it in with open arms, encouraging it to stay as long as it wants — while storing everything that comes with it in my emotional garage. That includes stuff like dry creamer, Splenda and now, protein. (Because, of course, I got tired of Coffee’s company and thought I could make it healthier by dumping in protein.) Apparently, in my mind, protein cures all evils.

Okay, time for the “D’oh!” moment.

A few months ago, I fully recognized what I was doing to myself, every time I carelessly tossed in more partially-hydrogenated-corn-syrup solids and artifical-chemical-laden-sweetening agents. Not only was I adding unnecessary calories, I was ratcheting up my threshold for “sweetness,” while pouring caffeine into my body (instead of water.) Yes, I even tried to justify it as a liquid. So, I stopped drinking it.

That lasted for a week.

And then, I got a bunch of RTD protein that I wasn’t crazy about drinking, but needed to use. So, as I often do, I deluded myself into believing that I could throw two rocks at one bird, making the coffee “healthy,” while not “wasting” the sorta-yucky-by-itself RTD. Sounds reasonable, right? How smart of me!

So, I was off to the races.

• Hey, I can knock back 40 GRAMS OF PROTEIN before I even leave the house each morning!
• Hey! I can add at least 20 GRAMS OF PROTEIN when my energy is flagging in the afternoon!
• Hey! I didn’t factor this into everything else I was already consuming every day.

Uh-oh.

So, I was gleefully (and willingly) ADDING about 60 (at least!) grams of protein to my daily consumption — and NOT allowing for the CALORIES THAT ACCOMPANIED those protein grams.

Here’s where the lightbulb hit me square in the noggin this morning:

I HAVE BEEN CONSUMING ABOUT 500 EXTRA CALORIES A DAY WITH PROTEIN COFFEE.

How does that sound, people? Does that sound like someone who is in this maintenance game for the long run? Does this sound like someone who was killing herself on the elliptical each morning, JUST so she could keep pace with the extra (wasted) calories coming in each day? What about the mornings I DIDN’T work out? Huh? How do I explain THAT?

Well…it *does* explain the pesky pounds….I have been feeding them a steady diet of proteinated-coffee-in-the-name-of-thriftiness-and-resourcefulness.

And WHY was I doing this? Because I decided to shove that particular behavior back into my emotional garage, without any regard for what was already in there.

Fortunately, it’s never too late to fix a problem like this, so this morning, the very instant I put 2-and-500 together, I realized that I didn’t NEED my (usual-every-day) protein shake (and the 300 calories that went with it), because I’d already CONSUMED about 400 calories before 9 AM.

That was the first step.

The second step was to eliminate the reduced fat cheese from my mid-morning snack of black beans. The third step (as I sit here drinking a NON-proteinated-mug-o-coffee), is to NOT drink another cup of this stuff (with or without protein) later today.

You know what? Progress doesn’t always happen in gigantic forward motions. Sometimes, you have to take a few steps back — you know, step outside of the garage — so you can see what you’re really dealing with.

Life is not limited to the boxes in one small corner; it is the totality of everything you’ve stored up (whether you KNOW it’s there, or not).

I can tell you this: Tomorrow morning, I will NOT be adding protein to my ONE cup of coffee, and I WILL add Almond Breeze, instead of dry creamer.

I am going to continuing cleaning (and clearing) my emotional garage – but, I’m gonna be a LOT more stringent on what I’m willing to put back inside!!!

What does your emotional garage look like? Are you ready for a mental yard sale?

Rocket Ships & Purple Apes

This morning, while I was talking to Jim, I came up with (what I believe to be) two, profound analogies –– or are they metaphors? I can’t tell, so I will use them interchangeably –– for my for my Bariatric After Life™. The first analogy explains how I got to where I am, and the second explains how I will get to where I want to be.

Before I tell you what they are, understand that I’m absolutely certain they are not novel, and they have probably been written up in HUNDREDS of self-help books on the subject of “finding your authentic self.” But, since I’m not much of a reader (ironic, considering I’m a writer), I haven’t stumbled across them, so they are unique (and wonderful) to me.

Hopefully, they will be to you, too.

ANALOGY #1: My Colors

Since I’ve been voraciously reading (I know, ME, right? Didn’t we just talk about how I don’t read? Okay, sometimes I do…) a short, little, simple book that Yvonne (Bariatric Girl) generously gave me about a month ago (title withheld for now…), I’ve come to the conclusion that, a) I am co-dependent, and b) my inner child was wounded in ways I never imagined. With that said, I got to wondering what I would be like now “IF” certain things hadn’t transpired in my life. I likened it to painting on a big canvas or piece of paper (or wall, in my daughter’s case…LOL).

As a child, I’m certain I had a palette of favorite colors that I used to define my world. The way in which I used those colors was uniquely ME. It was my own style, method and creation. The reason I know this is the truth is because I distinctly remember an event in Kindergarten. I was 4-1/2 (December birthday) and I was coloring my “A, Ape” page with a purple crayon because I thought the brown was ugly, and I didn’t like the black. The teacher “helpfully” asked me if I “knew what color an ape” was. “Yes…,” I timidly replied. “Well, why did you color your ape PURPLE?” she “helpfully” asked (in what I interpreted to be an accusatory tone).

By this time, it was clear to me that I had committed an offensible crime, punishable by (what I was certain would be) a paddling when I returned from lunch. I never understood why some people got paddled when they came back from lunch, and I thought it was a “random” thing. Who knew you’d only get paddled if you broke a rule (like not eating everything in your lunchbag, or coloring your ape purple)? I felt this was really unfair because LOTS of kindergarteners left at lunchtime, which left us “full-dayers” directly in the line of “paddle-fire.” And, besides…what if I had lost my black and brown crayons? Then what?

Anyway, the point of this story is that gradually, people in my life added THEIR colors to MY palette, and they began to tell me how I SHOULD be using my colors. (Case in point: Ape = Black or Brown; Not Purple). Eventually, most of my colors and style were replaced by someone else’s, yet I internalized them as my own. In other words, I began to falsely believe that they were my colors, and that how I was living my life (or seeing the world), was my own, unique style.

This pattern continued as I took art class in Junior High. We had to do pen and ink drawings, but being left-handed, I couldn’t use the pen because the nib would always splay and cause the ink to splatter. I got marked down for not doing my art “properly.” Lesson learned: Art has rules.

In case you are keeping score, by this time in my life, I had learned:

a) Apes are not purple.
b) Art must be done a certain way.
c) Left-handed people cannot draw.

Okay, so I adapted. I didn’t pursue art because I couldn’t “do” it properly, and I clearly used the wrong colors. Well, as literal as the art thing is, the conceptual part is that there were lots and lots and lots of things I didn’t pursue or didn’t do, period, or just did differently because I was afraid to get in trouble. I was afraid to express myself incorrectly.

Ultimately, I guess I learned how to be *uniquely me*, according to someone else’s rules – a fact which clearly went on to play a starring role in my insatiable desire to attain control.

Since I couldn’t control anything *else* in my life, I destructively decided to control FOOD. Good plan.

So, now I’m working to rediscover my authentic colors and style in an effort to return balance to my life and beat the desire to binge. I don’t know where this will take me, or what things I’ll have to do to make this happen, but I’m eagerly waiting — box of crayons in front of me (most of them broken and kinda flat, and many colors missing…that’s just how I am), and a whole ream of clean, white paper to draw on. Maybe I’ll practice really, really drawing again. Hmmm…That’s a thought.

METAPHOR #2: Rocket Ships

I was watching a show on the history of NASA and the astronauts, and one of the things I remember from an episode with Buzz Aldrin (yes, mom, I spelled it correctly this time), was his description of what it felt like to blast off from the launch pad in a Saturn 5 rocket. As he described it, it was not a smooth ride at all. Rather, it was a frightening, quivering, forceful event, comprised of a colossal amount of noise and constant adjustment. He said that there were these thrusters that were really just massive gyroscopes, and each one had the job of keeping the rocket STRAIGHT. You see, rockets don’t just have one, really big exhaust flume — they have a lot of little jets that fire and spin to create the perfect alignment for lift-off. Buzz said it felt like he was sitting on a spinning top, and the crew was never really sure if they were going to clear the tower, because of all the leaning and constant correct.

See, it’s the job of the thrusters to control the upward motion of the rocket — this one shoots harder than that one, this one points that why, while this one tilts the other way… Sometimes a thruster has to exert less power to allow another to compensate. Have you ever seen footage of rockets that blast off, then veer directly into the ground? Problem with the gyro boosters…

Are you getting the picture? Like life, lift-off is NOT just a solid thrust of power, followed by an endless orbit! It is a series of corrections (and over-corrections!)

Now, here’s where this applies to my Bariatric After Life: Up until this morning, I mistakenly believed that my energy had to be channeled or focused into a single flume; but now I realize I need to distribute it over many, many “gyroscopic boosters” (for lack of a better expression), in order to keep me pointing in the right direction. I can’t just focus on “this” or “that;” I have to look at all of the energy sources and all of the energy requirements, and get them working together with the requisite “give and take.”

But, there’s more to this little metaphorical analogy! Remember how I’d mentioned that “restlessness” thing I’d learned from a fellow blogger? She’d wisely explained that the source of her desire to eat was directly related to her feeling of restlessness — not boredom! She felt that “recovery” would come from learning to “be okay” with the restlessness; learning to sit with it, until it dissipated.

Well, thanks to something brilliant that Jim said (as an aside, really…I swear, he doesn’t say much, but when he says SOMETHING, you’d better listen!) — he mentioned that he is also restless, and what he tries to do is FOCUS that energy into positive activities.

Did you read that clearly?

FOCUS. THAT. ENERGY.

Not wait for it to dissipate.
Not try to quell it or quiet it.

FOCUS IT.

Hmmm…Guess what? My RESTLESSNESS IS ENERGY (nervous, anxious, whatever you want to call it — but it IS energy.) This is completely OPPOSITE of listlessness! What a GIFT I’ve been given! I actually HAVE energy, I don’t need to FIND energy!

So, armed with that knowledge, and my newly minted rocket-ship analogy (or is that simile? I keep getting these metaphors mixed up), I am filled with powerful knowledge that should help me to conquer (or at least wrest control of) my binge problem. It’s not really about understanding it at all. It’s about using the energy I already have to overcome it.

Then I can focus on the more important things in life…like painting my ape purple, if I wanna.

Obsessively addicted to shows about obsessive addictions

I watch Intervention and Obsession on A&E all the time. I think I might be obsessively addicted to them, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing, or a bad thing.

As a food addict and a binger, I see a lot of myself in the people on the shows, and sometimes it scares me. I find myself wishing that I could be swept away to some 30- or 90-day recovery program where I could kick the food habit, once and for all. But, I realize that’s not going to happen and, at least as far as I can tell, my friends and family are not covertly planning any “meetings” for me….

You know, the dangerous thing about being a gastric bypass person who is also a bingeing food addict is that it’s easy to “justify” my addiction by telling myself things like:

• I don’t hurt my family
• I’m not spending money I don’t have on junk food
• No one is affected by my addiction
• My addiction is not illegal
• I can do my addiction in front of anyone, and I won’t get arrested
• I need food to live, but other addicts can survive without alcohol, drugs, gambling or shopping.

In other words, I tell myself all kinds of lies (with varying degrees of truth to them), and I come out being a good person who just so happens to like to eat too many (insert junk food item here) sometimes.

I guess what I’m saying is, whenever I watch Intervention or Obsession, I find myself shaking my head and talking to the TV, reacting to the absurd things that come out of addicts’ (and their loved ones’) mouths. I say things like,

“Are you KIDDING ME? You think you aren’t hurting anybody but yourself?”
“You think your addiction/obsession is your own problem?”
“You think giving the addict money or turning the other way is showing them love?”

Oh boy. it’s so clear when I see it on TV, and then then instant the self-incrimination starts to set-in, I just conveniently press the “Play” button on the internal recording. Then, everything is okay again.

“I don’t look like those people.”
“I don’t do as much as I did when I weighed 316 pounds”
“I’m not spending money on my addiction; I’m just eating what’s in the cabinet.”
“I am in therapy, so I don’t need an intervention”
“I am not doing anything illegal.”

Somewhere in that mess is the truth, and I’m unearthing it, one, ugly lie at a time. It’s a painful process, and sometimes it takes everything I’ve got NOT to feel like a failure. But then, I have a really good series of days where the Carb Monster is not lurking around every corner, and I’m on the top of my game, eating right, working out, and feeling good. Like today.

How could I be an addict if I still have a job, a life, hobbies and normal social interactions?

Isn’t *THAT* the big question? Stay tuned…

Habits or Behaviors?

I haven’t blogged about therapy in awhile, and I thought I’d take a moment to share what happened on Tuesday morning (I now go Tuesday mornings, instead of Fridays or Thursdays, just so you won’t be confused).

I was talking to Jim about my frustrating — though enjoyable — trip to Mexico to pick up my in-laws. The long and short of it was this: I had packed my protein and told myself that I had everything I needed: Tortilla/Flax/Soy chips, instead of tostadas or corn tortillas; beans, cheese, Greek yogurt — heck, even salsa! For “sweets” I had brought a Power Crunch bar (peanut butter), and I had plenty o’ Protein Blitz and Propel Waters. Even brought a package of Body Tech Pro Pudding. In other words, I left nothing open to chance.

Now, for those of you who might not understand how things roll with Mexican families, when you arrive at a house, you are immediately offered FOOD. Okay, my family understands that I have my own food, and they are not offended that I can’t partake of the pozole (pork and hominy soup), or rice, or fideo (noodle soup). They truly understand and this is wonderful. So, I sat down with a bowl of beans, some of my sister-in-law’s salsa, my Greek yogurt, and a little melted cheese, and life was good. Until she put the stack of warm, fresh, corn tortillas on the table. I lasted…oh…about 5-1/2 seconds. BAM. Knocked back TWO (that I’m willing to admit) in a very short (painfully short) span of time. Yes, my pouch paid the price. But the salsa burned right through it and life was bién (otra véz).

Until the Mexican pastries came to town. Now, I hate Mexican pastries — they are dry and not sweet enough. Except for the stupid cortedillos — which are really nothing more than a trés leches cake with pink frosting and sprinkles. It was my Kryptonite before surgery, and it is still my Kryptonite now. Oh. and the stupid marshmallow cookies. And the iced cookies that I’d never seen before, but had to eat. By the handfuls.

Okay, I think you can see where this went: WILDLY AND UTTERLY OFF THE RAILS.

Thank God I was only there for about 24 hours, that’s all I can say.

Did I mention the churros? Two, DIFFERENT batches of churros? Plucked straight from the hot vat of boiling oil? Yeah, you can’t cross the border without eating them. It’s breaking some immigration law, or something. I’m serious.

Anyway, with that debacle behind me, I sulked my way into therapy and lamented that I was tired of Binge Barbie taking over my life, even though I make all sorts of plans and contingencies to steer clear of the trouble.

Sadly, we (Jim and I) did not arrive at a solution for that problem yet –– (why do they always have to buzz his office to tell him somebody else is waiting in the lobby just when I’m getting to the good stuff?)  –– although I believe we are laying the groundwork for progress and change.

HOWEVER, the session was not a total loss, and one of the things that did come up, was my abject dislike of the term “habits.” I hate that word: HABITS. Whether it’s preceded by the word “bad” (as in bad habits), or “good” (as in — something I am supposed to be creating in my Bariatric After Life.) Pffffttt.

See, I am a skeptic about recovery. That’s just the bottom line. I look at alcoholics and drug addicts, and all I see is a vast majority of people who DON’T “make it” and very, very small minority of people who do. (I am also, apparently, a pessimist about it). Perhaps I should stop watching “Intervention.”

Hmmm…I dunno.

Whatever the case, I tend to look at people who actually remain in recovery from their addictions as the RESULTS-NOT-TYPICAL crowd. I’ve written about this before in regard to my own experience as a post-op. I am a results-not -typical because I (at one point) lost way more than I wanted to. Apparently, I am not generous in my application of that label to all aspects of my life, so deep down (or not so deep down) inside, I have doubts that I will be able to overcome my binge addiction. I bristle when I hear people blithely tell me that “all I have to do is create healthy new habits to replace unhealthy old ones.” As if.

So, one of the ground rules I laid with Jim is the fact that we will NOT be working on developing any sort of habits for me. What we will be doing is establishing new behaviors to replace old ones. Now, that might just sound like simple semantics, but the point of it all is that when I hear the word “habits,” I think of the words “subconscious” or “automatic” — as in, I will learn to “automatically” or “subconsciously” do the right things because they will become HABITUAL to me.

Uh, no.

I believe — and perhaps I am mistaken, and maybe I am selling myself short — but I believe that my bad habits are deeply ingrained because they are LEARNED habits that were created when I was a blank slate. In other words, it was not hard to internalize them, because there was nothing in their place to start with.

Now, at age 43 (and some), to try and create a NEW habit would imply that I am dislodging the OLD habit, and I really don’t believe that is possible. I view it like a chalkboard. You remember how, when the teacher would erase the board to write something new, there would always be chalk residue, and even a little bit of writing left over? (That, by the way, was one of my pet peeves! If there was a HINT of writing left on the board, I would hyperfocus on it to the exclusion of all else on the board. Story for another day.) Okay, so the point of that metaphor is, when you erase the chalkboard, there’s still chalk-residue — old habits that you are trying to overwrite. But you always know there was something else there, and I think that gets in the way of replacing the old habit with a new one.

I believe that the only way I will succeed at beating this binge addiction thing is to reframe my strategy. I can’t comfortably target “subconscious habits” so I’m going to go for new learned behaviors which will never be intrinsic, intuitive, habitual or automated. I will always have to “stop, drop and roll.” You know? Like, stop the bad behavior in its tracks, think about the correct behavior, then implement the new behavior. I don’t really know if I will be able to do this every time, and when I’m not successful, will I just want to stop trying? I don’t know, but one would hope not.

Jim reminded me that, when treating an alcoholic, recovery does NOT necessarily mean complete and total abstinence. This revelation shocked, scared and excited me a bit. I mean, I am a very black and white person. If you’re an alcoholic, then you’re no longer in recovery the minute you take a drink. Black. White. I apply the same (flawed) definition to bingeing. The minute I binge — even a little, it’s all over.

Well, part of my goal is to find techniques to minimize harm from bingeing. Sounds like a tall order, but I’m up for the challenge. Even though I had a bad day yesterday. Ugh. Hey, nobody said it was gonna be easy!

So, that’s what’s been happening in therapy. I have some other thoughts, too, but my brain and fingers are tired for now, so I will blog more later.

AS MUCH CALCIUM AS A GLASS OF MILK!

(So proclaims the packet of Swiss Miss Hot Chocolate)

What’s your first impression when you read that? If you’re like MOST people, it’s: “Hey, it must be healthy! As much calcium as an entire glass of milk?! Who knew?”

Right.

So, here’s how my little brain works now (because it is skeptical and questioning of EVERYTHING):

1. How BIG a glass of milk? 8 oz.? Too much for me.
2. What TYPE of milk? Skim? Whole?
3. How MUCH calcium is actually in that glass of milk?
4. How much calcium do I NEED each day?

Now, understand that I would never dream of using this product — aside from the fact that it is loaded with sugar, it’s nothing I need — but my point is, in my Bariatric After LIfe™, I have learned to apply the same healthy logic to ALL products — EVEN those targeted directly to us bariatric types!

I guess it’s funny that, in this “sound bite” world where we all have the attention span of fleas sometimes, marketers have learned to whisper nonsense into our ears, and we believe it! Case in point:

• Fat Free! (Not sugar free)
• Low-Calorie! (Not fat free)
• No Added Sugar! (But has sugar)

If there is one thing I hope for all of us, it’s that we learn to ignore the headlines and go immediately to the fine print. Read the “second-to-the-last” paragraph of the article; turn the page; do whatever it takes to get the FULL story. Our bariatric bellies do not forgive us for ignorance of the law; when it comes to our bodies, we will GET exactly what we GIVE.

As much Calcium as an entire glass of milk? Who cares? I take Calcet Bites or chew my Celebrate wafers and do just fine (thank you).

Just some random thoughts for a Wednesday hump day afternoon. Now, off to my mani-pedi.

Epiphany: No WONDER I thought I was fat.

I had a strange little memory while working out on the elliptical this morning. In a flash, I was 8 years old again, and I was in the try-on room at Zody’s (an old store like Kmart). Of course, nothing was fitting, and my mom had to keep sending in bigger and bigger sizes until we found pants that would fit around my sizable rear. Unfortunately, finding something big enough for my “big butt” automatically meant that the waist would be miles too big, since there was no such thing as “spandex,” “elasticized waists” or “drawstrings” in the junior department. My mom would inevitably have to “take it in” and “take it up.”

I concluded that, because nothing fit, I MUST BE FAT.

Who could actually FIT these things...?

...or these?

Now, if you’ve been reading me for any period of time, you’ll know that I’ve lamented about the trauma/drama of not being able to wear the designer jeans of the day (the saddleback Dittos, sailor front Chemin de Fer, and stitched pocket Jordache), and I’ve mentioned that my thighs were too “extreme” for the cute shorts everyone wore (Dolphin and OP, mostly), but it occurred to me this morning that the fact that I couldn’t “FIT” into the über straight cut clothes didn’t make me FAT; it made me CURVY.

It’s a shame I didn’t make that connection back then, because I might have avoided a life of morbid obesity. Unfortunately, the words “curvy” and “pretty” weren’t celebrated on the pages of Teen Dream, 16 and Tiger Beat magazine. No, back in those days, the cover girls we envied were Cheryl Tiegs and Christie Brinkley: Gorgeous, tan, blonde, leggy bombshells who were NOT recognized for any curves below the waistline. And, of course, they were always photographed in bathing suits — another area where I couldn’t find anything that fit, because of the tremendous disparity between my “top” and my “bottom.” And, in case you’re wondering why I was looking to older models for reference, the younger ones CERTAINLY didn’t have curves (or weight problems), either. You had Tatum O’Neal, Kristy McNicol and Valerie Bertonelli (who, as we since learned, did battle her weight, but it never showed in her jeans, and no one ever talked about it!) Great choices for a curvy kid, right?

Essentially, because of the barrage of messages from the media – which was still recovering from the days of Twiggy, thank you very much, plus, a dearth of curvy role models (Sophia Loren? Marilyn Monroe? Where were you?), my conclusion that I was FAT was not unnatural or unexpected; it was just unfortunate.

Of course, now that I’m happily enjoying the Bariatric After Life™ and can easily fit into things “off-the-rack” it would be easy to say that I’ll never have self-doubt again. But, trust me, I still have trouble with things being small — only now, it’s UP TOP! (Juniors don’t have a C-Rack) I’m just saying

Fortunately, because of my therapy, constant self-analysis, self-correction, and emotional clarity, when something DOESN’T fit, I no longer conclude that there must be something wrong with ME. I now see that my body is as unique as I am, and the clothing I wear does not DEFINE me; it merely reflects my personality and zest for life.

How sad that it took nearly 40 years for that message to sink in, but how glorious that it didn’t take 40 more!

How about you? Was there a defining moment in your life that set the wheels for obesity in motion?

HEALING: How can you forgive me if I can’t forgive myself?

FORGIVENESS. This word has been making quite an appearance in my life over the course of the past month or so, but not in ways I’d have imagined. You see, when I see or hear the word “FORGIVENESS,” I always think of it from the perspective of ME forgiving someone ELSE. I rarely think of someone ELSE needing to forgive ME, and NEVER think of ME forgiving MYSELF. Yet, those last two scenarios are precisely where I have found myself lingering — or should I say marinating?

It all started when I began to connect the dots between what I had always BELIEVED about myself, vs. what I have recently LEARNED to be the truth. Unfortunately, as with many self-epiphanies, the reality is a far cry from the fantasy.

For years, I always believed that I was a “nice” person. You know, generous, compassionate, nurturing…NICE. Well, as I’ve evolved in my Bariatric After Life™, I’ve come to learn a few things about myself that would seem to fly in the face of those descriptors. In high school, if you asked any of my friends how they’d describe me, they’d probably have said, “funny, creative, outgoing, and sweet.” They’d also all have agreed that I was “most likely to fall in love, get married, and raise a big family.” This is probably because I was so “in love with love.” Maybe that’s where I got the idea that I was a “loving” person. Was I really just lovable? Hard to say. And compassionate? I think I always confused “compassion” with “sympathy” or “empathy,” but I can’t be sure. I say this, because I always seemed to deeply “FEEL” others’ emotions and sensations, but did that make me compassionate or nurturing toward them, or just understanding?

Whatever the case, I did fall in love, married an amazing man, and gave birth to a pretty incredible daughter. Unfortunately, the pregnancy was really rough, and the postpartum depression was crippling. I began to beat myself up because I wasn’t living up to my expectations as a wife and mother. Heck, I couldn’t even be “pregnant” like a normal woman, what made me think I could be a good mom? Basically, in those early years, I couldn’t stand my daughter, felt guilty about it, and ran away to my job, convincing myself that I was doing the best thing for my family by being a good provider.

Of course, the harder I worked, the less satisfied I was with myself, I got fatter and fatter, my relationship with my daughter worsened, and my marriage deteriorated. It took 2 years (and 70 pounds) to finally be diagnosed with major depressive late luteal phase disorder and be placed on medication. But of course, by that time, the damage was done. I hated myself for letting everyone around me down, and the only way I knew to feel better was to bury myself in school and work. That’s because those things gave me instant gratification: “Hey! Great paper — you get an A!” “Good job on that assignment, here’s a raise!” You don’t get certificates, pay raises, and letter grades for being a good wife and mother, but I didn’t realize I was chasing that affirmation. Again, I thought I was doing a good thing for my family.

Fast forward 17 years and about 160 pounds. I’d been doing work to try and fix myself and my marriage, and tried to be a better mom, but I was carrying colossal guilt, had been diagnosed with fibromyalgia, and was just plain sick and tired of being sick and tired. I felt worthless, disappointed, guilty and cheated.

Fortunately, I learned about gastric bypass surgery and was granted the gift in December 2007.

What I didn’t realize then, was how much guilt I’d be left with, even after shedding as much as 180 pounds. I thought I’d done the emotional work and would now just have to do the “physical work” to tie the two parts together, but nothing could be further from the truth. The slimmer and healthier I got, the more clear the truth became: I was responsible, in large part, for my obesity and had been living in denial about my role for my entire life. I began to feel guilty for not appreciating life when I was younger, and always believing I was fat or less-than. I began to feel guilty for not being active and doing physical things to get in shape. I began to feel guilty for basically trashing an amazing life I’d been given by God. Oh yes, and I began to feel guilty for not being the mother or wife I believed I should have been.

It’s really hard to forgive yourself when you are buried by guilt, and even harder to let OTHERS forgive you.

But you know what? I believe that my total healing from obesity will only begin when I am able to forgive myself and let others forgive me. As a recovering perfectionist, this is a challenging task, but one that I am meeting head-on every day. Part of my recovery is coming from talks with my therapist, but also from my supportive hubby (MexiKen) and with my beautiful (and forgiving) daughter, who sweetly told me that she didn’t think I was “as bad a mom” as *I* thought I was. God love her — she’ll learn (LOL).

So, if I had to summarize this long-winded post on forgiveness, here is what I would tell you: I have learned that obese people have a LOT of guilt. They blame themselves for their obesity; they blame themselves because they are cut-off from friends and loved ones; they blame themselves because they stop living. Ultimately, they blame themselves because they abuse, misuse and take for granted the precious gift of life entrusted to them, and they don’t believe they deserve the second chance that bariatric surgery provides.

As I stand here today, living a full and active Bariatric After Life™, I realize that there is still much work to be done — only it isn’t going to be losing weight or inches, building muscles, or hiking, biking or walking farther.

No, the work I need to do is on my heart, for that is where the forgiveness resides.

So, here’s what I’ve begun to do: Each morning, before I rise, I say positive and motivating affirmations out loud.

I say: I forgive myself for not being perfect; I forgive myself for not being healthy for so many years; I forgive myself for not being a perfect mother or wife. I forgive myself for not being the person I believed I was. Today, I will work hard to be the best person, wife and mother I am capable of being, and will work to improve the things I don’t like about myself.

Today, I will let others forgive me and I will forgive myself.

I hope you can forgive me for writing this long posting, but clearly, it was about 38 years in the making.

No to the Food. Yes to the Feelings.

This afternoon, I was eyeing a box of Sweet Tarts (you know, those silly conversational candy hearts we used to eat on Valentine’s Day?) Why (do you ask) was I ogling a box of candy in the first place? Well, it’s a print job we did, and it is sitting on my sample shelf. (In other words, I didn’t go BUY IT!)

Now, you know the adage: “Old habits die hard…” but, THIS TIME, since returning from the OH Conference this past weekend, I am 100% recommitted to THINKING instead of ACTING. What does that mean? Well, rather than just grabbing for it (out of habit), I THOUGHT about it.

Boy, was I surprised by the thoughts that came to mind:

• Would this make me feel better?
• Would this make me feel better about myself?
• Would this make me FEEL?

No kidding. Just like that. Bam!

In the past, I ate to FEEL BETTER (which, of course, we all know never happened). So ultimately, I would feel BAD about myself, (all because I was avoiding the very act of FEELING…whatever that feeling was…lack of control, depression, sadness, happiness, frustration, stress, boredom.) So, it was a useless cycle of eat-and-feel-bad, eat-and-feel-bad.

Today, in the Bariatric After Life™, instead of just mindlessly EATING, I asked myself that series of questions and the answers were surprisingly simple: No, no, and no. Upon further analysis, I realized that I wanted to eat a box of candies, because I was bored. There’s no other reason. I mean, right now, I’m under a full head of steam. There is so much I want to do, but I can’t do any of it here at the office. The net result is boredom (or at least that what it morphed into.) In the past, whenever boredom happened, I would reach out for something junky to eat. This time, while the motivation was no different, the response sure was.

Fortunately, this time, I was present enough in my thinking to confidently, purposefully, and quite happily say: NO to the Sweet Tarts and YES to the feelings. Yes, I understood that I was bored and frustrated, but how would eating that candy have made me feel in my clothes? Would eating it have magically made me feel better? Of course not! It never did before, so why would it now? You know the definition of insanity, right? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome.

Well, I FEEL that I made an amazing decision today. I FEEL really good about myself. I FEEL that I can repeat this exercise over and over again…until it becomes habit — and that doesn’t make me insane at all!

• Do you still struggle with the mistaken belief that food will make you feel better?
• Do you struggle with how you feel after you make a poor food choice, then begin to feel bad about yourself?
• Do you FEEL the feelings, or do you self-medicate to numb yourself?

Obviously, these are deep questions with no simple answers — save one: NO.

At least…that seems to be the best and easiest answer to me. So, next time you find yourself in a similar situation, PLAN to deliver that answer with bold, confident gusto:

Will eating this thing make me feel better? NO!
Will eating this thing make me feel better about myself? NO!
Will eating this thing help me to FEEL the feelings? NO!

I don’t know about you, but saying “No” never felt so great.

How do you FEEL about this?

WARNING: The following is one, messy post. But then, if you have seen inside my brain lately, you will know that it is an incredibly disorganized place, so this should come as no surprise.

Therapy is Not Pretty

Ahem: I am compulsive. I am also addictive and impulsive and impatient.

What a freaking mess.

There. I’ve said it, but who cares? Is that really a revelation? Well, it IS when you consider how challenging these traits can make it to live a “normal” life — especially when your “normal” life isn’t normal at all — at least not in the conventional sense of the word.

You see, as a bariatric patient, I have come to realize that I can never BE normal, because what I always interpreted to be “normal” got me into a world of hurt for a lot of years. Clearly, I had a warped definition of normalcy, because if I had truly understood it, I doubt that I’d have become morbidly obese in the first place — but, who knows? (Elvis has left the building on that one.)

Now, when you are compulsive, addictive, impulsive and impatient, it’s very easy to fall prey to insidious negative practices in the Bariatric After Life™…things like binge-eating or under- eating – both of which I am really *good* at – can quickly become as regular a part of your life as OVER-eating.

This is extremely scary stuff, but the truth is, my traits are extreme. There is nothing moderate, middle-of-the-road, or neutral about them (so how could I expect average or benign results?) It is true that I have always been a pedal-to-the-metal, no-holds-barred, all-or-nothing, go-big-or-go-home kinda gal…and unfortunately, in the past, this “flat out attitude” has gotten me in to a heap of trouble. (How about 316 pounds of trouble?)

So, the way I see it, if I’m ever gonna get a grip on my life, I have two options:

1. ELIMINATE the traits (not likely to happen any time soon), or
2. CHANGE the way I respond to those traits. (Way more likely, but way harder to accomplish!)

Now, there is no way I can justify these (questionable?) character traits, or elevate them to some lofty purpose — but, having said that…it doesn’t necessarily mean that being obsessive/compulsive/impulsive and impatient needs to be an entirely BAD thing. Right? I mean, can’t some modicum of goodness be found? Hasn’t SOME benefit come out of these tendencies over the course of my lifetime? Ever the optimist, I will say: YES and focus on the POSITIVE influence as opposed to the NEGATIVE one.

Here’s what I’m saying: If I cannot SLAY the beast, I will TAME the beast. I must make that fire-breathing dragon build me a fire, rather than burn down my house.

How do I plan on doing that? In the coming weeks, I intend to do a lot of self-analysis to see exactly HOW my character traits manifest themselves in unhealthy ways. Once I know that, I will see if I can adjust my behavior so I don’t impatiently act on every impulse, addiction or compulsion. I liken it to leaving at least 3 things left nsaid each day, or removing one piece of jewelry before you leave the house (LOL).

This is a work in progress, and I need to crawl inside the belly of the beast. (ice) Some days, I know I’m going to say and do things I’ll wish I hadn’t, (and promptly get chewed up and spit out in the process), but other days, I’ll wear just the appropriate number of accessories and life will be good. (Talk about mixing metaphors — eek! My honors English teacher would FREAK!)

Okay, okay, let’s wrap this jumble up and slap a bow on it: Bottom line? I need to figure out PRECISELY what makes me tick before I can adjust the timing.

There.

Wish me luck while I sleuth for the truth. (It might not be pretty…but it will sure be worth it!)