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Sick of it, sick of it, absolutely sick of it..

This post comes with a bit of a soundtrack.. I’ve been trying to get a grip.. to get enough of a hold on my thoughts so I can make words appear in a post so I can get some of this burden out of my head.. to try to bubble some of my own corruption.. (that’s a Steven Universe reference).. Son is into them and now I’ve recently gotten a little obsessed with them as well.

Anyway, I’ve wanted to start a 90 in 90 again, which is my own version of therapy, 90 posts in 90 days.. I did it before and it was quite therapeutic, but even though I know writing helps and I have a ton I could be writing about it’s been difficult to make myself start moving and stay moving.. but back to the music I started talking about.

First is a song I always liked that’s kind of background to this clip I’ve always loved in Skins. It’s part of the love story between Chris and Jal and though I searched for the song by itself I couldn’t find it. You don’t really need to know anything about the story to hear the song that’s been running in the back of my head as crap in my own life just keeps piling up and getting heavier though I’d totally recommend the series if you’re into watching characters with lives so effed up you feel better about your own garbage life

I’m really struggling. Sometimes it feels like drowning or being trapped under something heavy. My  marriage, my finances, my health  (the order of these issues’ importance varies given the day) my constant desire due to all of these things to do something, or take something, ANYTHING, just to feel something other than what I feel.. it’s overwhelming.

Husband and I are in an ugly place with each other. It’s that point where we’re both kind of looking at each other wondering what we ever saw in the other one.. he’s putting up walls and every communication from him to me is some sort of criticism of my everyday actions… I respond to said walls by becoming needier and whinier and also inadvertently doing more of whatever is pissing him off  even as I try not to.

 

 

 

 

You get it.. Basically, we’re both crazy and we’ve been together long enough that it feels like we’ve run out of new ways to handle old problems.

So I’m hurting.  And I hate being at odds with him because I could really use some support right now. On Tuesday, I’ll be going in to Boston to consult about the double knee replacement that I need to get me up out of this wheelchair. My anxiety on this topic is tremendous and I can’t talk to him about it when he’s being SUCH a douchebag all the time!

That’s all for now.. I had planned to delve into more if what’s in my head but I never really know how things are going to go when I actually start posting.. I wanted to say when I go to put pen to paper, but writing hardly ever involves pens and paper anymore.. somehow saying putting fingers to keyboard doesn’t sound the same..

So I don’t leave on too negative a note, here’s a song for anyone whose in their own crappy space right now or for any of the sad or angry or self loathing feelings any of the other songs may have brought up..

 

More later.. I plan to try and manage a productive family day out in about 3 hours on no sleep.. if that’s not fodder for the keyboard nothing is.. 😀 … thanks for reading!

 

 

JUST GET OUT!

I am so sick of him. I really can’t stand being around him. At night, when I’m laying down watching Netflix or listening to Audible he’ll come stand in the doorway and start talking about some random news story or some funny youtube video and while I smile and nod, all I’m thinking is, “shut the hell up and go away.”

And he has this insensitive as hell habit of complaining about what hurts HIM while I’m on my bone on bone knees trying not to fall as i heave my bulk down the 4 steps to get out of the apartment

True currency..

That clip is kind of an explanation of one of the million things on my mind when I named this post. I think Lester Bangs is one of my favorite characters played by Philip Seymour Hoffman. He comes off like a total jerk at first but then there’s this scene and you realize that he’s pretty smart and not nearly as unfeeling as he might pretend to be.

So much on my mind right now. It’s been hard to focus everything that’s been on my mind together enough to make what I would consider a concise, worthwhile blog post so instead I haven’t been posting at all. But that isn’t good for me.. or the blog.. so instead of getting what I feel like is a neatly put together, well thought out and clever post, you are going to get desperately uncool word vomit from a hurting heart. Lucky you!

I’ve been reading a lot of my brother’s writing lately. Before he passed away I had never lost anyone that I was really close to so I didn’t have a clue of how death and grief truly worked. One of the biggest shocks to me after John passed was how losing someone in real life is so utterly unlike losing someone in the movies.I suppose that should have been self evident but it wasn’t.

In the movies people die and the people that survive them grieve, they might be sad or angry or even a little on the crazy side but eventually something happens. Something happens to make sense of the loss. And often if there was unfinished business between the dead character and the survivor there will be some sort of plot device that solves this problem. A letter the person wrote and left for the living one to find later or a journal or a video or some kind of backstory discovered through other characters all of which, while not making the person’s death ok to the one who lost them always brings them some sense of purpose or closure to the loss.

There is nothing like that in real life.. real loss. The sharpest edge of grief does get blunted with the passage of time but the person shaped hole remains. The senseless robbery of it all remains what it is.

I of course, didn’t know this when I first lost him, so my 1st inclination once I forced myself to accept the unacceptable knowledge that he was gone was to pore over all his artworks, blogs, journals, anything he had written, drawn or recorded on. I was s lunatic detective trying to piece together the reason why or way for it all to be okay again.

I now know that doesn’t exist in real life. Now, when I am reading and re-reading his writings I’m trying to create a timeline of his addiction. Trying to figure out more of what John’s story really was versus what we all led ourselves to believe it was.

So there’s that. I’m also working toward getting my weight loss surgery at Beth Israel. I just had my physical and I am going to be seeing my rheumatologist and asking him about a scooter or a power chair. Years ago when I asked him for one, he refused to prescribe it saying that I’d become dependent on it and lose my perfectly good ability to walk. I no longer have perfectly good ability to walk. I cannot straighten my back or my legs, every time I do stand and walk usually brings further injury and inflammation and also chances of falling. I really hope he will cooperate this time. I don’t know what else to do. I can’t participate in anything like this. I have very little quality of life.

I am only 38, but I have the limited existence of a much older woman. As a matter of fact, I know women close to twice my age that are more mobile, more functional, more an active part in the lives of their loved ones. I would rather be in the world using a power chair than not a part of it without one.

I’ve dealt with the difficulty up till now with a walker that has a fold down seat. It helps me get around without falling and if I need to stop and rest I have the seat there to do so. I guess my increased frustration with my lack of mobility stems from all this bad weather we have had lately. Snow and ice on the ground make it harder for my wheels to roll properly. The frigid temperatures hurt and I don’t have the ability to move through them quickly.

So I have more appointments and I have unknowns. My weight loss surgery process is slowly lumbering along. Maybe the wheelchair or power chair to come. Also, on a family level, there is this kind of will she stay or will she go thing going on with Daughter.

She moved back in when Husband got really sick, ostensibly to help me get through all the added demands of managing everything I normally do, plus Husband’s role, plus caring for Husband,etc, etc. The problem is she does the things she wants to do. Like she’ll cook which is awesome, but she resents even the smallest request to pick up after herself. I know this is because of the extremely touchy history between her and Husband. He worked her to death when I was too out of it to do what I was supposed to, or to stand up for her.

Plus we don’t have a room for her anymore. She moved out in 2013 and only in the past 6 months did Husband turn her bedroom in to his studio and give Son her bed and dresser. They are both just nondescript pine so there was no issue of Son protesting the hand-me-down. I think he secretly enjoys having things that used to be hers. When he misses her he reads all the little graffiti she wrote on there and tries to figure out all the little drawings.

As I finish this for posting I am battling some kind of allergic reaction. My lips puffed up like I’d had bad Botox and it became hard to draw a breath. I took some Benadryl and let Husband and Daughter know what was going on so in case I pass out or something else they would know what was up. I have no idea what the hell set me off.

I don’t have any medical backup for this but it seems like I’ve had quite an few allergic reactions since my splenectomy. So I’ve been through this enough times that i know that all these episodes mean staying awake after taking mass quantities of Benadryl. The waiting is weird because of the Benadryl has me sleepy and thinking weird non consecutive thoughts.

Great! I had Orange is the New Black on in the background as I typed this and now Husband is being all judgmental about my viewing choices because of Natasha Lyonne was swearing her head off the second he came in the room. I really do not need crap from him right now.

Throwback Thursday 3 or “Call Your Girlfriend”

Lucy Wainwright– Call Your Girlfriend (Robyn Cover)

Lucy Wainwright is one of my favorite musical people.

I actually feel like there is some sort of spiritual tether between her family as musicians and my family as fans, but there is too complicated an explanation to that crazy thought for this post because this is Throwback Thursday 3, in which I will reveal the many ways that it sucked to be a mandated reporter, or actually to report to a mandated reporter, how someone can be simultaneously delighted with and disgusted with oneself, and how someone can find themselves conducting the express train toward losing everything they’ve ever worked for and somehow choosing to step on the gas. Because my metaphorical trains are driven much like my physical Kia is driven: with a gas pedal and a lead foot.

Thursday 1

Thursday 2

DaBoss began rapid firing questions at me in a tone that made me feel scared and guilty at the same time. Her brusque tone seemed to be frightening poor little Amaya even more. Every time Daboss spoke Amaya cringed on the desk and kind of reached for me at the same time. Finally, when I was sure the kurt physical examination was done, I scooped Amaya up and held her to me as close and cuddly as I could. I tried to think reassuring thoughts at the sweet little one in my arms while still trying to give my boss the impression of sitting up straight and giving all of my attention to the obviously serious matter at hand.

Amaya had always been petite, kind of small for her age, and she was light as a feather compared to some of her peers. Still today, whatever trauma she had endured seemed to have made her smaller somehow. Maybe because her vibrant personality, the dynamic it factor that got her noticed easily amongst other equally adorable 1.5 to 3 year olds, whatever made her multiple staff members’ favorites, even though we were repeatedly admonished not to show favoritism. I felt a surge of white hot rage at whatever monster could do this, this criminal act, to the baby child now curled up in my lap, apparently trying to be invisible today, when she used to thrive on attention.

When did I notice the blisters? Had anyone else seen them? Who pointed them out? What was the child (she glaced quickly at some papers before continuing) Amaya’s father’s frame of mind when he dropped her off this morning?

You mean did he confess to how the hell his 18 month old got blisters on both palms? No, we somehow missed that tidbit as he dropped off his little one. Come to think of it he did seem in an usual rush to head off to wherever it was he went each am.. Not his normally chitchatty self. Her mother picked her up in the evenings.

Damnit! I had really liked both of them. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions of either one of them being the perpetrators but if she had somehow achieved those blister burns through some spectacular accident, why wouldn’t he say something? I’d found parents to be anxious to point out any possible health concern from a sniffles to diaper rash to lack of morning appetite and youre gonna tell me burned palms don’t make the cut for a daycare provider’s need to know? And if she had been injured as she so obviously HAD, why was she even being dropped off at daycare? Why the hell couldn’t one of them take a sick day? What the hell was going on here?

More questions. They had started to repeat 2 maybe three times before Daboss finally had me sign something.

“So what happens now?” I asked. I was intimidated, by DaBoss and the whole situation but I also felt a compulsive need to know something right was going to happen to babygirl who had been wronged.

DaBoss sighed. She gave me a tired looking smile with no actual cheer in it. “Now you can get back to work. You did the right thing by telling me what you noticed.”

I knew that. I also knew that that wasn’t an answer to what I had asked her and furthermore, that she knew she had not answered what I had asked her. “I mean, what happens to Amaya? Does she just go home, or do they question her parents? How can we be sure that she is getting taken care of.. like medically, and like keeping her away from whoever the hell did this to her?”

She sighed and stopped pretend smiling. “We will follow proper protocol. You can get back to work. Leave Amaya here for the moment. Nurse needs to look her over before she can play anymore right now and I have a few calls to make. They need you outside, we have the puppet show today.”

I hated her then. Protocol?! What. The. Fuck. As if Amaya were a stack of challenging paperwork instead of an injured toddler with a dangerous living situation.

The rest of the work day somehow managed to drag and blur at the same time. At one point during the puppet show, Amaya was deposited in my lap. I held her close and tried to install as much protective love and comfort as I possibly could. I felt more and more sure that I wasn’t going to see her again. And about that I was right. All to soon during the hellish puppet show on that horrible day a troop of three awkwardly formal strangers wove their way through the crowd of crosslegged toddlers and staff on the grass.

Suddenly shadows fell across my lap. I looked up and before my eyes could adjust to make out the figures framed by bright sunlight..she was plucked off my lap and from my life forever. She sobbed heartwrenchingly and reached her injured hands out for me. There was nothing I could do. I felt both furious and like the biggest pussy on the face of the earth for not intervening, with the LAW.. Like I could have done anything.. It didn’t stop me from feeling horrible though.

The rest of the day dragged miserably. At long, long last it was 5 pm. Normally, I’d take my time about leaving, shooting the shit with other staffers. Not that day though. Two reasons.

First: It was obviously a horrendous day I wanted obliterated from my consciousness, preferably with aid of alcohol..

Second: J had been paging me 911 for 3 hours. (This was the ’90’s. no texting or cell phones or Facebook messenger or even AOL..

I walked quickly toward the nearest payphone. My heart was pounding and I wondered if she had figured out that we were fucking like rabbits behind her back every night. Or if he had somehow lost his mind and told. Or what? What? What?

Ring. Ring.

“Nnhelloo?” Ugh! I hated the way she answered the phone. She thought it made her sound sexy and sophisticated. I thought it made her sound slutty and brain damaged.

“Hi. It’s me. Just got out of work now.. sorry.” Sorry? Why the hell was I apologizing? For working hard while she and S lay under the covers in her parent’s guest bedroom, eating Bagel Bites and watching BET and cartoons. “What’s up?”

“Thank God it’s you! I’ve been needing a friend all day!”

Not as much as I needed one. But knowing you I will not get a word in edgewise while you perceive yourself in crisis. At least I’m not busted for the fling I’ve been having with your man, why do I somehow feel let down by this fact?

“What’s the matter, sis?” Yeah, we called each other sis.

“Lately… no matter what I do, S won’t fuck me.. He comes over, has me make him breakfast and then crashes in front of the tv. It’s like I’m a fucking throw pillow that can scramble eggs. I tried everything. I’ve jerked him so much it feels like I should fucking get stock in that lotion he likes. Nothing. Even that thong he loves and the push up bra that gives me porno boobs. I’ve even tried going downtown. No FUCKING WOOD!”

“Ok, first of all, EW! I do NOT need the gory details of your sex life or lack thereof.” But I only said that part for appearances, because it was actually delightful that they weren’t doing anything. It meant our strenuous nightly adventures where just as fulfilling for him as they were for me. I did feel a teeny bit bad that this was making my “sis” feel sad and sexually inadequate, but nowhere near bad enough to give up the incredible sex.

Ok.. I wildly overtaxed my abilities to write while sleep deprived and flared in the upper extremities..

I’m going to have to pick up with this next week, THANKS FOR READING!

The hard stuff..

When Roland saw the lobster-things coming out of the waves again (their coming had nothing to do with tide, then; it was the dark that brought them), he left Eddie Dean to move himself before the creatures could find and eat him.

The pain he had expected and was prepared for. He had lived with pain so long it was almost an old friend. He was appalled, however, by the rapidity with which his fever had increased and his strength decreased. If he had not been dying before, he most assuredly was now. Was there something powerful enough in the prisoner’s world to keep that from happening? Perhaps. But if he didn’t get some of it within the next six or eight hours, he thought it wouldn’t matter. If things went much further, no medicine or magic in that world or any other that would make him well again.

Walking was impossible. He would have to crawl.

He was getting ready to start when his eye fixed upon the twisted band of sticky stuff and the bags of devil-powder. If he left the stuff here, the lobstrosities would almost surely tear the bags open. The sea-breeze would scatter the powder to the four winds. Which is where it belongs, the gunslinger thought grimly, but he couldn’t allow it. When the time came, Eddie Dean would be in a long tub of trouble if he couldn’t produce that powder. It was rarely possible to bluff men of the sort he guessed this Balazar to be. He would want to see what he had paid for, and until he saw it Eddie would have enough guns pointed at him to equip a small army.

The gunslinger pulled the twisted rope of glue-string over to him and slung it over his neck. Then he began to work his way up the beach.

He had crawled twenty yards almost far enough to consider himself safe, he judged when the horrible (yet cosmically funny) funny realization that he was leaving the doorway behind came to him. What in God’s name was he going through this for?

He turned his head and saw the doorway, not down on the beach, but three feet behind him. For a moment Roland could only stare, and realize what he would have known already, if not for the fever and the sound of the Inquisitors, drumming their ceaseless questions at Eddie, Where did you, how did you, why did you, when did you (questions that seemed to merge eerily with the questions of the scrabbling horrors that came crawling and wriggling out of the waves: Dad-a-chock? Dad-a-chum? Did-a-chick?), as mere delirium. Not so.

Now I take it with me everywhere I go, he thought, just as he does. It comes with us everywhere now, following like a curse you can never get rid of.

All of this felt so true as to be unquestionable … and so did one other thing.

If the door between them should close, it would be closed forever.

When that happens, Roland thought grimly, he must be on this side. With me.

What a paragon of virtue you are, gunslinger! the man in black laughed. He seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside Roland’s head. You have killed the boy; that was the sacrifice that enabled you to catch me and, I suppose, to create the door between worlds. Now you intend to draw your three, one by one, and condemn all of them to something you would not have for yourself: a lifetime in an alien world, where they may die as easily as animals in a zoo set free in a wild place.

The Tower, Roland thought wildly. Once I’ve gotten to the Tower and done whatever it is I’m supposed to do there, accomplished whatever fundamental act of restoration or redemption for which I was meant, then perhaps they…

But the shrieking laughter of the man in black, the man who was dead but lived on as the gunslinger’s stained conscience, would not let him go on with the thought.

Neither, however, could the thought of the treachery he contemplated turn him aside from his course.

He managed another ten yards, looked back, and saw that even the largest of the crawling monsters would venture no further than twenty feet above the high-tide line. He had already managed three times that distance.

It’s well, then.

Nothing is well, the man in black replied merrily, and you know it.

Shut up, the gunslinger thought, and for a wonder, the voice actually did.

Roland pushed the bags of devil-dust into the cleft between two rocks and covered them with handfuls of sparse saw-grass. With that done he rested briefly, head thumping like a hot bag of waters, skin alternately hot and cold, then rolled back through the doorway into that other world, that other body, leaving the increasing deadly infection behind for a little while.

6

The second time he returned to himself, he entered a body so deeply asleep that he thought for a moment it had entered a comatose state … a state of such lowered bodily function that in moments he would feel his own consciousness start down a long slide into darkness.

Instead, he forced his body toward wakefulness, punched and pummelled it out of the dark cave into which it had crawled. He made his heart speed up, made his nerves re-accept the pain that sizzled through his skin and woke his flesh to groaning reality.

It was night now. The stars were out. The popkin-things Eddie had bought him were small bits of warmth in the chill.

He didn’t feel like eating them, but eat them he would. First, though …

He looked at the white pills in his hand. Astin, Eddie called it. No, that wasn’t quite right, but Roland couldn’t pronounce the word as the prisoner had said it. Medicine was what it came down to. Medicine from that other world.

If anything from your world is going to do for me, Prisoner, Roland thought grimly, I think it’s more apt to be your potions than your popkins.

Still, he would have to try it. Not the stuff he really needed…or so Eddie believed..but something which might reduce his fever.

Three now, three later. If there is a later.

He put three of the pills in his mouth, then pushed the cover..some strange white stuff that was neither paper nor glass but which seemed a bit like both..off the paper cup which held the drink, and washed them down.

The first swallow amazed him so completely that for a moment he only lay there, propped against a rock, his eyes so wide and still and full of reflected starlight that he would surely have been taken for dead already by anyone who happened to pass by. Then he drank greedily, holding the cup in both hands, the rotted, pulsing hurt in the stumps of his fingers barely noticed in his total absorption with the drink.

Sweet! Gods, such sweetness! Such sweetness! Such..

One of the small flat ice cubes in the drink caught in his throat. He coughed, pounded his chest, and choked it out. Now there was a new pain in his head: the silvery pain that comes with drinking something too cold too fast.

He lay still, feeling his heart pumping like a runaway engine, feeling fresh energy surge into his body so fast he felt as if he might actually explode. Without thinking of what he was doing, he tore another piece from his shirt soon it would be no more than a rag hanging around his neck and laid it across one leg. When the drink was gone he would pour the ice into the rag and make a pack for his wounded hand. But his mind was elsewhere.

Sweet! it cried out again and again, trying to get the sense of it, or to convince itself there was sense in it, much as Eddie had tried to convince himself of the other as an actual being and not some mental convulsion that was only another part of himself trying to trick him. Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!

The dark drink was laced with sugar, even more than Marten who had been a great glutton behind his grave ascetic’s exterior had put in his coffee in mornings and at ‘Downers.

Sugar …white …powder …

The gunslinger’s eyes wandered to the bags, barely visible under the grass he had tossed over them, and wondered briefly if the stuff in this drink and the stuff in the bags might be one and the same. He knew that Eddie had understood him perfectly over here, where they were two separate physical creatures; he suspected that if he had crossed bodily to Eddie’s world (and he understood instinctively it could be done … although if the door should shut while he was there, he would be there forever, as Eddie would be here forever if their positions were reversed), he would have understood the language just as perfectly. He knew from being in Eddie’s mind that the languages of the two worlds were similar to begin with. Similar, but not the same. Here a sandwich was a popkin. There to rustle was finding something to eat. So … was it not possible that the drug Eddie called cocaine was, in the gunslinger’s world, called sugar?

Reconsideration made it seem unlikely. Eddie had bought this drink openly, knowing that he was being watched by people who served the Priests of Customs. Further, Roland sensed he had paid comparatively little for it. Less, even, than for the popkins of meat. No, sugar was not cocaine, but Roland could not understand why anyone would want cocaine or any other illegal drug, for that matter, in a world where such a powerful one as sugar was so plentiful and cheap.

He looked at the meat popkins again, felt the first stirrings of hunger … and realized with amazement and confused thankfulness that he felt better.

The drink? Was that it? The sugar in the drink?

That might be part of it but a small part. Sugar could revive one’s strength for awhile when it was flagging; this was something he had known since he was a child. But sugar could not dull pain or damp the fever-fire in your body when some infection had turned it into a furnace. All the same, that was exactly what had happened to him … was still happening.

The convulsive shuddering had stopped. The sweat was drying on his brow. The fishhooks which had lined his throat seemed to be disappearing. Incredible as it was, it was also an inarguable fact, not just imagination or wishful thinking (in point of fact, the gunslinger had not been capable of such frivolity as the latter in unknown and unknowable decades). His missing fingers and toes still throbbed and roared, but he believed even these pains to be muted.

Roland put his head back, closed his eyes and thanked God.

God and Eddie Dean.

    The Drawing of the Three

By Stephen King

I’m in a difficult mood right now. I am furiously angry but I also want to cry. Part of this, I know, is due to the fact that I am giving up another substance at the moment, and I am finding this extremely difficult. I am giving up soda. This may seem trivial and easily done, for many who are in recovery and for some who aren’t. It isn’t easy for me though. I’ve tried probably hundreds of times. This is the first part of a larger, almost inconceivable plan to give up sugar.

Also, I’m yet again having relationship problems with Husband. He doesn’t understand mt struggle I know, but some days it hurts and infuriates me that he won’t even try to show some concern, empathy something.

And.. Son is exhibiting signs of severe anxiety again, when we were doing so well! We had a great day yesterday but he had two near panic attacks. Once at at the Back to School BBQ when he became convinced the baby chicken he was holding was going to hurt him and then later in the evening, driving home from a friend’s birthday party. It was storming out and he voiced his concern that we would get struck by the lightning we saw. Husband and I tried to reassure him but only seemed to make things worse so that by the time we were home and he had to get out of the car, he was practically in tears and he sprinted for the house in a spreed I have never seen him move,

This seems out of the blue! I thought we had gotten past this point. We were all doing so well together. Now I feel simultaneously unsure of how to help him and 100% sure that Husband’s way of dealing with this is doing more harm than good.

Lastly, I have been preparing a post on my drug addiction. It is much more slow, difficult process than any of my other blog posts were. I know it’s important for me to share but it’s so hard still.

Roll play

I went to my primary care doctor the other day. I had been putting off this appointment for way too long because I knew it would just lead to a string of other appointments with specialists that are difficult to get in to see that ultimately end up doing nothing useful.

We ended up discussing my weight as I expected we would.  I need double knee replacement and most surgeons have told me that I need to lose at least 50 pounds before I can have this done which is incredibly difficult for me for two reasons.

First, with my arthritis many normal means of exercise are ruled out. The damage in my knees is SO severe that I cant even do a stairmaster or an exercise bike. Some days it takes everything I have to just get around my apartment.

Second, my eating habits are absolutely atrocious.  I have had food issues since I was a teen and have tried many,many different diets over the years with varying degrees of success.  In 2012 I started dropping quite a bit of weight without even seeming to try. I developed some of vertigo issue and I would have days where I couldn’t hold any food down.

In between these episodes,  I ate whatever the hell I wanted.  I was able to wear stuff I hadnt fit in the longest time. I felt like I had finally found the solution to all my food issues.

Then my life went to shit and I realized I had to go to detox. And in detox and directly afterword all my food issues were still there. The reason why food had stopped being an issue is because I had fed every appetite with opiates.  Once they were taken away,  there was a gaping, screaming hole. And I kept from relapsing by filling that hole with sugar, starch and caffiene. And anything else that wouldn’t mess up my screen.

Point of my longwinded story is that I need  help. So when I saw the doctor,  we decided that I will consult with a bariatric surgeon and ultimately end up getting my weight under control with gastric bypass.  Otherwise, I will end up completely bedridden.  On bad mornings I need to be lifted on to my feet and walked into the bathroom.  I want freedom from that, I want to be able to walk without pain.

I was timid about telling Husband what was going on. He likes me plus sized, he always has. Like Sir MixALot: http://youtu.be/_JphDdGV2TU he is a butt man and I am undeniably little in the middle but I pack much back.

But my weight has always been a shifting issue between us. Sometimes he acts like a feeder, like he wants me to blow up to whatever size and he’ll be turned on by it. Then other times he’s trying to be Mr. Caring aka CONTROLLING Dietician. Like the other day, after I’ve gone grocery shopping:

Him, from the kitchen: Why’d you buy this bag of sugar? How does that help your problems?

Me, after not saying all the profane,fight picking responses that 1st come to my mind: Um, I bought sugar because we were out. I guess it helps because now we aren’t out of sugar anymore.

Him: But it’s not good for you, Maria, and you really need to think about what’s good for you if you are ever going to be able to get your knees done, you know that.

Me, again after searching for a response that is not incendiary: But what am I supposed to put in my coffee?

Him: You dont need coffee either, it isn’t good for you.

Me:

I know it may sound like I am just defensively dodging logical help here with a problem that I’ve been unable to solve on my own, and that is partially true. Addicts will do that. But please remember 2 things.

1: This is not coming from a man that looks like this:

This is coming from a man that looks like this:

2. He will just as soon bring me fast food in the middle of the night as give a lecture on nutritional value while unpacking our groceries. This is also the same man that has virtually banned 2 percent milk , vegetarian meals and ground turkey from ever again gracing our dinner table.

So I struggle. I also wonder, if after all of the surgeries and weight loss and such, is he still going to find me attractive?

Not enough gratitude in the attitude..

AKA I’ve been feeling like one ornery BITCH! Yeah that’s right, I said ornery! You wanna make something of it? Didn’t think so, varmint!

My hardass of a recovery counselor never failed to point out to me when I wasn’t seeing my world with proper gratitude. You know, the whole I once felt bad because I had no shoes till I met a man who had no feet kinda thing.

This never failed to earn him a tearful gfy rant from me, about how he had no clue how I was struggling, what it takes to be me, how hard my life is, all my problems, me me me. Of course, by my next appointment, I’d be thankful/apologizing to him for telling me what I needed to hear. And I know a lot of the funk I am stuck in is my own refusal to self-adjust my perspective. I need to happylist.

Happylist: Verb: to take a written count of a certain number of things one has to be happy about in that given day. A concept I created to help Son with his anger and anxiety that I have found a necessary tool in my own recovery.

I’m upset that school is starting back up for us in approximately 30 hours. I’m nervous as hell about money, health issues, routines, marital stuff, a new counselor, and on and on it goes.

I’m also irritable. As FUCK! I wish I had some motherfucking earplugs because Husband is working on his latest song less than 3 feet away from me. Not only does it involve some experimental tappy twangy type guitar riffs which were interesting at first but have now become the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard after hours of practice but it is incredibly hard not to take offense to the lyrics this time, as they go a little something like this:

I like the kissin’ and the huggin’
I’ll even hold your hand
But when you start cryin’
You know I’m not that man

You can’t stop cryin’
That I DON’T understand
Gotta get up in the morning
Yeah, I’m a working man

Really?! Could’ve fooled me, dickwad! Where the hell is this work you gotta get up for? And when? So I can mark on my calendar, peace and quiet and the bedroom to myself this day! Can’t frickin’ wait!!

*sigh*

I realize I am bitchylisting not happylisting. Some days it’s hella easier to KNOW what i need to do than to actually apply myself and do it.

Thanks as always for being a great listener.