Entry 8 - ...

Too busy to do a damned thing.

Not too busy to gain weight, though! Somehow I'm up 3 pounds despite doin' nothin' different.

Welcome to my world, peeps.

Entry 7 – Good Way to Be Gutted (No Pun Intended)

Last night, I found myself in a position no mother wants to be in. Comforting a wailing, full-body sobbing child with no readily discernable way to fix the problem.

I remember when I was young, being told multiple times I was fat. I started dieting in second grade because of it, and have had a love/hate relationship with food and my body ever since. I vowed I would do all in my power to make sure my daughter never went through the same.

Now, my daughter probably has 5 – 10 extra pounds. But she's not fat. She's study, but she's not fat. And no matter how much weight she loses – well, she's built like her mother. She ain't never gonna be a little thing. She's going to be broad-shouldered, broad-hipped and (unlike her mother) long-legged. Kid's got gorgeous legs, like a colt. But I digress.

Anyway, she's 5'2", 117 pounds. She wears a solid size 4 in clothes, size 9 in women's shoes. Oh, and she's not even 11 yet. Did I mention that?

A couple of week's ago, the mother of one of Anna's friends told me how much she liked Anna, because Anna was such a confident little girl with such a great self-esteem. If only she could see what the other kids have done to my girl's self esteem as of last night.

Yesterday evening, one of her friends (a teeny, tiny little thing, like most girls around) told Anna that her friends were calling her fat. Anna was shaken, and finally cracked. Apparently this has been happening at school regularly, too. She's never chosen for races because people assume she can't run. Kids poke her in the belly. (Are they expecting a Pillsbury Dough Boy laugh? Junior asshats.) Mama not happy.

Especially since at Anna's age, I was already wearing a women's size 16, and I was 2 inches shorter. Those kids don't know fat. Bastages.

Anyway, there she was, doing the same thing I used to do – sobbing in her mother's arms, wondering why kids can't just lay off and let her be her. Then veering into, "But NAME is my height, and wears a girls' size 14! Why am I so much bigger?" Well, honey, NAME is 1 ½ years older than you, is tall and thin and has very narrow shoulders and narrow hips, and has already been told by doctors she's not going to get much taller. You, however, are poised for basketball stardom (as long as you don't get your mother's grace).

But to a sobbing tweener, that just doesn't compute. Or matter. So all I could do was hold her, and tell her I knew exactly what she was going through, and that it sucks. I told her about the time one of the boys in class told me the school had to build a support structure under my desk so I wouldn't crash through the floor. Kids can just be mean little shits to each other, and you just have to grow past it, and not let it get to you. Not that I've necessarily done it successfully, but you know, I'm an adult now who thinks that for a big chick, I'm pretty hot. Just not all that healthy. Which is all you really should be concerned about – being healthy.

Why can't kids just jump past the cruelty? Why does this have to be a rite of passage? My daughter is beautiful, inside and out. The girl has more love in her heart to pass to the world than anyone I've ever known. Why can't the mean-spirited little hellions back the NFBSK off?

And I swear, if my kid ends up being anorexic or bulimic or a binge-eater over this shit, there will be hell to pay.

Entry 6 - Evidence Stares Me in the Face

So, know how you can hear about something over and over, but until you experience it, it just doesn't seem real?

Law school for example. You can hear and hear and hear about the law for three full years, but until you're actually practicing, you don't actually know dick.

Apparently, eating is also like that for me. I can hear how a good diet can make you feel good, correct all kinds of health issues, etc., but hearing just ain't good enough.

Well, now I have a bit o' proof. Sure, I've had proof before, but I've been doing an unwilling experiment since last fall, and I really can't deny the results.

Since I have kinda/sorta Celiac (enough to make me sick as a dog when I eat gluten, but not enough to pick up in a biopsy, but whatevs), I've given up gluten. And since then, my migraines have big-time diminished. Oh, of course, there's other benefits obvious to Celiacs giving up gluten that I shan't go into here, for the sake of the squeamish. But that's actually tolerable stuff, as far as I'm concerned. What I find intolerable are the migraines.

So low and behold, I'm down to one or two migraines a month now. And if I accidentally stumble upon gluten (damn you, Cadbury, for changing your Caramelo recipe!!! /shaking fist at sky), I will be laid up with a migraine and severe exhaustion, amongst other things, for two full days. Undeniable proof, that. Food matters. How you fuel your body matters.

So I'm trying. I'm trying really hard. I've got solid proof of food's effects, proof that even I can't just throw an Immodium or Tums at and walk away from. I mean, we're kinda proving beyond a reasonable doubt at this point, aren't we? Criminal standards are tougher than civil "preponderance of the evidence" standards. All those articles proved something to me in a civil court, but I've finally proved it to myself in a criminal one.

Sorry about that analogy. Law school skews how you view the rest of the world. FOREVER. But that's another story.

So, another ancillary thought - If I'm able to cut back caffeine, will that potentially relieve the tention in my jaw that contributes to the TMJ pain, too? Not ready to go that far yet. Red Bull and I are fast friends.

Entry 5 - ARGH!

Okay, I'm sitting here again fighting that M&M mojo. Ah, you chocolatey siren!

Of course, when the vending machine had Reese's Pieces, that was it.

Back when I could eat gluten, it was Watchamacallits.

So, my cravings are a fickle mistress.

I'm trying to hold off to eat anything, except maybe the celery I pre-packed. Trying not to cave to massive Mars totalitarianism.

Now, if I could just figure out why I want the damned M&Ms so bad. It's really illogical. I'm irritated today, but when aren't I? I had breakfast, but didn't get a mid-morning snack until five hours later. So at almost lunch, I had an apple with peanut butter, the quinoa tabouli, and a quarter cup of strawberries.

Really, there's no reason.

So why? There has to be a reason. I like reason.

Oh well. If nothing else, beginning to write all of this out has gotten me six pounds down in a week. So.... /shrug

Entry 4 - M&M's Shall Be My Downfall

Okay, so right now I am sitting at my desk wanting desperately to go downstairs to the vending machines and get a packet of peanut M&Ms. I hurt, I want them so bad. I'm trying hard not to do it. Here's why.

I know for a fact that I am not hungry.

So, it should be no big deal to not eat them, right? Ah, but you're thinking like a normal human being!

I am sitting here, thinking that I've already had a hot quinoa breakfast cereal, an apple with peanut butter, ½ cup of strawberries, one serving of almonds with a tablespoon of raisins, and a serving of quinoa tabouli (quinoa's my new gluten-free thing of the moment), but none of that involved ravenous chocolate hoarding followed by sugar-shakes. So I feel unsatisfied.

Wassup with that?

Not fair. Harumph.

So I'm sipping a low-cal flavored flavored coffee mix, hoping that helps kill the craving. I've eaten quite enough today thus far as it is. I don't need more. I just want more. And that ain't right.

If I keep this up, maybe it will get easier.

Entry 3 - The Day I Grew Up

I'm the youngest by four kids. And by that I mean, I am the youngest of four kids. After three kids in five years, my parents thought they finally had things figured out. Nine years go by, and all is (relatively) peaceful. Mom wasn't pregnant for a change anyway. Then I happened. Mom calls me their "happy accident," although truth be told, all four of us were "happy accidents," but I digress. The point is, my siblings were 14, 12, and 9 when I was born.

I've had an odd life. More adventuresome than some, less adventuresome than others, but always strange. Through the harder parts of those strange times, there were three people in particular I knew could see me through. Mom, Dad, and my second oldest sister. I've had three particularly hard momentrs in my life, and they were there solid for me through two of them.* It was nice. I was spoiled.

[*I don't want it to sound like my brother wasn't there for me, too. He was. Just in a different way. My brother is an "action" man, and definitely showed his caring in those situations. Sometimes I just need hugs, though, and that's not my brother's area, which is just fine. I love him tremendously, and he loves me, we just show it differently.]

Then Dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. Long story short, he progressed from Stage 1 with a good prognosis to Stage 4 with no hope within a matter of months. My aforementioned sister was Dad's "buddy" and would work from our parents' house, or from the hospital, whichever was applicable, so she could be there as much as possible. I had just moved five hours a way, but I came back on weekends as much as I could. To this day, I feel like I failed all of them by not being right there. But again, I digress. My point is, my mother's partner in every sense of the word was dying. My sister's father and fast friend was dying. And my indestructible dad who brought me through so many difficult times with a stoic presence and a strong mind was dying.

The weekend we found out we were going to lose him - Labor Day weekend, 2006 - I had brought my husband and daughter back to visit. We all sat in the viewing room to the second story hospital courtyard, and just looked at the flowers and reminisced. It was awesome. Dad and I spotted a gorgeous yellow butterfly out the window. We got quiet as we watched it lightly flutter from flower to flower, until it tired of the selection and went up and over the courtyard wall. Dad and I saw more than the butterfly. We didn't know it, but my brother saw it, too. To this day, my big tough bullriding brother swerves to miss yellow butterflies in the road. But again, I digress. I'm quite good at that.

The day Dad died is the day I finally grew up. I took my family back on the road, and called my boss to arrange time off so my sister and I could help bring Dad home for hospice care. Turned out, we didn't need to do that. When I got back the next day, I found out he had asked to be put on a respirator because without proper oxygen, he was not tracking mentally, and Dad hated that feeling. He was also pretty much comatose. He couldn't talk, couldn't really move more than the occasional hand squeeze, couldn't open his eyes, etc. Mom and my sister said he'd been like that since the night before. We knew it was close, probably that day, so we camped around him. My sister, bless her heart, gave up holding his right hand, his only good hand (carpal tunnel ravaged the left hand) for me. I can never thank her enough for that. Mom held his left hand. My sister went back and forth between rubbing his feet and stroking his forehead. My brother came in and out of the room, and comforted Dad the way he knew best - leaving to take care of the chores on Dad's farm as well as his own.

While a few relatives came over to say their goodbyes (most had taken care of this while Dad was still coherent), Mom, my sister and I just stayed there, talked to him, intended to see him off with dignity.

At some point, a grief counselor came in the room, and began talking to Mom. "Good," was my initial thought. "Mom needs this." Boy, was I wrong. The woman sat there and said, "Honey, it's time to take out the respirator." Mom didn't know what to do, because Dad had asked for the respirator. The woman went from saying it nicely to badgering her, telling her Dad was in pain and she was just prolonging it. My sister, my strong, sensible older sister, who had been with Mom and Dad through the whole process, finally couldn't take it and left the room. So there's just me and Mom. Mom's turning red, and I suddenly realized she was hyperventilating, and her face was covered in tears. I looked at Dad, and he had a tear running down the corner of his eye.

Only time in my life, I'd ever seen Dad cry. EVER.

As I'm processing what this woman is doing to my parents, she finally turns to me and says, "What do you think your dad would want?" I looked at her with a fire in my belly I never knew I had, and I said, "Listen, all I know is before you came in, we were all peaceful. Now Mom's hyperventilating, and Dad's crying. I think what Dad would want is for you to get the hell out."

It sounded so much like something my sister would say, my strong smart and amazing sister, that I was shocked. But it did the job, the woman got out of there. Mom calmed down. My sister came back in.

That was the moment I grew up. Sadly, it was also the moment Dad apparently decided he couldn't let them force Mom to make the decision. So it was also the moment Dad gave up. It was shortly after that when he officially passed, when the respirator was doing nothing but pumping air into an empty shell. It wasn't sudden, it was just he didn't fight to stay until my brother got there, he didn't fight until they came in to torment Mom again. He just mentally let go, after which his body let go, and it was shortly thereafter that we had the gathering awareness that the gift was gone, and we were just left with just the package.

I miss my dad.

And here's the point where I make it all about me. As part of growing up, I also realized I did not want my children to ever ever see me go the same way. Not that I regret what I saw, but I feel bad that, in my eyes, the world's strongest man had to pass from us with such weakness and vulnerability. It wasn't him. The dignity and the love at the end were completely him, but the weakness made him crazy. And, quite frankly, it was disturbing. My dad used to let me sit on his foot while he walked around the house without even breaking his stride. This frail man in a hospital bed was a shock to us all.

But no, I don't want my children to see me go this way, because I dont' want them to think of me in pain, to think of me weakened, and I don't want anyone - not my children or my husband - to have to pick me up to move me from the chair to a bed. Not because it embarrasses me, but because ... well I can't really describe it. I just don't want that for them.

Now, I realize I do have a cancer risk. It's not just hereditary, I have a precancerous condition. And if it's what takes me, it could be nasty. I'll be a shell of myself before the end. The possibility my children will see me go the way I saw my dad go is very real.

One way I can help prevent it? Lose weight, not overeat. Sounds so easy, doesn't it? But it's not. I think I understand why it took Dad so long to quit smoking. There's a comfort and a peace I get from eating that I haven't been able to let go of, regardless of the potential effects. It's addictive.

But I have to find some way to do it. For me, for my children, for my dad.

I love you, Dad. And I miss you like you wouldn't believe.

Love,

Little Brat

Entry 2 - Kid Eats Brownies, Blames Brother.

So, last time I said that I stress eat. That's technically inaccurate. I don't stress eat so much as become a giant blackhole of food absorbtion when I'm stressed. Srsly. Not pretty.

So no wonder my fat pants are tight as hell right now. You know I once got so fat, I thought I'd developed a hunch on my back, but then I lost the weight and realized I had just been cultivating human bacon? True story. But I digress.

I've been working hard to figure out why I turn to food during stress. From a practical standpoint, food is a socially-acceptable way to drown your sorrows. I can't work drunk (although I've known - and been married to - folks who've tried!), but I can work hopped up on chocolate and Red Bull! Of course, then I become 24-hour socially unacceptable, since society does not favor the fatted. Pity, that. A couple hundred years ago, I woulda been hot stuff. But again, I digress.

When I feel bad, I turn to food. Bored, food. Stressed, food. Depressed, food. Happy, celebrate with food! I can tag food into any emotion whatsoever, and find it totally justifiable. Just watch me!

I've been this way since I was a kid. I wonder if Mom ever wondered why we went through sliced cheese so fast? I used to eat all Dad's brownies, and blame my brother (who once ate a four-pound roast by himself, so it wasn't a stretch to get him blamed). But even then, why did I? How many kids are stressed? Well, lots. Me for one.

As a toddler, I had some kind of weird kidney disease no one could ever diagnose. One kidney swelled so much, the doctor thought I had three. Sometime around grade school, I just kind of outgrew all of the bladder and kidney infections.

Also as a toddler, I apparently had arthritis in my knees. So running and playing wasn't always fun, it was often painful.

I had brains, though, so I clung to that to make my name. Of course, skipping gym glass for medical reasons, getting fat, and having awesome grades made me way popular.

By sixth grade, I wore about a size 18. How pathetic is that? My nearing-sixth-grade daughter wears a 4, and she's tall and broad-built like her mama. Sixth grade was also the year I grew six inches in nine months, nearly destroying my knees. They were wormholed, and brittle, and could have broken easily, because my bones just couldn't keep up. So that made me fat, smart, athletically challenged, and on crutches half the time. Oh, and I had a lisp. Extra awesome.

By my sophomore year in high school, I was 5'8" (I'd later grow another two inches), weighed 240 pounds, had a bad perm (yay 80s!), back trouble, knee trouble, developed TMJ and had to wear a mouth guard f0r nine months straight (at least it cured my lisp).

What was always my solution over time? Cookies make it all better! Velveeta covered potato chips! PIZZA!!!! And all the Watchamacallit bars I could get my hands on. Typical breakfast when I'd go to forensic and music meets (just adding to my geek cred) would be grape Nehi and a Suzi Q.

So what does this tell me about why I do it? Probably nothing, quite frankly. All I know is I do it, and it's been a lifelong habit. About my junior year of high school, for whatever reason, things broke and weight dropped off. I can't think of exactly what changed, though. So that doesn't really help.

Bleh. I'll get there. I'll figure it out.

Entry 1 - Why I am where I am (As opposed to "Wherever you go, there you are")

So, if you know me, it’s no secret I’ve struggled with my weight for quite some time (I'm almost 38, so I suppose I've struggled for ... 37 1/2 years? About that).

I’ve now got some real serious motivation for getting it under control, although that certaintly hasn't stopped me form stress-eating my way to an early death anyway.

I am an emotional eater. I get stressed, I eat. Which is probably why I lost nearly 140 pounds after my first marriage ended (or as I used to say, "I lost 250 pounds of useless fat. Then I lost 140 pounds.") And why I’ve put on about 50 pounds since Dad got sick then died, and then lost 15 pounds after I dealt with that a bit, only to put on 20 pounds recently because of the "punch-in-the-neck" factor at work. (Background - everyone who pisses me off, I say I'm going to "punch them in the neck." I owe one guy in particular about 75 socks in the adam's apple).

Things have come to a head, in my mind (I could have punned here, I chose not to), and I’m going to try very hard to get serious. See, I was having some intestinal issues for several months. I’m not gonna go into detail, but it wasn’t pretty. I finally went to the family doctor, and was initially diagnosed with Celiac, or gluten intolerance, but was sent to a gastroenterologist to confirm. The gastroenterologist scheduled me for an endoscopic biopsy to confirm the Celiac, and because of a family history of colon cancer, a fun little alien probe. Yippee! I was twirked, mostly because he instructed me to go back on gluten to re-damage my system so my biopsy results wouldn’t be skewed, but I went ahead and went through with it. The doc still couldn’t confirm the Celiac, but assumes I probably have it because I’ve had such a positive response to the gluten-free diet. I have probably just caught it so fast I haven’t damaged my system enough for a biopsy to appropriately pick it up. So that’s encouraging. Or something. But (notice the single t? Chose again not to pun)...

What totally and completely caught me off guard is I apparently have Barrett’s Esophagus. That came totally out of left field. Barrett’s Esophagus, at the stage I have it, is truly nothing more than a pre-pre-cancerous condition. Basically my stomach acid has been pushing up into my esophagus and changing the cells of my esophagus into stomach cells. Except these cells aren’t supposed to exist outside the stomach, so these are foreign objects, hence, a potential cancer risk. At this point, I have no dysplasia whatsoever, so my chances of actually developing esophageal cancer are .5%, very very low. But it’s still enough I’m going to be on GERD (essentially acid reflux, heartburn) medication for the rest of my life.

I have to control GERD I never knew I had, and I have to have regular endoscopies to make sure the condition doesn’t progress to dysplasia, which is when we’re dancing closer to actual cancer. While my chances of actually developing cancer are small, esophageal cancer can be very nasty and has some pretty limited treatment options – essentially, two of them involve forms of radiation to burn out part of the esophageal walls (after which the cancer can still come back), or have part of your esophagus actually removed. Fun fun! I think I’ll pass.

Part of controlling GERD involves weight loss, not eating three hours before bed, not overeating, yadda yadda yadda. So, it’s time for me to really stop relying on that ol’ “Oh, I’m an emotional eater!” crutch and get myself centered. Except I said that late last summer when I was diagnosed, and I haven't yet. Cause I procrastinate. Badly. Er, I procrastinate quite well actually, but you get my drift.

I don’t wanna play with this. I’ve seen firsthand what cancer can do to a person. I was there when my dad gave in to lung cancer. It's not so much that I'm afraid to die that way (not that it'd be my first choice), but I saw how it tore my mother apart, tore my siblings apart, and I felt how it tore me apart. I don't want my family to see it.

So, here goes. I need to find some way get myself under control. Given the way cancer doesn’t just run, it frickin’ gallops, through Dad’s side of the family, if I can remove even one little chance of my children seeing me go in any way even close to the manner in which I saw Dad (and so many other good, loving people) go, I’m going to do it. One of my best chances of removing this particular potential is to get my weight under control, so I need to finally suck it up. Of course "need to" and "going to" are separated by the grand canyon that also exists between my brain and my brownie-grabbin' hands, unfortunately.

When I had the throat poke/alien butt probe on Aug. 24, 2010, I weighed 234. I gave up gluten and budgeted my calories immediately afteward, and got down to 220. Then stress picked up again, and dammit, back to 234.

Ultimately, I want to get down to 180 or 175, somewhere in there. Below 175, I get really stupid looking, all pointy and angular. I hate looking like someone whose cheekbones you can cut cheese on (insert “cut the cheese” joke here - I'm laying the puns in your lap this time). Plus, below 175 and my shoulder blades feel like they’re poking through my skin when I try to lay down to sleep, and NO ONE GETS BETWEEN ME AND SLEEP, DAMMIT.

So there. So that’s my goal, and this is how I’m going to stupidly play this out.

On with the show. Or train wreck. We’ll see which.