(I blame Carbonite. More on that later...)

In 2003, I suffered from severe depression and almost debilitating panic attacks. Things got so bad, that I had to take an unpaid leave of absence from work and attend out patient group therapy.

One of the things that I learned in the weeks of therapy was how to deal with panic attacks. So, when I felt this panic attack coming on, I knew what to do.

I tried calling friends. No one answered.

I talked out loud to myself, saying things like "this is JUST a panic attack. You're going to be fine."

I took deep breaths.

Then, I did something I kind of regret.

I took it to Twitter.

I'm sure that people probably thought I was being a drama queen, but it was a genuine cry for help. Lucky for me, someone heard and called me. Unlucky for them, I was in the midst of the attack.

If you've never suffered a panic attack, you have no idea how awful and frightening they can be. I had hyperventilated to the point that my entire body had gone numb. My legs, my arms, MY FACE. I couldn't speak, I was shaking, my heart was pounding.

When the phone rang, I didn't recognize the number, but I answered anyway. As humiliating as it was to answer the phone WHILE HAVING AN ATTACK, I knew that talking to someone could help calm me down. I won't go into the details of the call, but I will tell you that I was embarrassed and apologized a lot. This wonderful soul was kind and understanding and I can never thank her enough for her kindness.

It took me a couple of hours to recover fully from the emotional and physical effects of the attack.

Of course, I am now slightly alarmed that this could happen again. It's been so long, I thought perhaps I would never have one again. Now, I'm wondering-- do I need to see my psychiatrist again? Would it be wise to ask for medication to prevent this in the future?

I don't want to overreact. I know this was brought on by a very specific event. (Losing a TON of photos that I *thought* were backed up on carbonite, but, apparently, NOT. Because did you know that if you delete files from your hard drive, Carbonite then deletes those same files 30 days later? Which makes me ask the question-- BACKUP SYSTEM, HOW? I suppose it's my fault for not reading all of the fine print. I suppose I shouldn't have assumed that a backup system meant all of your files were backed up, even the deleted ones. But, seriously, isn't that the point of having a backup of your files? So if they are lost or deleted, YOU HAVE A BACKUP OF THE FILE? Stupid, me!) But I can't help but wonder if this is something I need to speak to a professional about again. Maybe?

We'll see.

If you follow me on twitter, I do apologize for the trainwreck tweets. I truly wasn't trying to be a drama queen, I was legitimately reaching out for help. But, even still. AM EMBARRASSED.

On one hand, I was excited and proud.

On the other, I felt like I had been punched in the gut.

Every year, I write about the complex emotions I feel on this day. Every year I write about how bittersweet this day is. The day I became a mother.

17 years ago.

17 years.

Before I woke him up this morning, I studied his Almost a Man face. Not a trace of the little boy who I used to hold tightly in my arms. "He looks so much like his father now. Where did the time go?" I thought.

Then, strangely, all of his "firsts" came rushing to mind. His first breath, his first time sleeping through the night. His first tooth. His first steps. His first words. His first day in Kindergarten. Then, I thought of all of the firsts still to come. His first job, his first paycheck, his first broken heart.

How lucky I am. I have this incredibly kind, hilarious, talented son that I've had the pleasure of raising for the past 17 years. His possibilities are endless! His future is bright! It's very exciting and I should be SO DAMN HAPPY.

And I am. I truly am.

At the same time... wasn't it just yesterday that I was cradling him in my arms while rocking him to sleep? Wasn't it just yesterday that we were discussing who his favorite Power Ranger is? Now, we're discussing prom and his future in law enforcement.

You can understand why my heart is so conflicted, yes?

By the time I climbed in the van to take The Birthday Boy to school, I was a bit of an emotional wreck. "My baby is almost a man! My heart can't take this!" I thought to myself as I watched him climb into the car.

*****

"You need a haircut." I said, as we were pulling up to the school.

"I can't get one, mom." he responded

"What do you mean you can't get a haircut?"

"I made a bet."

"A bet? Oh Lord..."

"If I get a bowl cut, Jordan is going to give me $10."

I think I said something like "you realize if you get a bowl cut, you'll have to shave your head to fix things, right?"

"I know, Mom." He said, in a Very Annoyed Tone.

I wished him a Happy Birthday as he got out of the car.

"That pretty much sums up the experience of having a 17 year old son right there." I thought to myself.

And then I laughed. And I laughed all the way home.

Because, my son is 17 years old. And while while 17 year olds think they're so smart and know more than you do about life, he's still just childlike enough to agree to a bet that involves GETTING BOWL CUT.

Happy Birthday, my sweet baby boy. I do love you more than you could possibly even begin to understand.

I took this photo in the presidential suite of a hotel in Chicago. I've always been incredibly proud of this photo. Mostly because it has 3 of my favorite people in the world in it.

Last weekend, I had the privilege of seeing that photo hanging in the Fotofest "Defining a Movement" gallery in Houston.

(Can you tell how proud I was feeling? Because I was feeling proud.)

The experience was overwhelming. To see something that I created in such a beautiful space, among so many incredible photographs, moved me to tears.

Having friends there to share the experience with me made the experience richer, sweeter. (If only Lena could have been there. Sigh.)

As I walked around the gallery, admiring the other photos hanging on the wall, I thought to myself "THIS is why I love blogging. The women. The creativity. The friendship."

I've written before about how little I feel in this world. But that night, I felt like I belonged. That night I was embraced by women I admire. Intelligent, creative, loving, wonderful, honest, real women. They wrapped their arms around me tightly and they told me how proud they were of me. They cried with me, they shared in my joy, in my moment. I felt so loved, so understood.

"What you do matters."

After this weekend, I am choosing to believe that.

I wanted to hug her so hard. But I was in a hotel room in another state. So, instead, I cried.

"I love you right back." I replied. "And you're the best daughter in the world."

She giggled.

"I can not wait to see you tonight." I added.

"Me too, Mommy! I'm so excited!"

Later that evening, I stood outside the ever busy LAX, watching out for our minivan.

I wanted to catch her reaction the moment she saw me open the van door, so I took my camera out of my camera bag and put it around my neck.

I saw the van pulling up.

I saw my husband pointing while saying something to her. I imagine he was saying "There she is. There's your Mama!"

He pulled up to the curb, I walked around to pop open the back hatch. I held the camera up to my eye with one hand and opened up the door with my other.

I heard her scream. It was a happy scream.

I snapped a shot.

"MOMMY! MOMMY!"

"My daughter! My sweet daughter!"

I climbed into the backseat and wrapped my arms around her. She squeezed me tightly. We both had happy tears in our eyes.

Only gone for 4 days, but it felt like 100.

"Mommy? Will you play a game with me when we get home?"

"I'm so tired, but I promise you, first thing in the morning, we will play whatever game you want."

And first thing in the morning, she informed me she would like to play "make over with mommy's makeup."

I put make up on her sweet little face. We talked about the things she did while I was gone. I told her about my trip. She told me she missed me every night. I told her I missed her every minute of every day. She asked if she could wear my special necklace.

"Of course you can, darling."

I love traveling to spend time with women I admire. The experiences that I have on those trips almost always help me to grow as a person, to become a better mother. I love a little alone time away from the realities of life. But make no mistake about it. I love coming home to my family 1000 times more.

This is Me and My Dress Having Fun in Houston

I am totally impressed with myself, balancing in heels like that.

Also? Totally proud of myself for putting aside my insecurities about my body to wear something pretty and to have a good time.

Embrace the body you have now, ladies. If you're not happy with the way you look and you want to lose weight, then do it. BUT! DO NOT STOP LIVING in the mean time. You deserve to enjoy your life whether you're 110 pounds or 300 pounds.

Life is good. And life is short. Don't waste a minute of it.

For clothes.

More specifically, for a dress.

Here's the thing. I hate shopping for clothes. Mostly because of my size. But also the shape of my body.

Everything is large and sags and the roll of fat on the right size of my waist is much bigger than the one on my left and it annoys the ever living piss out of me.

When I am forced to buy new clothes, I really try to focus on the progress I've made. I focus on the fact that I can now buy size 16 jeans instead of size 22 jeans. I focus on the fact that I can buy Regular ol' Large instead of X-large in shirts. I try NOT to focus on the extra 50 pounds still clinging to my body. I try not to focus on the lumps and rolls.

But dress shopping is different.

I can't cover the (uneven) belly rolls. I can't hide my Shelf Ass. I can't hide the back of my leg, just above the knee area, that is so lumpy and unattractive.

That is why I don't buy dresses. No matter how cute. No matter how much I want to wear them. I just don't.

Except this weekend, I bought a dress.

A fitted dress. That shows my arms. And my (uneven) belly rolls. And my Shelf Ass. And the back of my leg, just above my knee area. It shows it all.

And then some.

And by "some" I mean "my boobs."

I almost didn't buy it. But I posted it on twitter and everyone was like "you look great! Buy it!" And I chose to believe them because my friends are honest and I don't think they'd want me going to a party looking like a Lumpy Asshole.

Speaking of assholes... my boobs. I will be wearing a cami, so, fear not! There will be no wardrobe malfunctions! (Unless, I drink too much wine. Then I'll probably want to go to the bathroom and take the cami off because "I just want to be freeeee!" What I'm trying to say is DON'T LET ME DRINK TOO MUCH WINE, HOUSTON.)

I'm feeling insecure about wearing the dress. I can't lie.

But here's the thing (that I just decided.)

Life is too short to NOT wear pretty dresses.

So, I'm going to squeeze all 194 pounds of me into that dress, put on a pair of hot shoes (that I bought at Target. For less than $25) and enjoy the hell out of that party.

Oh, yes I am.

Actually, I have a love /hate relationship with bananas.

I love the flavor of a banana, but I hate the texture.

I love frozen bananas covered in chocolate and nuts.

I love banana bread and banana flavored things. I love dried banana chips.

But plain ol' bananas?

My mouth hates those.

People are always telling me that I need to buy green-ish bananas, because they are firm! Not mushy at all! Tell that to my mouth, you guys.

The other day I bought a nice greenish bunch of bananas, like the internet told me to do. I opened one up to have a quick snack before leaving for the gym.

The first bite was okay. The second bite? Not so much.

I almost puked.

There were tears running down my face from gagging so hard.

My husband walked into the room just after the gagging episode and was all "Are you okay? What happened?" And I was all "I am trying to eat a banana and I gagged." And he was all "you're not supposed to shove the whole thing down your throat." And I was all "I know that, smart ass. I didn't. I just took a bite and the texture made me gag."

And he laughed so hard.

Now, anytime I eat a banana, he watches, shakes his head and says things like "I don't understand you, woman. Bananas are delicious."

Then he laughs.

You're probably thinking to yourself "if she hates bananas, why does she eat them?"

I know, right? I eat them when I need a quick, filling, healthy snack. Usually before or just after working out. They're so easy. No dicing, cutting or preparing. Just peel that bitch and eat it. Bonus: they're full of potassium! So, that's why.

Better a banana than a bag of chips, yes?

The hope I have is that one day I will suddenly, magically love bananas. That the texture will not bother me and I can enjoy one without gagging or making faces of disgust. That hasn't happened yet.

My hatred of bananas is a constant source of amusement to my husband, who shot this footage of me trying to eat a banana after my workout yesterday.

Basically, that's what it looks like every time I eat a banana. Sometimes there is more gagging involved than other times.

So, yeah.

Eating bananas is hard, you guys.

Having been diagnosed with "insulin resistance" (pre-diabetes) I thought I had educated myself on the disease sufficiently.

Turns out, I didn't know as much as I thought I did. There was so much valuable information on that show. And the information scared both me and my husband straight.

Did you know that having 1 12 oz can of soda a day increases your risk of type2 diabetes by 83%?

Crazy, right?

One of the biggest risk factors for diabetes is belly fat.

Before I had thyroid disease and all of the health problems that have followed, I never had a problem with belly fat. When I'd gain weight, it would mostly be in my thighs and ass. I was always small waisted. That all changed with the thyroid disease. Suddenly, weight started piling on my mid section. I had no idea how dangerous all of that weight piling up in my belly was.

I am not sure how big my waist was at it's largest as I was always too afraid to take my measurements. What I do know is that last January, my waist was a whopping 43 inches.

According to Dr.Oz, if your waist size (measured at your belly button) is more than half of your height, you have too much belly and you are at risk for diabetes.

This fact caught my husband's attention. You see, my husband is by all accounts "thin." Not an ounce of fat on his arms or his legs. But-- he has a belly. This bit of information made him pause and think.

"I wonder how big my waist is." He said. "I should know that."

I ran to get the measuring tape, more than happy to measure his beer gut. I was relieved to find out that his belly is MORE INCHES THAN MY BELLY. It's been a while since I could say that.

I threw down a challenge to my husband. .

"let's see who can lose the most belly inches in one month."

He accepted the challenge.

We both used Dr.Oz's formula to set our goals.

I am 5'4" = 64 inches. Half of 64 is 32.

My waist size is now 36 inches. I need to lose at least 4 inches.

My husband is 5'9"= 69. Half of 69 is 34.5

His waist is 38 inches. He needs to lose at least 3.5 inches.

What makes this challenge so great to me is that my husband has never once had to watch what he eats. He's been blessed with a kick ass metabolism. It'll be fun to watch him TRY to say no to a muffin or a piece of pie. It will also be fun watching him do sit-ups. I can't say that I ever have seen him do any in our 19 years of marriage.

I am confident I will win this challenge. I am also confident that this is going to be so great for both of us.

We'll take measurements on March 5 and I will record it live and post the results here.

My first visit with her was not fun. I had not had a period in almost 6 months. I could not lose weight no matter how much I worked out or watched what I ate. I felt tired all of the time, even though my thyroid numbers were finally in the normal range. I was an emotional and physical wreck.

I told her about my symptoms. I told her how my doctor told me to "just enjoy" not having a period. I told her about my frustration with my weight. I told her how I felt like no one was truly listening to me.

I cried.

And I cried.

And I cried some more.

It was embarrassing.

She listened. But more importantly, she heard what I was saying and she properly diagnosed me.

"I believe you're insulin resistant." She said. "I want to put you on a medication that will help your body be more sensitive to insulin."

Out of desperation, I trusted her.

Turns out, I was right to trust her. She saved my life.

I'm sure that sounds dramatic, but if you had experienced the hell I was going through physically, you'd understand.

I'm thinner. I'm happier. I am NOT TIRED ALL OF THE TIME. I have periods every!single!month! without fail. I can think clearly again.

I feel joy again.

I feel so many things that I haven't felt in years.

Good things. Beautiful things. HORNY THINGS.

*******

Before I left her office, she told me she was going to order a new round of test, just to make sure all was truly well.

"If all your tests come back fine, I'll want to see you again in 6 months." She said.

"Sounds good to me." I replied.

As we walked out of the room, she turned to me, put her hand on my shoulder and said "I'm really proud of you, Y."

I tried to fight it, but I am an Emotional Asshole who can not control The Tears.

I started to cry.

"I am so grateful for what you did for me." I said. "You actually listened to me and you NAILED IT. You gave me the answers I needed to finally get healthy again."

"No." she said. "You did it all. You did all of the work and you should be so proud of yourself."

You know what?

I am proud of myself.

Proud that I stood up for myself, even though it was uncomfortable, even though it made OTHER people uncomfortable. I'm proud that I didn't allow myself to be intimidated. That I said "You're not doing a good job for me." and sought out someone who could help me.

I have my readers to thank for giving me the courage I needed to do it. You told me I deserved someone who would listen. You told me to get a new doctor already. It was your comments I thought of as I typed the email to my doctor, basically saying "I don't want to see you anymore."

HOLY MEDICAL CHEESE.

I can't help it. This is the first time in years that I feel so full of life, energy and most of all, hope.

I am happy to say, my tests have all come back normal. Thyroid is great (.71, y'all!) B-12 levels are great! Kidneys and liver? FINE! Weight? Coming off. (Very. Slowly. BUT! It's okay.)

Down 26 inches and 42 pounds. (Only 6 pounds away from the 180's!)

For those of you who are brave enough to look, I am posting my current weight photos after the jump. Beware: there will be "sagging belly" and also CHEESY SMILES.

(You can see previous weight photos here.)

I should rephrase that.

I'm starting to hate MY gym because my gym is kind of an asshole.

It's small. There is no child care. They have awesome machines that we are not allowed to use unless we pay for (semi) private sessions with one of their "trainers.". They added a sauna, but you have to pay extra for it. The aerobics room is tiny and I almost always am tempted to "throw an elbow" because woman don't respect (aerobic dancing) personal space. The mats are all ripped to shreds and are in desperate need of being replaced.

You know what else? The instructors at my gym are kind of awful. (with the exception of Aerobic Dance Queen, Anna.) The last time when I took Zumba (which, by the way, I need to write about) the instructor constantly talked about food. She would be all "woo! Think of all of the PIES! AND COOKIES! AND ICE CREAM! you can eat after burning all of these calories!" Not EVEN lying.

Here's the thing.

I have no right to judge my gym. I am a gym Hot Mess.

I fit in perfectly! This gym was made SPECIFICALLY FOR PEOPLE LIKE ME!

Let me give you just a few examples of what I mean.

• I lost the rubber strap for my Generic mp3 player, so I use my cleavage to hold it when I'm working out or sometimes, I use the string of my sweats and tie that bitch all up in my waist area.
• I only have 2 pairs of workout pants. And both pair have holes in the crotch. And I can't find my sewing kit.
• I can't control my grunting. Nor can I control my occasional crying on the treadmill (not "sad" crying. But "fuck, yeah, My Body. YOU ARE DOING THIS." crying.")
• My ankle crack. Severely. Like, every single time I take a step, run, squat. If you think I'm exaggerating, here is some actual proof. (Yes. I youtubed that shit. FOR YOU!)

• Every towel I use at the gym is pretty much COVERED in bleach stains. I can't bring myself to use my "good towels" to wipe other peoples ass sweat off the bike seat. I just can't.


• I am gassy. And gas + any machine involving squeezing the lower half of my body= *pffrtattaaaataa*


• I have unusually tiny ears. So none of my headphones fit properly in my ears. They're always falling out, so I'm constantly pushing them back in. And then, sometimes (and when I say "sometimes" I mean "pretty much every time I'm running), while I'm struggling to push one back in, the other one falls out and I lose control of my generic MP3 player and it falls out of my hands, hits the treadmill, goes flying across the gym.
  

You see? What right do I have to call my gym an asshole for having ripped up floor mats when I am walking around, squatting WITH HOLES IN THE CROTCH OF MY PANTS?

And yet?

I do.

Maybe if my gym tried a little harder, I'd buy some new pants. Maybe if my gym got some new floor mats, I'd go buy a new arm strap for my mp3 player.

Step it up, My Gym. I need some motivation to be a Better Gym Person. I'm not getting it by looking at your broken machines with notes on them since JANUARY 14TH.

She farts. LOUDLY.

"What do you say?" I ask.

"Excuse me." She says, while giggling a little.

A few seconds later, a horrific smell fills the atmosphere.

"Goodness, little girl." I say, while plugging my nose.

I walk away to clear the nasal passage.

"Mom!" she says, all excitedly.

"You have GOT to put that on YouTube."

I start laughing because I'm pretty sure my daughter just told me that I should upload her fart to YouTube.

"I'm SERIOUS, Mom. put it on YouTube."

After I stop laughing, I ask her "what do you want me to put on YouTube?" And she goes "about my fart. And send it to your friends. They will think it's hilarious."

No doubt, she is a child of a "digital mom."