This past week has been rough.
I’ve written several posts only to delete them immediately because honestly? I don’t know how many more times I can write about my deteriorating health before people stop reading this blog.
But, this is supposed to be about my life, right? And right now, my life is consumed with health problems, right? So, what’s a bloggah to do?
My frustration with my health and my inability to talk about anything other than it is at an all time high. Just when I think I’ve taken charge of things (diet coke, be gone!) and that I can resume to live my life as normal,I find myself in urgent care, having an EKG and being told that I there are “irregularities” with my heart that are fairly common, but “problematic” because of my low thyroid. Suddenly, I realize that ultimately, I have limited control over my body and sometimes, doing everything that I can still isn’t enough.
It’s depressing.
But not nearly depressing as I’m sure it is for you to read this crap all of the time. I want you to just go ahead and try to imagine how much fun it is to be my husband. You can’t even imagine, can you?
I do have a bit of non-health related news to share with you before I put you all out of your misery. In addition to giving up diet coke and every day trips to Starbucks, I am thinking it’s time to give up The Cussing. You see, I thought I was doing a really good job at NOT cussing in front of my children. I have a pretty foul mouth, especially when I’m driving, but I tried to tone it down when my two year old daughter started shouting “GO FASTER, DUMBASS” at passing cars. I stopped saying dumbass and replaced it with “you jerk!” However, it was brought to my attention that I’ve not cleaned up the language as much as I thought when I heard the following words come out of my daughter’s mouth a couple of nights ago.
“I’m going to kick you in the ASShole, Brother.”
I immediately knew that she had learned it from me because she put an extra emphasis on “ASS”, just the way that I do.
You don’t need to tell me how awful it is that my THREE YEAR OLD says Asshole, I already know. I actually felt really dirty when I heard her say it. I honestly thought I wasn’t saying it when she could hear me, but, you know, I was wrong. I’ve vowed to clean up my mouth and stop saying asshole.
Let’s just hope that no one cuts me off in traffic and then turn around and give ME The Finger, because if that happens (again!) I’m pretty sure that a big old ASSHOLE will slip right out of my mouth. Man, I have a feeling giving up that word is going to be harder than giving up a lifelong addiction to The Diet Coke
But if someone had died, I was totally going to blame The Internet.
“You can go ahead and taste it.”
“Oh, it doesn’t have raw egg in it?”
“Well, it does, but The Internet assured me you won’t die from a little taste, so go ahead.”
“I CAN! REALLY! OK! THANKS!”
Oh, have a taste she did.
And I think she was just a LEEEEETTLE bit excited about it because she almost ate the spoon whole.
I think she liked it. Or more like LOVED it and can’t stop talking about how good it was and how she wants to make more cookies tonight so she can “taste it again.”
The funniest part of the entire thing really wasn’t how SHE responded to it, but rather how her brothers reacted.
So, her brothers and 14 and 10, right? Right.
They came walking in and were all “OMG MOM SHE’S EATING RAW COOKIE DOUGH OH NOES SHE’S GONNA DIE HELP!”
No, seriously, they were freaking out because [little voice]I have forbidden them from eating cookie dough for their entire lives[/little voice]. Seeing the way that they reacted did make me feel a little silly for having denied them one of childhoods greatest joys. (The Licking of The Spoon.) However, I really felt that I was protecting them from death at the hands of raw eggs! Crazy? Maybe. But really, I love my kids and want them to live, you know?
I explained to them that I had told Gabby she could taste the cookie dough, because “a little bit isn’t going to hurt her.” (But, I can’t lie, it HURT ME to say that.) Then, I told them that they could have a taste too.
I wish you could have seen their faces.
They were like “are you SURE we’re not going to die from salmonella.” And I was all “I’m pretty sure you won’t die from having a little taste.” And they were all “like, HOW sure?” And I was all “JUST TASTE IT ALREADY.”
(*insert joke about “paying for my children’s therapy” here*)
And so they tasted it and guess what?
Nobody died.
I don’t know that I’m ready to let them have at it every time I make cookies, but I suppose a little taste every once in a while is fine.
I think.
Maybe.
I haven’t decided just yet, may have been a one time deal because no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking that the raw egg is going to kill my children.
But hey, it’s a step in letting go and not being such a Paranoid Freak of a Mother, yes?
Dear Body,
(If you pay any attention to my sidebar, you may have noticed a linked titled “learning to love my body”. That’s a letter that I wrote to my body on May 15, 2006. I am re-posting that letter today for BlogHer’s “Letter to my Body” initiative.)
Making peace with you, learning to love you is harder than I imagined it would be.
You gave me my beautiful children, my three beautiful children. It should be easy to love you for that reason alone. I do love you for that. I do.
But, my God, I hate you too.
I hate you because I am a slave to you. I hate you because there are so many things in life I’ve not been able to do because of the fears and insecurities I have about you.
Your sagging breasts embarrass me.
Your gaping hole of a belly button repulses me.
Your stretch marks humiliate me.
Your loose, hanging skin infuriates me.
The excess fat that you continue to hold onto so tightly angers me.
My husband loves you. He desires you. He thinks you’re beautiful. Sexy, even. I don’t understand how he can feel that way. I truly do not.
I want to feel the way he does about you. I want to love you. I want to love looking at you, or at the very least, not want to puke when I look at you.
It’s hard to look at you without crying. Especially when I compare you to other, beautiful bodies. Or to the way you used to look.
You used to be so beautiful.
I know it’s not fair to compare you to other women, or to your young self. But it’s hard not to. Everywhere I look, I’m bombarded with images of bodies that look nothing like you. It’s hard not to feel like a freak of nature when all of the images I see look so completely different than you. I once saw images that looked similar to you. It was a campaign for “real beauty” and I cried with joy and suddenly didn’t feel like such a freak. But then? I heard people talking about how ugly those bodies looked and how they were repulsed by what they had seen, and how those women had NO business taking pictures in their underwear because no one wanted to see all of that and suddenly, my tears of joy turned once again to tears of shame and hatred towards you.
I’ve become more comfortable with “The Clothed You.” I would have NEVER taken Aerobic Dance Class in the past because I would have been too ashamed and self conscience of my Lumpy Ass, or the Jiggly Arms. But after having shed a few pounds, I have learned to accept my Clothed Self.
But when the clothes come off, HATE HATE HATE what I see.
I’m tired of hating you, of fighting with you, of wishing you were different. So very tired of wasting all of my energy in that way.
I just wanted you to know that I don’t want to hate you or be ashamed of you anymore, I’m just completely lost as to how to NOT feel this way anymore.
But I’m working on it. Be patient with me.
(photo removed.)
Party in the Back.
One of the hardest things for me to deal with regarding how my body has changed due to The Hash&trade is the havoc it’s wreaked on my hair.
My hair used to be very important to me. I would spend a great deal of money to have it cut and colored. I wouldn’t think twice about dropping a wad of cash on products to keep it healthy and full of shine.
Oh, the shine. It was so very important to me.
I had pretty hair. It was thick, smooth and very straight. I loved to get cute, stylish cuts. I loved my hair, I really did.
Until I started losing it. And it became course and dull and FRIZZY.
I took that the night before I was supposed to get it cut by MY STYLIST.
You see, I had an appointment scheduled with My Stylist on Tuesday at 10:30. I was so excited. I was going to cut it all off and get a fresh new look! But, here’s the thing. Somehow, between the time I woke up in the morning, to the time it was supposed to leave for my appointment, I FORGOT ABOUT IT.
I realized around noon that I had missed the appointment and felt all desperate inside, so I went online and googled “hair salons in my city” and found one that had 5 reviews and they were all very positive! People said things like “I love the atmosphere and all of the girls do great work!”
So I called and asked if there was someone who could take me as a walk in and they said “yes! come on in!”
I walked in all hopeful because FIVE AWESOME REVIEWS!! I walked out hopeful still because although I wasn’t too happy with what I saw, I thought “surely, it’s just the way that she styled it! Nothing that can’t be fixed with a thick round brush!”
Riiiiiiiiiiight.
I tried. The Lord knows that I tried, but I couldn’t get the cut to make any sense at all. Basically, it’s like two different cuts on one head of hair. Or something like that, I don’t know, I CAN’T EXPLAIN IT, so, let me just go ahead and show you.
That is the part that I tried to fix, because WHAT IS THAT? HELP ME UNDERSTAND, INTERNET.
Again. WHAT.THE.HELL?
It’s like she took the scissors and cut one layer at the top, added a little fringe and said “that’ll be $40, please.”
I’m trying to find the positives to having a Cut That Makes No Sense.
Hey! At least I can still wear it up!
Or! If I want to get really crazazy, I can do a Faux Bob.
I know that “it’s just hair” and “it will grow back!” But I just wish I hadn’t let her cut so much off because, what if it takes FOREVER to grow back, with the hashimotos and all? (There. I said it. I’m afraid it won’t grow back.) I probably should just go have the “party in the back” cut off and get a cute short ‘do, but the ROUNDNESS of my face is stopping me from doing that.
Maybe I’ll just go buy a fancy Banana Clip from Target and wear it up in style for the next 6 months while I wait for it to grow out.
*edited to add*
I think The IDEA of the style is great. It’s just poorly executed. I think I may do whatWhoorl suggested and go back to my stylist and have her blend the layers. That just may work (and if it doesn’t. I’m totally chopping it off). Man, it sure is going to suck having to face her and admit that I cheated on her.
Hairstory.
Guess who HATES HER NEW HAIRCUT SO EFFING MUCH that she came home and tried to fix it?
I know and yet… Scissors.
Why did I let a stylist that I didn’t know cut 5 inches off of my hair? And why did I let her put “short layers?” And why do I have two complete different hair cuts on my one head of hair???!
Shit.
If I had to title this one, I would title it “As The Thyroid Burns.”
Last week I started a higher dose of my thyroid medication (because the dose I was on was ineffective.)
I’m feeling rather frustrated and confused that after a week of taking a higher dose, I feel worse.
I don’t know how that’s possible, but it’s true.
My husband asked me how I was feeling now that my meds were adjusted. I could hear the hope in his tone. “You doing better, baby?” He asked with a smile on his face.
“No.” I said, fighting back tears.
I should have lied. I should have said that I feel SO MUCH BETTER! Because, honestly, I don’t know how he tolerates me anymore.
I feel as though I owe everyone in my life an apology for being so damn annoying. I really do.
There is so much that I want to say, but it’s all so boring and redundant and annoying, so I’ll just say that I’m not doing well and I don’t know that I’ll ever be well again because that’s how it feels this very moment. It feels very Soap Opera Serious and I actually want to say things like “The Hash&trade has robbed me of my life. I WANT MY GOD BLEEPING LIFE BACK.”
Eight Eighty
Last night we had a dinner for the basketball team. I had made up my mind that I wasn’t going to attend because I didn’t have anything to wear.
I know! I have a new tracksuit! And a pretty stripped shirt. But, I also wear those two tracksuits to every game and I was not about to go to a dinner in one of those outfits.
I promised myself that I’d never miss out on another event because of the “I don’t have anything to wear” excuse, but I had completely justified “this one time” in my mind. “It’s just a dinner for the basketball team. It’s not like it’s a wedding, or an awards ceremony!”
The dinner was scheduled to start at 6:00. At 4:30, Tony came home from work. I informed him that I was going to attend the dinner. He wasn’t happy about it at all.
” I want you to be there.” He said. “Baby, you’ll have a great time without me. It can be a bonding time for you and your son.” He looked at me and said “But I want you there with me.” I paused for a minute. “You’ll be fine, Tony.”
I left to go to the grocery store to buy the stuff I needed to make a salad for the dinner. On the way there, I kept hearing my husband’s voice. “I want you there with me.” Over and over. I was, yet again, being a selfish jerk. I kept thinking about what I was missing out on all because of effing clothes.
I was overcome with guilt and I knew that if I didn’t go, I’d regret it.
And so, before I went to the grocery store, I made an impromptu trip to Kohls. (Ah, Kohls. I hate you and yet I can’t quit you.) I thought if I went there and couldn’t find anything to wear, at least I could say “I tried! Now, you all have fun without me!”
I made my way to The Wimmin’s Section. I felt sick to my stomach. It’s been months since I’ve shopped for real clothes (also known as: Clothes that are not tracksuits). I’ve avoided it like the plague because shopping for clothes in the wimmin’s section is painful for me. I started at the clearance rack, because well, I ALWAYS start at the clearance rack. I was ready to give up after about 3 minutes because DEAR GOD MAKE THE PAISLEY/FLORAL PRINTS GO AWAY when suddenly, I saw a light shine down from heaven and the FUGLY clothes parted and right there before my eyes, I saw pair of black. In my size. I grabbed the tag and that is when I heard the angels sing.
Yes, Jesus loves me, the price tag tells me so.
It was as if God was speaking to me, right there in the clearance section of Kohls and he was saying “Y. I don’t want you to miss out on a night with your family. Here are some pants, the shirts are 50% off. ENJOY THINE SPAGHETTI DINNER.”
When God speaks to you in the aisles of Kohls, you LISTEN and so, I rushed home, made the salad and got ready in less than 20 minutes (can you say “pit wash” and “spot shave?”) and went to the dinner.
And it was wonderful. I even made a new friend and she’s fabulous.
Oh, Self. How you’ve grown.
(And ha! ha! I wasn’t referring to “growing in size” but I can’t help but bring it up because WHEN IN THE HELL DID I GROW STRIPPER SIZED TITTAYS?)
My children will not be children forever. But I will make sure their childhood lives forever in pictures.
Let’s play a game. Every time I say “My Thyroid” you get to punch me in the vagina.
It’s been 25 days since I began taking my daily thyroid medication and guess what? I still feel like ass.
And not a happy ass either. A sad, tired, balding, forgetful, dry, fat ass.
There have been a few positive things happen since I began taking my medication (.25mg of Levothro*d). Within 4 days I started my period, which had been missing since the beginning of November. I also initiated Sessual Relations. TWICE! That may not sound like a big deal, but considering that the last few times we’ve had Sex I actually asked “do you care if I just lay here?” (Answer: of COURSE NOT!) it was a pretty big deal to me.
But, for the most part, there’s not been a significant change since I started the meds.
I feel particularly bad today.
“How bad do you feel?”
I feel SO bad that I took G to day care, even though it was my day off and I slept from 8:30 to 10:30.
I did manage to drag my ass out of bed and head to Kohls to buy a new outfit.
Sadly, it’s another track suit, but! It’s not velour! And it’s not of the Daisy Fuentes variety! (About the striped shirt… It fit. I bought it. Howza’bout we never speak of it again. Ok?)
I also began the process of cleaning out my closet. I had been thinking about doing it for some time now (which is why I wrote the post and decided to share my humiliating “one outfit” secret with you.) I knew it was time, and the comments that were left on the post gave me the “push” that I needed to do it. That said, it hasn’t been easy packing things up. Why is it so damn hard for me to get rid of these clothes? I’ll tell you why. They remind me of a time in my life where I was healthy and happy. They remind me of concerts I went to with friends that I loved. They remind me of nights I would put on my Stetson hat and Justin Ropers and go Line Dancing (Don’t make me bust out The Watermelon Crawl.) They remind me of a time when I could buy clothes because they were cute and not because they made me look a little less obese.
There were a few pieces in particular that I’m having a hard time letting go of, but I’ve pulled out a storage box from the garage and they’re going to a local thrift shop this weekend.
This dress from Old Navy is probably the one that is the hardest for me to part with and probably because it’s a size 6. I can pull this dress out at any time and say “Look! I used to wear a size 6!” I’ve secretly dreamed of fitting in that dress again for EIGHT YEARS. Time to let go of the dream.
Same goes for these (short) shorts from Old Navy.
I’ve not worn shorts since somewhere around 1999 and yet I hold onto those shorts if only to hold them up and say “I can’t believe I used to fit in these.”
It’s time to move on.
That doesn’t mean I have to give up on losing weight. That doesn’t mean that I’ll never fit in a size that I feel comfortable in again. It just means it’s time to start living in the here and now. And the “here and now” is a size 20, not a size six. DID YOU HEAR THAT BRAIN?
I absolutely have to focus all of my energy and getting healthy and right now getting healthy starts with getting my thyroid medications just right so that my body is functioning properly.
I’m tired of feeling the way that I feel and I’m hoping that adding a few pieces to my one outfit wardrobe will perhaps add a little joy to my daily life because I’m tired of looking so damn…
Hashimoto.
(Taken last night, just before bed. I know.)
Making Daisy Proud.
I’d like to introduce you to someone.
Meet My Outfit.
My One and Only Outfit.
The one outfit that I wear every single day. And I’m not even kidding.
She’s a black velour sweat suit that I got from Kohls and yes, she is of the Daisy Fuentes variety.
Here’s the deal.
When I lost weight, I threw away all of my fat clothes because “I’m never going to be that fat again for as long as I live!” Then, I gained weight back and bought a “few things to last until I lose the weight again!”
Strangely, I refused to throw away my Skinny clothes when I gained weight because someday I’m going to fit into those size 7 pants again!”
So, I am stuck with a closet full of clothes that DO NOT FIT ME. Not one thing hanging in there fits me.
There are clothes ranging from a size 6 to a size 18 and not a single thing fits me.
Not a single thing.
“Why don’t you just go buy some new clothes!” People say.
“Because I refuse to buy clothes in this size!” I say. “They’re ugly and expensive and HATE HATE HATE WILL NOT DO IT.”
And so, I am stuck with one black velour sweat suit that I wash every night and wear every day.
It’s so sad I want to cry.
But I won’t! Because IT’S STUPID TO CRY ABOUT DAISY FUENTES SWEAT SUITS FROM KOHLS.
(Oprah’s all “but it’s not about The Daisy Fuentes sweat suit! What’s really going on here, Y?)
Today, as I went through the clothes hanging in my closet, I kept asking myself “Why are you hanging onto these clothes that you’ll never fit in again?”
I can’t come up with a good answer.
I know I should pack them up and start buying new things that fit. But I can’t let go. I keep holding on to the dream. I can’t help but think that in holding onto those old clothes, I’m hindering myself from moving forward and finding true contentment where I’m at RIGHT THIS MINUTE. I need to stop living in the past and make peace with the present. I finally realize this and yet, I continue to keep those clothes on the hangers in my closet.
If only I could find the strength to pack those clothes up and to go shopping for clothes that I’m comfortable in, even if they are a size 20.
I don’t know if I can find the strength to do it.
Besides…
This Daisy Fuentes suit is really fucking comfortable.