Day 6

So far no adverse effects (no more or less gastric distress than before); however, I have noticed that my *ahem* "movements" have been a bit "different" than before. No more sudden onset liquified "shame," but now it's slower and more deliberate if that makes sense. Seems like my food stays in me longer (and I can only assume so, too, does the medicine).

Been incredibly moody this past week. I can't tell if this is something new or part of the baseline of moodiness I have.

Period still is a no-show, save for a little spotting or discharge the last week of June, but by no means was it a "flow."

I wish I'd just go right into menopause at this point. I can't handle anymore hypothetical intellectualizing over whether I want to have a kid or not. I've tried, unsuccessfully, for eight years to get him "on topic," and somehow the conversation never fully resolves itself. And now, eight years later (mind you, this is on top of the near-10 years wasted with the exhusband), he wants to talk about it, yet is emotionally detached from it, and I'm beyond this discussion.

One moment, I'm too fat to get pregnant. Or I'm too high of a risk with everything else wrong with me. One moment he says, "I didn't marry you for kids, I married you to be with you." Next moment, he's talking about adoption or surrogacy in India. And yet, he has failed to respect or regard the fact that I am six years older than he, with any sense of urgency.

When I married, I was interested in having a kid. OUR kid. Someone with both sets of qualities. The romantic idea of making your "love real" and "building a family of our own." He's always had his own agenda. While I'm not trying to demonize him... we're on so totally opposite time tables for each of our lives, I feel like two meteorites passing each other in deep space. For all intents and perspectives, it LOOKS LIKE we'll collide and become one; yet in space, a degree "off" and it's a near miss.

I have such a fear of failure in every aspect of my life, I'd just assume not attempt anything out of fear of becoming an even bigger failure. And as alone as I feel now, sorting all this out on my own, I cannot even fathom the difficulty of doing this without a support system... and without my dad to guide me.

We got lost yesterday on our way home, trying to get out of Jersey City (visiting friends), and the husband talked about the whole baby topic. I was stressed about being lost, and now brings up an emotional topic for me, and it totally unraveled me to the point of needing to pull over so I could sob, as I was stifling a full-on sob-fest while driving, and did not feel safe crying while driving.

So I pulled over somewhere and just fell apart, while the husband was saying, "Gee, um, this isn't a safe place to do this." It was as safe as any, imho, and to be honest, I don't want to live anymore. Haven't for a while. This is what my life is reduced to? Why bother? I sat there sobbing without an arm around me comforting me, without words of comfort, or even attempts at any of this. We sat in the car, and I felt worlds apart.

For the record, I'm not compliant with my Lexapro anymore. Haven't sought help for what I suspect is bipolar disorder. Yet one more set of doctors to go to, ALONE, for me to deal with this, ALONE.

I have a recommendation for a therapist from an online friend. I haven't managed to make the call yet. And even if I did, I don't put much value in "talk therapy," when from a family history standpoint emotional shit/depression like this is rampant. And even if I did call... where the fuck do I start? It's all so hopeless.

Day Two

So far, so good.

The stuff tastes foul. It smells like it's got potential to be "tasty." Tutti-frutti or bubble gum almost; but then you get it in your mouth, it's got a salty metallic after taste which sticks to the tongue, and a near "fragrance" like effect in the nose (as if I spritzed perfume in my mouth).

Not totally offensive, but, yeah, the antithesis of "delish."

So I slurp my teaspoon down, and follow with my coffee and the rest of my breakfast.

So far, no gastric distress. I can't blame my flatulence on it, as I was quite spectacularly flatulent beforehand.

And yet, last night, after one dose in the a.m., last night I don't know if it's a mental thing, but I felt different, or a difference starting to happen on a molecular level. Skin flushed. Feeling different. Yesterday was moody, not sure if that's PMS or the medicine. It's hard to tell after only one day.

Day One: Riomet

Took first dose today.

PS: My Left Tit

It's been tender for a while.

This morning when I started to cough or clear my throat, while laying on my left side, my left breast had a piercing tingle senstation.

Date of Mamo: 7/24.

A Few Mental Notes

Last week, I spotted. I don't keep a calendar, per se, so before heading to the ReproEndo guy, I always take a peek at this blog, which appears neglected, but to be honest, there's not much to report in the "down time" between visits. Unless of course, readers (what few there are to this blog) want to read and revel in my grief and depression, and how both are affecting one another. Or how I hate my job, and at times, hate myself.

Anyway, I had a conversation via email w/ReproEndo Guy this week. He's a peach. I don't expect him to reply quick, but he does; and I'd much rather zap an email he can reply to in-between patients or better yet, at his leisure.

The conversation had to do with how I just cannot reconcile continuing to PAY FOR and TAKE the Metformin XR tablets, if all I am going to do is expel them, seemingly undigested, in my 10:30 a.m. bowel movement.

Literally, it looks like a PayDay candy bar. And though I'm not one for PayDays (I'm more of a Snickers or Baby Ruth gal myself, iff'n when I indulge), but now I just can't bring myself to even THINK about putting a PayDay in my mouth.

He zapped back, "I hope you'll reconsider Riomet."

"Riomet? What's that?" I replied.

I don't take notes from office visit to office visit, but I'd remember if a medication was recommended!

Turns out for folks who have difficulties swallowing the big ol' horse tablets, Riomet is a liquid form of Metformin.

Of course, as fate would have it, this email conversation took place AFTER I had just gotten my Metformin XR refilled, so now I have a month's worth of tablets that I cannot return to the pharmacy.

I just could not justify the expense (granted my co-pays are $20, but STILL), but more importantly taking medication such as this (at such a high dosage), God only knows what it'll ultimately do to my liver, and NOT get benefit from it because it hasn't been in my system long enough.

We're still on board for either gastric bypass or banding for 2010. My dad's death really has thrown me for a loop, and I cannot do anything drastic this year.

I do not know if my persistent depression (clinical? bipolar? who gives a shit) is feeding my grief over the loss of dad (the alienation, the inability to communicate verbally is killing me a little each day); or is the grief fueling the depression, like a locomotive, pushing it forward.

In addition to this, I hate my job with a white, hot passion. I hate what it has done to me. And I live every day hoping to get fired (so I can at least collect unemployment) or have some type of attack or meltdown (so I can go on disability).

On top of this, I am married to a man who is not outwardly demonstrative, and is only affectionate when he wants sex. And let's face it, after everything I have just pecked out... why would I want to have sex?

Furthermore, despite his declaration today (only after I sat in a fog and was sobbing), "You know I love you, right? 10 years, 20 years, 30 years from now, I'll still love you..." I worry sometimes that these types of declarations, which are not INITIATED by his own wont, but is a reaction to me, or what he thinks I want to hear... I worry it may be too late for it to render me human again.

From August 2008 until October when dad ultimately passed, he had only gone with me on that long drive twice (once was after I got in a car accident due to grief and worry and sleep deprivation; and the other was that dad was DYING). And due to the husband's interview at INS landing on the unfortunate date of dad's Memorial Service, nearly every aspect of dad's final hospitalization and passing... I went through ALONE. I'm blessed my sister, brother, and mother all were able to be there more daily; but for me, I had to go through what I had to go through without the physical support of my spouse. He went with me the morning dad passed, so I could lay eyes on him one final time in repose (no formal viewing; direct cremation after we left).

I feel like a husk of what a human should be.

And if you see me on the street or at work or at my weekly knit night, and I'm smiling and laughing to the point of tears, or just plain FUNCTIONING, it's all a coping mechanism.

I just want to die in my sleep.

.

I can't stop sleeping

My bio-rhythms are all messed up. I no sooner get up and do things, and want to curl back up in a ball and escape to sleep.

Stress and depression I am sure are motivating it. I'm a bit non-compliant with my lexapro... though even if I am taking it as prescribed, I have problems, intense problems getting out of bed.

Futility with my own weight, my health, and dealing with my grief over dad's passing. I'm still in shock and sad over it and missing him intensely. On top of this, I now have the reputation within my family of being a flake, as when I promise to visit (which involves a 2.5 hour drive, one-way, to get there) only for me to bail out at the last moment... it's all just so toxic. My visits are fraught with frustration. I live a quiet life in comparison to the loud chaos of my visits. Don't want to rehash everything all over again, but I'm just tired of it all.

I don't even have the energy to delve into it today. Today, Memorial Day, is gorgeous. And all I want to do is sleep.

At least I got showered.

That's my accomplishment today.

Kanten?

Kanten = Agar Agar, and apparently it has therapeutic effects for folks with poor metabolism or insulin resistance problems.

Going to plop this down here for my future reference at home.

I don't know if I am on to something or what; however, apparently it contains no carbohydrates.

Already I am envisioning using this as a tomato aspic w/some spicy jalapeno, green onion, crunchy cucumber and celery and some V8. Or an aspic of lapsang souchong, and some hardboiled "marbled" eggs (boiled, cracked, and simmered with some soy sauce in lapsang souchong tea, and left to soak, then cool). I don't know. Crazy talk, perhaps. But if this shit can help stave off my near constant hunger, I'll try just about anything.

Just got off phone w/local market that carries Kanten; $8.99 per 1 oz container of flakes.

Note to self:

2 gm->1Cup water
28 gm = 1 oz

Struggles w/Atkins

Last Monday was the first full day of genuinely being "ON" Atkins. I believe my daily carb count for the entire day was in the neighborhood of 15?

Monday night, I woke up with a ferocious charlie horse in each calf muscle.

Tuesday morning, I woke up feeling out of sorts, and every muscle in my body aching. I can only deduce it's from a build-up of lactic acid from the protein laden food intake on Monday.

So sick, stayed home Tuesday. Drank plenty of water, and went back to bed at 8:30 a.m., after calling in sick. Stayed in bed until 4:30. Just miserable.

Now? My heart isn't "in it," and I'm rethinking the whole idea. Even though I had lofty ideas of incorporating my "Fiber 35" shakes (each w/a net carb of 8, and not too horrible tasting, yet very very filling), as well as catabolic veggies, this time around on Atkins.

My life is too on-the-go for a regimen which requires me to sit with a knife and fork. Atkins isn't very portable. Yet, after the induction period, I know I'll feel better. But the induction period is enough to make me lose my mind.

Seriously.

Feeling a bit morally dejected, and flawed, and furious at something I cannot see (my pancreas, DNA, what have you).

My word (even to myself) has no meaning. My word and promise to myself that this time would be different, that I'd conquer this demon... it's all empty, hollow, meaningless.

I've failed yet again.

Atkins, Redux

Attempting to get back on Atkins.

This time I'm going to attempt to include more Atkins-friendly catabolic vegetables. Atkins isn't all that portable, nor convenient for that matter, so A LOT of planning is necessary.

GAH.

.

Onset of menses: 4/24

Aside: This is the six month mark since dad died. I'm no where's past my shock.

The Status Thus Far: Post Visit

My visit to the ReproEndo guy went "well." Not spectacular.

Here are my figures:

Weight lost/gained: +7 (up 7 lbs from the 14 I lost between Aug & Nov)
BP: 120/80 (Missed the night-before's dose and that morning's dose)
Onset of menses: 3/14
Last menses: 1/21

Glucose Fasting: 111 (Range 65-99 mg/dL)
Uric Acid: 7.3 (Range 2.5-7.0 mg/dL)
Triglycerides: 168 (Range <150 mg/dL)
AST: 31 (Range 10-30 U/L)
ALT: 52 (Range 6-40 U/L)
Microalbumin, random urine: 66 (Range <30 mcg/mg Creat)
Insulin, serum: 39 (Range<17 uIU/mL)
DHEA Sulfate: 619 (Range 25-220 mcg/dL)
Testosterone, % free: 2.0 (Range 0.5-1.8 Percent)

Course of action:

After reminding the doc that five years ago when I was on Actos instead of Metformin XR, I was able to maintain a better weight (roughly 20 lbs less) and that my triglycerides was better), he flipped through his notes from the last five years' worth of visits and noticed I was correct.

He decided to write an Rx for Actos to be taken in conjunction with my Metformin XR.

Additionally, he cut my blood pressure medication in half. So even though my weight shifted back up (as I said it would, as the loss was not a "trend" but a result of sleeping too much due to my grief and depression), I am looking at the halving of my blood pressure medication as a promising indicator that at least my pressure has improved.

No discussion of the by-pass. As I laid down the ground rule in November, that if he took the discussion off the table due to what he thought was a trend, and if/when I gained the weight back, I'm going to balk on the surgery. I can't get my hopes up and have them dashed in three month increments.

Next visit: 3 months
Left with scrip for bloods, and a jug for a 24 hr urine collection. Fun.

A Reminder

I go back to see ReproEndo guy on March 16th.

No Real Update

Fell on 12/28.
Got a stomach bug 1/1.
Got my period 1/5.

Go for bloodwork 1/19.

Next visit with specialist: 2/17 I think... or the 21st. Gotta check my blotter at work.

Nothing pertinent to share. Other than I went back on my lexapro due to uncontrolled crying jags. Luckily I have a little stash of it at home. Gotta go back to a doctor for a refill.

Almost Lost in the Fray

10/17 Upper Endoscopy.
10/21 Onset of menses.
10/24 Dad passed.
11/4 Office visit with ReproEndoGuy.

Pounds lost as of August appointment: 3
Pounds lost as of November appointment: 11

Result: ReproEndoGuy has rescinded discussion regarding gastric bypass, citing the weight loss over the last six months is, in his opinion, a trend, and not what I believe is a fluke as a result of the last three months of dad's hospitalization & his ultimate passing.

Next appointment: February 16th.

Results of endoscopy: Inconclusive. Everything photographed was pink, and biopsy came back clean, no cancer, no heliobacter pylorii. Just a little irritation. Will discuss with GastroGuy the idea of a colonoscopy, just to round things out, and rule out all other possible causes of distress and disorder.

Next appointment: December-ish.

Obesity: The Last Socially Acceptable Bias

Woman Kicked Out of New Zealand For Being Too Fat Posted on 02 September 2008

They were planning to start a new life in a new country but Rowan Trezise, age 33, has been told by the government of New Zealand that she and her husband may have to look elsewhere for a place to live, because she is too fat to be allowed into the country.

Although both husband and wife were too fat for admittance when they first applied Mr. Trezise, a submarine cable specialist who was once a member of the British Army, has managed to shed two inches from his waistline thereby meeting the standards set for a work visa.

Mrs. Trezise however has not met the goal set for her and is therefore barred.

The couple were informed that New Zealand bars overweight people because of the potential burden they pose to the national health care system. According to New Zealand Robyn Toomath, spokesman of “Fight the Obesity Epidemic” a New Zealand organization dealing with the problems posed by overweight people:

“The immigration department can’t afford to import people who are going to be a significant drain on our health resources.

“You can see the logic in assessing if there is a significant health cost associated with this individual and that would be a reason for them not coming in.”

New Zealand’s Immigration Service has not said how many people have been bared from entering the country due to their weight but according to the Emigrate New Zealand website that number is fairly high. Unless Rowan Trezise can shed the weight by Christmas the couple say they will abandon their plans to relocate to New Zealand.

Perpetual Headshaking

Head is perpetually shaking itself to indicate "no." To whom or what? I haven't a clue.

Flow started yesterday; last one started 7/27, so I'm averaging close to a month and a half as my menstrual cycle, roughly 45 days.

I hit 40 in August.

Each successive cycle is worse than before.

I just want to go in and get my fertility mourning over for good. Time and circumstance, marriage, divorce, remarriage. The medical problems and the men in my life have made the decision for me, and for the ultimate choice of whether I'll ever be a mother, as well as have a flesh and blood child of my own.

It is pointless for me to continue on the way I am, fooling myself--an old woman, that I stand a snowball's chance in Satan's asscrack, of becoming pregnant, or even the luxury of thinking I even had a choice in the matter. There's no fool like an old fool.

I'll be spending the day dabbing at my eyes, popping Midol, as well as Googling, "elective hysterectomy."

All this blood is pointless. Absolutely pointless.

T-Minus 22 Days And Counting

Had blood work done/drawn: 7/24 a.m.
Onset of current cycle: 7/26
Last one: 6/8
Mood: No great improvement; however, I have suspicions I am not "just a little blue" at times. I believe I'm either cyclothmic or bi-polar, and though the episodes come out of nowhere, they are most pronounced when I am PMSing, if I've overstimulated/stressed myself, and if I've gone too long between meals and start to get that "bottomed out" feeling.

Apropos of Something

T-Minus 34 days until I see the specialist again.
T-Minus 34 days until I tell the specialist what my decision will be, re: gastric bypass.
Still need to get my blood drawn for my 8/19 appointment.

Started riding my recumbent stationary bike, starting off with five minutes, and increasing it by five each night. Tonight should be 25 minutes. So far so good.

Mood: Bleak.

Laid down for bed around 11 p.m. last night. Strapped on the CPAP, took my first few breaths to get it started, and lay on my side for about a half hour, giving my bedroom curtains the "thousand yard stare," until I could feel sobs welling up inside me. I took off the CPAP and headed to the living room, to sit and sob in the dark.

I haven't been "necessarily compliant" with my Lexapro, I know this is part to blame. Lately I've felt very overwhelmed and distant. As I lay in my bed and I could feel the sobs creeping their way outward, forced outward by demons of the past mixing with the present.

Repressing and suppressing sad things is a coping mechanism. I haven't accepted a good lot of negative crap in my life, and in order to simply survive, I try to laugh at what I can, and ignore the rest. But "the rest" has its way of finding its way to the light of day. "The Rest" lays in wait, for those moments of vulnerability, when I am on the precipice of being on auto pilot, as one normally is as they lay waiting for precious sleep to take hold.

Last night as I lay next to the husband who was sound asleep by then, I felt so very alone. So distant. My mind wandered. My past and present intermingled in a copulation of sadness. I lay there wondering what truly connects one of us to the other? I feel so distant.

Even for sex, he doesn't seem pleased by my touch, and certain touching or touches that normally would lead any other man to the natural conclusion of coitus, just merely annoys my husband.

No amount of words can fix this. I've tried. No touching, caressing, kissing, sweet talking. No interest in me. No interest in pleasing me. No obvious indication I am pleasing him, whether by action or by my physical appearance. I walk around with this devastation daily. Yet I ignore what I can, as I can't fix any of it. Talking about it accomplishes nothing. His ego can only take so much. Me and my ego are just expected to accept it.

All I've ever craved was to be loved.

The past indignations of being told the evening of my first marriage that my exhusband should have listened to his brother; that marrying me was a mistake. And how two years later when I was going in for laser surgery for a recurrence of a cervical pre-cancer, my father took me, as my then-husband couldn't be bothered, and intoned, "If this means you cannot have children, then marrying you was the worst mistake of my life." And six short years later it all finally came crashing down like a sandcastle, "I never loved you. Marrying you was the worst mistake of my life."

It's been ten years since I walked away, and nine and a half years since the decree came through, and I relive this uncalled for sadness regularly.

It is difficult NOT to do so when you factor in the emotional distance I'm experiencing. Here I am going every three months to a specialist, and how it looks like I won't be able to have children of my own afterall... and it looks like eventually I'll be going in for gastric bypass... and yet all of these appointments I go to alone, much in the way of my sex life.

If I want to be loved, if I want comfort or to be taken care of, I have to be the one to do it. Even rigid oak trees planted side by side occasionally touch each other with a stiff breeze. I feel so alone; a sick kind of alone.

I need so much more than he is obviously able or willing to give me.
I'm tired of talking about it with him.
I'm sitting here at my desk at work pecking these words out, hoping to keep from crying from the stress of holding this in for one more moment; yet, the tears come anyway, and mock me.

Much in the way he attempts to take credit for any sexual pleasure I might get from using my back massager before allowing him to do what he wants to do with me (I do this to take care of my needs--as too often for the last almost seven years, I haven't felt loved or even acknowledged, sexually).

Sexually he is like a paratrooper; get in and out as quick and efficiently as possible. "Hit it and quit it."

So I take care of my needs first, then assume the position, always on all fours, no deviation. It could be anyone else he's entering. There's no touching. No eye contact. No kissing. No sweet or dirty talk. No nothing.

Sexually I feel as if I am nothing more than an anonymous glory hole, as coarse as that may be.

He sees nothing wrong with this. There's nothing hateful about it to him. He likes what he likes. However, my preferences don't factor into this.

I catch myself every once in a while. My thoughts are so intense, I fear they will turn into words if I am not careful. All week I've caught myself saying to myself how I just can't keep on going like this. I'm missing my other half of myself, my soul, my heart.

So each night before bed, as I'm taking those first deep inhales to get my CPAP going, and I am giving the curtains the thousand yard stare again, I pray in my head, "God please take me. Let me be your servant. I'm ready. Please take me. Just make it stop." And my eyes roll back in their sockets with each inhale, and if I don't make myself cry, if I'm lucky, some nights I disappear for a few precious hours of suspended animation as I sleep.

I took my Lexapro today. Might take another dose before bed too.

Yet, I do nothing. Make no moves regarding whether I should stay or go. I suppose my inaction is an action unto itself. However, I am trapped in a conundrum. I cannot tell if the entire reason why I am depressed is my sex life; or I can't tell if my sex life is as miserable as it is because I am depressed. I can't tell which is feeding the other. So I do the only judicious thing I can, and do nothing.

Once A Week: Pill Packin' Day

Much like a lot of other folks, this is a routine I do religiously every week: refilling my pill caddy, which I keep at my desk at work, where I take my morning meds and supplements, and in the afternoon I'll take a few more supplements (i.e. alpha lipoic acid, two more multi-vitamins, and depending on memory or availability, spirulina tablets.

In this picture, to the right are my actual medications:

2500 mg Metformin
145 mg Tricor
25 mg Spironolactone
20 mg Quinipril

In this picture, to the left are my supplements:

1000 mg Conjugated Linoleic Acid blend
1000 mg Omega 3-6-9
500 mg Evening Primrose Oil
Multibetic vitamins
800 mcg Folic Acid
600 mcg Biotin
565 mg Dong Quai
2 mg B6/1000 mcg B12

After lunch I'll then take:

1000 mg Cinnamon
200 mg Alpha Lipoic Acid
3000 mg Spirulina

Mind you in the evening I take:

25 mg Spironolactone
20 mg Quinipril
10 mg Lexapro

I am thoroughly amazed at this point I have not started shitting in "capsule form."

Snippets

Cobbling a post together, using words from messages to a friend (and you know who you are), which pretty much summarizes a lot of what I'm going through (emotionally) as I work through in my head whether or not I'll ultimately have the gastric bypass.

Each time I've convinced myself I'll go through it, I eventually talk myself out. So I'm reading, and trying not to think of the surgery itself, because that's something I have no control over. Hey, I could eventually work myself up to actually accepting it as my lot/fate, and the surgeon or the insurance or God knows who else would or could potentially nix everything for a bunch of reasons, some I could hypothetize right now, but I'm trying not to be overly negative at the moment. Easy to say, tough to employ.

I’m not doing it to make myself happy. In fact, I’m quite content “as is,” however, one of my fears is physically turning into my mother, and if fucking my relationship with food over is the only way to ensure it… then so be it.

I told my mother that mum’s the word when I do go for it. And for her not to be offended but not to expect any visits from me until I am on solid food (which could be about 3 months, depending on foodstuffs).

Now, I have to worry about making up a will and an advanced directive, as these things are usually fraught with all types of risks, and I have to plan for every possibility.

I want to plan this for the new year, and for me not to be in recovery during the holiday season, and make sure it’s in between vacations as well.

My crippled up mother asked me if I wanted to come down and stay with her for my recovery. And to be honest, she’s really crippled up, I can’t see her really being all that much help, but it would give her more time with me, which is one thing she’s always wistful about.

Apparently while I was on topamax a few months back (and was on it far longer than anyone else my doctor suggested for other than prescribed reasons), she and I “turned a corner” in our relationship. On one level I’m pleased, but I’ve been conditioned to expect the worst. I’m back on my lexapro, so I’m able to not dwell so much and be anxious etc. But life is short, and I’d like to have some type of relationship with my mother, and reverse the fuckeduppedness of my childhood and early adulthood.

We’re all flawed, yanno?

[...]He (the husband) knows. I just stood over the stove sobbing just now, as I was toasting up his naans for his dinner (I haven’t had dinner myself). I’ve been doing a lot of reading ahead, to see what the recovery is like, for me to be at peace with it before this process even commences. Just stood and sobbed at how alone I am.

I have zero support system up here, and knowing in the past when I’ve been under the weather or otherwise not 100%, he always responded as if it were all an inconvenience… how it all inconveniences HIM. I can only imagine what it will be like for a protracted amount of time, knowing the things we love so much, dining out and vacations, will be radically different for a long time. I want to plan it so it doesn’t interfere with holidays, as well as vacations… so I suppose he and I have to think ahead to taking a vacation right before the surgery, and plan one six months after, by that point in time, I’ll be on solid foods again, and hopefully having no difficulties with spicy foods or red meat.

As I stood there sobbing, he came in and reassured me he would be working from home, so he’d be able to take care of me. Which, of course, made me sob more, because I envision us being at each other’s throats. Not that we are at the moment, but it seems, when one of us is miserable, which I am sure I will be, we both will be miserable. Things here have improved a bit, but not sure if that’s any doing on his part, or if it’s just me being compliant on the lexapro.

For a while there, I was envisioning checking myself in at Mt. Sinai, alone. My husband is a good man, a foolish man when it comes to things he says (think of that movie, “As Good As It Gets” with Jack Nicholson–granted my husband doesn’t have a psychological thing wrong with him; however, he’s just thoughtless with his words, and I’m too thin skinned for that). I hope some of this makes sense.

I envision the surgery to be the metaphorical half step before one sews their mouth shut (not that I am an over eater, I am just too inactive for what I eat, which isn’t more or less than a regular person. I’ve just got so much wrong with me, Syndrome X and PCOS double-teaming me as it were, I simply cannot lose weight and keep it off anymore. Weight Watchers, Atkins, you name it… I just am not so diligent to stay on anything for too long. Like I said, it makes me obsess even more over the food-weight relationship, and eventually I just give up and want to eat like a normal person, yanno? Have a normal life.

I haven’t decided if I’m just getting one type or the other, the other being a billiary bypass (not sure the difference there), whether I’ll have my gall bladder removed at the same time, and if so, if they can repair a suspected hiatal hernia at the same time too, as “they’ll be in the neighborhood”… might as well maximize having me under anesthesia, killing three birds with one stone.

I’m even depressed over the notion of being constipated after the surgery.

I’m a wreck.

ReproEndoGuy: T-Minus Two Weeks (Thereabouts)

Two weeks until I see the ReproEndoGuy again.

If anything I continue to gain weight, though in all honesty, I don't know how. The more I fret about it, the more I am unable to shed the weight.

I've gone through four of the five stages of grief, and just when I think I've accepted it, I change my mind, for an assortment of reasons.

I'm getting mind-fucked without the benefit of lube or a kiss on the cheek.

But I have decided that IF I go for surgical intervention, it'll be for the bypass, not the lapband. The lapband seems too inconvenient with the adjustments post-op, plus I'm concerned about my migraines and how violently I vomit when I get them. There is a possibility I could puke my lapband out of place. I can't envision that to be an enjoyable experience. Additionally, I saw on 60 minutes about the bypass, and how something physiological happens to the body once the duodenum is cut, and how in all cases spotlighted, it reversed their diabetes.

Granted, I don't have diabetes. At the moment. At the rate I am going, it could turn any day now.

Been so wound up, haven't really had my period. That dot I mysteriously left as a post, that was just spotting, no period to follow it. I feel all bloaty and uncomfortable, and just know that when it'll come... it'll come with a vengeance. To spite me. And of course, will no doubt rear its ugly head while I am away on vacation.

I see the ReproEndoGuy the day before I head off for Spain and then my cruise. The next day, I see my gyno at 9 a.m. We depart for Spain at 7 p.m.

I go for my bloodwork hopefully this Friday morning.

.

H. 1844: The Height/Weight Anti-Discrimination Law

H. 1844: The Height/Weight Anti-Discrimination Law

Please support this much-needed civil rights law. People of all sizes face discrimination based on body size. It's real. It's not okay. Without a law, we have no protection. The only other places to offer such a law: San Francisco, Santa Cruz, Washington DC, Madison, Wisconsin, and Michigan.

You want to help make history?

If you live in Massachusetts:

1. Call your state Representative: 617 722 2000 (Ask to be directed based on your zip code.)
- Ask how the Rep. will vote for H. 1844, how they will support this historic legislation.

2. Come to the crucial hearing! Tell your story!

Tuesday, March 25, 2 p.m.
State House, room A-2, in Boston

If you don't live in Massachusetts, please forward this info to anyone you know who does.

For questions, contact Marilyn Wann: marilyn@fatso.com

The Fat-Ass List

"You're looking at Maven, who carries within her bowels, a turd the size of the national debt. This is a bitchy woman, an alone and lonely woman, struggling, playing tug-of-war with an unseen challenger. She is an angry and hungry woman, with a twitchy large intestine with a disposition to match. This is a woman who has lived thirty-nine-nearing-forty undistinguished, meaningless, pointless, fart-laden years, and who at this moment looks for an escape -- any escape, any way, any thing, to make the disconnect, to sever the hold... And this little band around her gullet promises to be the dietary Savior --which she has hitherto been waiting for..."

Begrudgingly, I'm on the precipice (not prepuce) of accepting the fact I need to be lap-banded. It was either that, staple my cake-hole (Mmmm, Reddddd Velvetttt Cakeeeeee... oh wait... Kevin's mom's Rummmmmmm Cakeeeeeeeeeeee....) shut, or end up with a death certificate on file somewhere with the cause of death being, "Fatassitis."

[Think about it. It'll come to you. Wait for it... Wait for it... Ah. There? Got it? Oh, I can continue? Whythankyouverylittle. Moving right along...]

I've got a lard-ass. Pastey-white, not-too-much-junk-in-the-trunk-yet-proportional to the rest of my body, that for a reason that escapes my comprehension, drives men crazy in one of those rare, great Bailey's Comet kinda ways that crosses racial and cultural boundaries... LARD ASS.

Let's not get confused: In the grand scheme of lard-asses, it's not nearly so lardy as to require a piano case for a coffin, should my heart decide to up and explode right about now...

(which given my current sun-shiney disposition wouldn't be all that horrible--I'm banking on my first "cardiac event" being a fatal one--and when my specialist recently told me that those statistics are changing nearly daily that most women do NOT die with their first heart attack, I admonished him, and howled out, "Don't take my HEART ATTACK away from me!!)

...Or perhaps a petulant little embolism decides to take up residence in my lung or brain. However, due to an overwhelming number of medical things wrong with me, and due to my overwhelming failure to lose weight to reverse a lot of my problems, this is being presented as my last option.

Friends and regular readers, as well as friends who are regular readers (like that distinction I made right there?) may remember my plight with Atkins and Xenical, and most-recently, "Dope"-amax, er, I mean Topamax, yet metabolism be damned, it's done nothing but anger my gravitational karma.

Oh fuck, I almost forgot the purpose of this particular post.

Okay, in sum and substance, at a time and place as yet undetermined, sometime in the foreseeable future I will undergo a lap-banding.

Until that time comes, in an un-binge-ing fashion, I will be savoring every meal with the hunger of a murderer on death row, eating his final repast, keeping the faith for an "eleventh hour" pardon from the governor.

That being said, I am composing a Fat-Ass List of all places or foods I hope to consume (not all at once, mind you) and enjoy before the mandatory, pre-operative-sanity-destroying (not to be confused with the post-operative-socially-alienating) liquid diet.

As of today, my list is thus:

1. Vermicelli, 1492 Second Ave, NYC (nr. 78th); to be consumed: Pho, bo la nho, chao tom.
2. Pop Burger; to be consumed: SLIDERZZZZZZZZ
3. The Melting Pot; to be consumed: What else? A bucket of fondue!
4. Original Pancake House; to be consumed: Apple pancake
   
5. Red Lotus; to be consumed: Ped Rad Prig and Po Tak
6. Cupcake Cafe; to be consumed: Walnut cupcake with maple buttercream
   
7. Braseiro Churrascaria (yeah, the place has a Pig in a chef's toque as their logo--what of it?); to be consumed: Meat, meat, and more meat. I don't give a shit what they give me, provided it's been cooked til the juices run clear!

This list will be an on-going project. Friends who know me and hang with me in person, are more than welcome to send me their suggestions as to what they think I should taste, savor, and enjoy before the sanity-buster which awaits me.

Hitting My Limit

Got an 11th hour call from the sleep clinic that they had a last minute cancellation and were able to fit me in tonight.

Of course this is at a different facility than where I know where to go.

Of course this means I haven't shampooed my hair (it's a bit oily).

Of course this means I now need to rush home to pack an overnight bag.

Of course this means I will be too tired to make the trip to Jersey as I promised my mother for her birthday.

Remind me again, why am I jumping through all these hoops?

Oy.

Another hot soak of a bath is in my future (to get the electrode boogery goo out of my hair and scalp).

Hope I remember to pack tampons and remember to leave the husband's housekey where he can find it.

Up at 5:48 a.m. On A Day Off? Heresy I Say!

Granted I took yesterday and today off from work to tend to some doctor's visits. Hell, I was *this close* to going for the second phase sleep study (the one before I get my CPAP), but didn't. I think God thought to him/her/itself, "Hey, she had her mammogram on the first day, the worst day, of her period... let's cut her some slack."

Turns out the admitting department was closed for the day by 4:45 when the sleep study gal called. It wasn't meant to be. So the earliest they could get me in was March 21st, which according to my calculations is Good Friday.

Now back to the titty squish...

And by "titty squish," I mean, the procedure where they squashed my girls to what felt like 1/8 of an inch in density, to the point where I saw stars and thought lightning bolts were about to shoot out of my nipples. Normally I say the squishing isn't as bad as the tugging, and by "tugging," I mean, "a sensation which could only be duplicated if I were suspended, full body weight, by meat hooks piercing my nipples."


I am certain that if men had to endure this torture on their testes, you better-betcher-bippy there would be some other less sadistic way (perchance a lovely ultrasound, MRI, or pectoral CAT scan), which would no doubt be more effective.

So here I am... in agony of a different sort. I woke up at 5:00 a.m. with a full-on menstrual breach, necessitating a garment change (and will require bed linen change). Turned on my most-recent Pema Chodron CD ("Don't Bite The Hook"), and I tried using my back massager on my belly, which helped temporarily, until I stopped. Then I heated my heating pad and popped some Bayer. And now I'm contemplating taking a hot shower, just to exhaust all possible ways I could get the pain to abate.

But much in the way that after I let the four letter expletives fly yesterday and blurted out, post-mammo with tears in my eyes from the pain, "At least I have breasts with which to SENSE this pain," I am now going the existential route again by saying, "At least I have a uterus by which to sense this pain."

PS: Did you know

Four Dunkin Donuts glazed munchkins contain 300 calories, YET...

YET, a large (12 ounce) container of Wendy's chili contains 330 calories (not including saltines).

Oy

I didn't do as bad with dinner last night as one might assume, since I did not blog about it. I was just too lazy, not guilt ridden.

Aunt Flow rolled into town today, just in time for my mamogram. This should be fun.

Sleep Study: Results Are In

Just got off the blower w/the ReproEndoGuy, who got the results from my sleep study. I was surprised and impressed that he got the results so soon--I thought it would be another two weeks.

I had 100+ episodes of hypoxia during my sleep; yet despite this, it's not considered severe. "Moderate."

Tomorrow I call to find out how to go about getting my CPAP (sis can get it for me for whatever my insurance costs--thanktheeightpoundbabyjesus for employee discounts).

Will be off tomorrow to tend to the annual "titty squish." Taking the rest of the day off to regroup afterwards.

1500 Calories a Day: Day Two, The "Mulligan"

[Didn't post yesterday's evening--it went to hell quickly. So for today, I'm utilizing some "golf-speak": MULLIGAN, which is literally a "do-over." I didn't think I'd have problems right from day one, however, I'm not looking at it as a set back--what was I set back from? I just started keeping this food diary. Eventually I'll get used to the fact I have to calculate everything.]

Rise time:
7:05 a.m. (without alarm clock)

Weight:
272

Morning exercise:
None

8:00 a.m. Mood:
Fatigued, yet focused


Breakfast, 510 (estimated):

9:30 Bacon, egg and cheese on whole wheat toast w/a splort of ketchup
(finished consuming roughly 10:15 a.m.)

Apple Juice, 80
Coffee w/H&H, 40

Medications:

Quinapril 20 mg
Spironolactone 25 mg
Tricor 145 mg

Supplements:

Metamucil drink, 20

Spirulina, 3000 mg
Ginko Biloba, 60 mg (which also has 100 mg dicalcium phosphate)
Evening Primrose Oil, 500 mg
Omega-3 Fatty Acids, 1100 mg Fish oil/500 mg Total EPA & DHA
B12/Folic Acid/B6 sublingual tab: B6=2mg; B12=1000mcg; Folic Acid- 800 mcg (Tablet also contains 2 mg Stevia Extract)
Multi-Betic Vitamin, 2 tablets (containing, among other things, 100 mg of Alpha Lipoic Acid)

12:24 p.m. Mood:
lert with a sense of improving wellbeing..


Packed Lunch & Snack, 395 :

Campbell's Chicken Sausage Gumbo, 280
Jello, 10
Banana, 100 (average)
Anjou pear, 80 (average)
DelMonte Fruit Cup, 25

Coffee w/H&H, 40 (oy!)

6 p.m. Before leaving work...

Supplements:

Metamucil drink, 20

Spirulina, 3000 mg
Ginko Biloba, 60 mg (which also has 100 mg dicalcium phosphate)
Evening Primrose Oil, 500 mg
Omega-3 Fatty Acids, 1100 mg Fish oil/500 mg Total EPA & DHA

DINNER:

Planning on eating some steak which has been marinating in wasabaki, stir fried with some veggies, red bell pepper and sesame seeds. Will measure and calculate calories before cooking.

DESSERT:
Sugar free pudding.


Strategy for tomorrow:
Plan to graze; pack portable proteins; pack a big salad w/salad "spritzer" and some chunked chicken.

1500 Calories: Day One

Rise time:
7:45 a.m.

Weight:
Forgot to weigh in before breakfast

Morning exercise:
None

8:00 a.m. Mood: Fatigued, yet focused


Breakfast, 280:

Cheerios, 100
Milk, 110
Hard boiled egg, 70

Coffee w/H&H, 40

Medications:

Quinapril 20 mg
Spironolactone 25 mg
Tricor 145 mg

Supplements:

Spirulina, 3000 mg
Ginko Biloba, 60 mg (which also has 100 mg dicalcium phosphate)
Evening Primrose Oil, 500 mg
Omega-3 Fatty Acids, 1100 mg Fish oil/500 mg Total EPA & DHA
B12/Folic Acid/B6 sublingual tab: B6=2mg; B12=1000mcg; Folic Acid- 800 mcg (Tablet also contains 2 mg Stevia Extract)
Multi-Betic Vitamin, 2 tablets (containing, among other things, 100 mg of Alpha Lipoic Acid)

11:25 a.m. Mood: Alert.

11:30 a.m. Pear nectar, 6 oz, 70 calories

Packed Lunch & Snack, 395 :

Campbells Chicken Sausage Gumbo, 280
Good grief, my first stumble--shrimp lo mein, caloric intake: I wouldn't even venture a guess
Jello, 10
Anjou pear, 80 (average)


DelMonte Fruit Cup, 25 did not eat
Yerba Mate w/H&H, 40 (oy!)

1 packet of oatmeal, 140

Metamucil drink, 20

Regarding That "Pesky" Fifth Stage of Grief

I am not "accepting" it. It being the lapband as my last resort. Getting upset over the post-op diet and regimen was a wake up call for me. Something has to be done. I don't see the doc again until May.

I bought a bunch of those reduced calorie entrees, and plan on bringing them or soup for lunch. Fresh fruit. Cottage cheese. Hell, all of this beats the ever-living-fuck out of no food, or worse, being relegated to types of foodstuffs I find repugnant.

Granted I have a shitload to lose. But I figure 70 should be my end goal at this point. But I'll settle for those first ten pounds.

I'm going to eventually "re-no" my den and turn it into something "else" as I do have an orbital trainer and a recumbent bike here at home.

Perhaps I'm delusional to think I can slay this dragon myself.

Tomorrow a.m., I will start journaling everything. Yep. This means I'll be weighing in every day. I don't give a shit if they (whomever "they" are) say you shouldn't; however, I know myself better than anyone else, and know that facing my gravitational reality head on, and grabbing that bull by the balls is the only way for me to even presume to get a handle on my situation. Hopefully by being obsessive about it, I hope I don't fall into the same patterns I did 25 years ago--but one would presume I'd be older and wiser besides being considerably more corpulent.

I'll be blogging my weight, mood, exercise, and food intake. I don't expect it to be pretty. And perhaps in May, if I've made considerable loss before the doctor's visit, I'll share with him my blog url so he can see what I've been up to.

I'm more upset about the post-op than I am of the surgery itself, and that speaks VOLUMES.

This Shit Makes Me Angry

So like an idiot, I Googled, "life after lap band," and found a site which had this information:

If you are a regular coffee, tea, or soda drinker you should be aware that no caffeine is permitted for the first three months after surgery. Carbonated beverages; both diet and regular may cause gas, bloating, and an increase in stomach size due to the carbonation and are not recommended at any time for Lap-Band patients.

The second phase of the Lap-Band diet consists of 5 to 6 weeks of a modified full liquid diet; the key component of this phase is consuming two ounces of a protein shake every hour for ten to twelve hours a day with two ounces of other liquids such as soup*, baby food, or sugar-free gelatin three times a day.

During the second six weeks following Lap-Band surgery patients may eat food that is shredded in a food processor prior to eating. The basic foods on the Lap-Band diet include meats or other forms of protein, vegetables, and salads. The Lap-Band diet does not include most bread, potatoes and other starchy vegetables. The length of these phases may be altered according a patient’s personal weight and weight loss goals – my first phase is five weeks, followed by a two week second phase.

*I'm sure by "soup" they don't mean wonton or tom yum goong, but some watery disgusting deviation of the "soup" definition. I might as well be consuming a slurry of raw sewage. Yes. I'm serious.

All of this is enough for me to cry out, "What's the point? What am I doing this for?" [See the fourth stage of grief below.]

Seriously. The surgery doesn't scare me half as much as the "after," the "food prison" I'll be in. Pretty much everything that's off limits after the surgery is pretty much my staple foods--then to compound it, no caffeine? No steak? Nuts? Spicy foods (this includes cinnamon). No seriously... please... open up one of my veins right now and let's get this pitifully slow death over with. The suspense and mind-fucking are too much for this fatty to take.

They say there are five stages of grief:

1. Denial: The initial stage: "It can't be happening." [ED: Been in this stage for several years at this point, foolishly trying any drug my doctor has suggested, and even half-hearted attempts at any "diet" after my two year dalliance with Atkins]
   
2. Anger: "Why me? It's not fair." [ED: Check! been there! I'm FURIOUS about the food situation, both RIGHT NOW, and the hypothetical post-lap band surgery! FUCKING FURIOUS I TELL YA!]
   
3. Bargaining: "Just let me live to see my children graduate." [ED: This is currently where I am right now. In the meantime (since I see the doc on May, two months away), I have been considering going on Jenny Craig or doing those dreadful Lean Cuisine entrees, just so I can say I've exhausted everything I could have humanly done.]
   
4. Depression: "I'm so sad, why bother with anything?" [ED: Oh yes. I am here, too. Life isn't worth living if I can't eat my beloved Thai food. Yes. I'm serious.]
   
5. Acceptance: "It's going to be OK."

I noticed there are a few books over at Amazon devoted to the topic of life after lap band... perhaps I should get one (one that's written by a doctor), and see what the book says. I'm just sick with this. JUST SICK.

In the meantime? In the meantime... Every meal I have right now? I approach it with the mindset of a criminal on death row, eleventh hour, no possibility of a pardon from the governor.

Into The Breach Once More...

Sleep study. Tonight.

Overnight bag packed (but not packed enough, e.g. shampoo and shower items, since I would be home after breakfast). Should have brought along shower stuff. The "goo" they use to affix the electrodes to my skull looks like paste style toothpaste, but the texture is like those boogery adhesive dots you see on pill bottles or other items to affix directions to products.

Snowy rainy miserable night. Off to Burger King I go, to get a burger and a bucket of diet coke before the sleep study. Big mistake... I weighed in five pounds more than I did at the ReproEndoGuy's office.

After going to admitting, I sat and crocheted with my monster sized U hook, and a hat appeared out of nowhwere, eliciting comments from some 20-somethings seated not far from me (they were there in support of their mother who was also in for the study... and who was also crocheting). Little did we know, we'd be sharing an adjoining bathroom. And there she sat, crocheting with what I suspect was a D sized hook or smaller. Crocheting a fun fur sweater for her Chihuaua who got loose from a travel tote. My fellow crocheter and her family sat and had an impromptu pizza party there in the lobby as we sat and waited.

The rooms in the sleep study were clean and made me think of beds in a maternity ward. They had stylish headboards to give the room a "hotel" type feel; however, by hotel-type, I mean very very cheap, basic hotels. But hey, the bedding and the bathroom was clean, and there was a serviceable t.v., what more could I need for an overnight stay?

My sleep technician (I'll call him this, though I'm not sure what his official title was) was a great guy. Agreeable personality, and we talked about all manner of things for the roughly 30-60 minutes it took for him to affix the electrodes to my body. He came in roughly around 10:30 as I normally don't go to bed that early, and I was able to get some crochet and some t.v. viewing in.

Here's a pic of the hat I made in about an hour or so waiting before my sleep study commenced.

Worked with the U hook in Lion Brand "Thick and Quick" in colors lemongrass and plum. Basic hat structure, worked in double crochets, w/the band being half doubles.

It's effing huge. I hope it'll shrink a bit in some hot water and a trip in the dryer.

Back to the sleep study...

The study was all diagnostic, which means they did not hook me up to a CPAP breathing machine. I suppose that would be something for a future study. Perhaps.

The bed was firm, much firmer than I am accustomed. I laid there in the dark with the warm glow of the t.v. on for atmosphere, but once the sleep tech started talking to me and asking me to respond in certain ways, I figured I'd turn the tube off. This was a huge mistake.

As if sleeping tethered to a bunch of wires/having a canula under my nose to monitor respiration/a clamp thing on my finger to monitor blood pressure/and straps across my chest and belly securing a God-knows-what-device were not enough to keep me awake... I should have kept it on, as I would wake up several times due to the steam heat/radiators clanking in the middle of the night.

At 5:30 a.m., I woke up hearing someone on an intercom call my name, and run me through the same paces as he did before I went to sleep: "Keep your eyes open. Bite down. Close your eyes. Look up. Look Down. Look left. Look Right. Cough. Make a snoring noise. Move your legs slowly. Twenty minutes or so later, he flipped the lights on, instructed me to sit up so he could take off the electrodes. The first electrode to go was the one on my right leg, which he ripped off in one sadistic yank--and yes, I yelped out--LOUDLY.
"So tell me what you dreamed about," he said. I told him I couldn't remember anything, and why did he ask. And he replied that for the last hour I was in a deep dream state and had a lot of REM.

He played things close to the vest and wouldn't tell me what he thought or saw or whatever, and told me my ReproEndoGuy will get his report in about two weeks; however, when I stopped
breathing it wasn't due to obstruction. So at the very least I don't have obstructed sleep apnea.

Whatever that means.

Sleep Study

Things are moving at their own pace. At times fast, as in the case of scheduling my sleep study to address my apnea (which also is part of the whole process included in the lapband process). I go in for my sleep study tomorrow night. The next appointment available would be at the end of March--and to be honest, I've gone long enough without feeling refreshed; and long enough without sleeping with my husband as a result of the snoring.

The rest of the lapband thing? Other than doing "my research" on the topic, I'm in a holding pattern until May when I return to see the ReproEndoGuy.

The Results: Monday

Well, it's now technically 12:02 a.m. TUESDAY. Couldn't wait for my Monday to be over!

Went to NYC to see the ReproEndoGuy. Besides being told that I'd be taking my life in my hands if I were to get pregnant (assuming I could even GET pregnant at this weight and assortment of malaises), I was informed that my fatty liver syndrome is not improving, and I am in the danger zone (yet not officially diagnosed with) for N.A.S.H. Switched me off my Quinaretic, to be put on Quinapril with a Spironolactone chaser. I go back in May and we're going to be discussing bariatric surgery, possibly the lap band to hopefully prevent the FLS and NASH as well as go into full-on diabetes ...

And again...

There I sat, in the exam room... in NYC... ALONE. No husband there for moral support. I just love the anonyminity that NYC affords. I walked about 20 yards from the doctor's office and broke down in convulsive sobs, hiding myself behind a pillar at the Presbyterian church whilst on the cell phone w/the husband... who was totally marginalizing my pain... the pain of being told from a professional I won't have children of my own flesh & blood... as well as all the health risk/life endangered themed talk.

Almost too much to choke back, isn't it?

Isn't That Con-veeeeeeeeeeeeen-ient?

Monday is a holiday.

As such, I try to schedule my appointments w/the specialist on state holidays that his office happens to be open--to lessen my pissed-offed-ness about wasting a perfectly good sick day to take care of attending the appointments.

The husband found out today that Monday is a holiday. I suggested he come into the city with me, considering how many times he's asked me, after the fact, questions about my office visit, and about my health et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Of course he balked at the idea of him going into the city on a perfectly good day off. Of course! Which then just proves he pesters me about my weight and health etc just as LIP SERVICE, not out of actual concern. How is this not harrassment?

So on Monday, off I'll go, ALONE, to the doctor's appointment. Me and my defective pancreas and secondarily defective ovaries are left on our own. Alone. Like so many family functions I've attended... ALONE. Like I feel every night when I go to bed in my room and he goes in his--because MY snoring disrupts his sleep. Hell, my snoring disrupts my own sleep--leaving me in the morning feeling washed out, physically and emotionally depressed, and fancying simply not being "here" anymore. Not necessarily suicidal thoughts; however, if I were to die in my sleep, it wouldn't be a horrible thing.

Like last night, on the train ride home from the city. I got us tix to see MamaMia. Something I thought he'd appreciate (due to the catchy tunes). He sucked my joy right out of me, and when the joy was gone, I do believe some other things got sucked out too.

I sat on the train next to him, trying to keep it together. Trying not to cry. The tears started to trickle when I thought about how very alone I feel. And granted folks have other folks around them to deceive themselves into thinking they truly are not alone, and for some this works. For me, I just feel even more alone, even more vacant, even more... nonexistent.

And the reality for me is, if I am unable to have a child of my own (which I don't have a huge-ass burning compulsion for), there is a very real possibility that in my golden years, should I attain them, will no doubt be spent ALONE.

There are words on the tip of my tongue, begging to leap off, and yet, I bite my tongue. Pragmatism wins over emotionalism & egoism. And yet, he is oblivious or indifferent to my vulnerability to have my "head turned."

Planning to Cleanse the Emotional Palate

Every time I visit the specialist, I try to plan an entire day around it, as if the visit itself were secondary. I do this to assuage any unpleasantness that might arise from the visit, despite the doctor (and his staff) being so pleasant to see.

But let's face eit, I pay $200-$250 for each of these visits, which end up being nothing more than a counselling session, perusal of my lab results, tweakage of my medication, with me usually feeling like a collossal failure that I haven't lost weight... or that I haven't "gotten over' being depressed.

Be that as it may, it's beginning to be a bit of a challenge for me to think of museums to visit. I usually try to go someplace nice for lunch, hit a museum, and do some shopping.

So far, in the course of me visiting this specialist, I have visited the following museums:

The Met
The Guggenheim
The Jewish Museum
The Asia Museum
Museum of Art & Design
MoMA
The Whitney

Which leaves (within a reasonable walking distance--and then some):

The Fricke (Not open on Mondays, when the majority of my appointments are)
Goethe House (Not open on Mondays)
The Morgan
Carnegie Hall/Rose Museum

Though it looks like for the 18th, my choice would be either The Morgan, or The Museum of the City of New York.

I'll then head to MarieBelle for some tea, and then Vermicelli for lunch... though not necessarily in that order.


The Dahesh

Let's See If I Can Shit Out Ten Pounds

One week, exactly, to go before the visit with the specialist.

Mood: Dread

February 18th is the next time I see the specialist.

This past Thursday, I called out sick from work, nursing a "migraine hang over," and decided that I put it off long enough, with "IT" being the 24 hour urine collection, trapping all urine for a 24 hour period, it's difficult to do this without being at home the entire time, anchored to the bright orange jug.

So I dropped it off on Friday, and I also got my blood drawn for my "three month" check up.

I weighed myself this week too, something I normally avoid like a raging case of bleeding hemmorhoids infested with ravenous fire ants. Needless to say, I wasn't pleased with that reading.

Despite doing things in moderation, my body and I are having a gravitational tug of war, and I'm a bit weary from my standpoint.

I'm keeping up with my supplements and medications as best as I can, hydration, chiropractic visits for my back and neck, walking a bit, and contemplating starting a yoga class that commences in a week or so. All good distractions, but I am resigned to the fact that my body, specifically, my pancreas, will do what it is WONT to do.

Feeling a bit dreadful and fatalistic being resigned to this little organ that is probably no bigger than my fist having such a strangle hold over my life.

And no, I haven't gone back on Atkins. I'm eating my raw carrots every other day and eating some breadstuffs, as I'm still resistant to the whole "meat and salad" regimen of low carbing it.

Between the sudden onset greasy explosivity I experienced with the Xenical, and then the subsequent sensation of my mind turning to a 50/50 mix of helium and dog shit from the Topamax... I am giving up.

Little Less Than a Month To Go

...'til I have to see the ReproEndoGuy.

I have to get on the stick!

Haven't had my blood work done.

Haven't felt like being anchored to my orange piss jug (for the 24 hour urine collect), either.

Haven't felt like exercising.

Haven't felt like eating right.

... waiting for this "phase" to pass.

Oh, and Aunt Flo is kicking my ass from the inside out again... with jackboots on.

Two words for ya:

Containment.

Breach.

Movies are great for self-diagnosis

Subtext: Kathy Bates' character "Evelyn" in Fried Green Tomatoes being told she's not going crazy, she's going thru the change.

Much like her character...

I just can't seem to stop crying.

Desperate Measures viz-a-viz Desperate Times

I need to channel my inner Diana Prince.

Changing computer wallpaper to Wonder Woman.

New Year--Same Old Shit

I stood up this a.m., looked at this little altar I have in my bedroom. The altar has an antique crucifix of my great-grandmother's, a tiny ganesha statuette from my in-laws, a picture of my in-laws, a small stone that says "happiness," a string of mala prayer beads my cousin gave me as a wedding present (six years ago), and a little "god mother" amulet from my sister & niece.

I took a deep breath and said, "I am worthless."

On Migraines

WASHINGTON (Reuters) Nov. 20 - People who get migraines have structural differences in their brains notably in the cortex area that processes pain and other sensory information from the body, scientists said on Monday.

The researchers, whose findings were published in the journal Neurology, said it is unclear whether these brain differences actually cause migraines or are themselves caused by these severe, recurrent headaches.

The researchers performed brain scans on 24 people who had a long history of frequent migraines - about four per month for 20 years - and 12 people who did not get migraines.
The somatosensory cortex - the area of the brain that detects sensations like pain, touch and temperature in various parts of the body - was 21 percent thicker in the people who got migraines compared to those who did not.

The biggest difference was in the part of the cortex responsible for processing sensory information from the head and face, Dr. Nouchine Hadjikhani of Massachusetts General Hospital, who led the study, said in a telephone interview.

Hadjikhani said the study illustrated the seriousness of the migraine. “It has to be taken seriously because it can induce changes in your brain,” she said.

Might be gettin' offa da dope

Been on "dope-a-max" since July.
August: Lost 6 lbs
November: Gained 4 lbs
No considerable weight loss IMHO to justify being on this for weight loss purposes.
The 24/7 lethargy is not a good trade off for the 1-2 debilitating migraines I was having per month.

When I see the neuro at the end of December, I'm going to consider getting off the junk.

I'm so ambivalent, I can hardly function.

Not so much ennui anymore, it's evolved into "Shititis." As in... I could give a shit-itis.

ReproEndo guy counselled me on Fatty Liver Syndrome and N.A.S.H. Trying to scare me straight to dump off the weight. Nutritionist... trainer... ya ya ya. I'm made of bucks, don'tchaknow.

I started taking spirulina tablets (on my own), and drinking a few glugs of a B-vitamin packed berry smoothie (non dairy) before leaving the house in the a.m., feebly attempting to get something natural in me.

The days I am "noncompliant" with the dopamax... I feel somewhat more human.

It's dragging me down, and I don't know how much more of this I can stand.

Aftermath of Today's Visit w/The Specialist

I've been diagnosed as having Fatty Liver Syndrome. This is nothing new.

Today, my "ReproEndoGuy" discussed N.A.S.H. with me.

Blessed be the Google Gods...

Nonalcoholic steatohepatitis or NASH is a common, often “silent” liver disease. It resembles alcoholic liver disease, but occurs in people who drink little or no alcohol. The major feature in NASH is fat in the liver, along with inflammation and damage. Most people with NASH feel well and are not aware that they have a liver problem. Nevertheless, NASH can be severe and can lead to cirrhosis, in which the liver is permanently damaged and scarred and no longer able to work properly.

NASH affects 2 to 5 percent of Americans. An additional 10 to 20 percent of Americans have fat in their liver, but no inflammation or liver damage, a condition called “fatty liver.” Although having fat in the liver is not normal, by itself it probably causes little harm or permanent damage. If fat is suspected based on blood test results or scans of the liver, this problem is called *nonalcoholic fatty liver disease *(NAFLD). If a liver biopsy is performed in this case, it will show that some people have NASH while others have simple fatty liver.

Both NASH and NAFLD are becoming more common, possibly because of the greater number of Americans with obesity. In the past 10 years, the rate of obesity has doubled in adults and tripled in children. Obesity also contributes to diabetes and high blood cholesterol, which can further complicate the health of someone with NASH. Diabetes and high blood cholesterol are also becoming more common among Americans.

Click here for more information.

On a personal note, we're watching some of my enzymes for a bit, and he's not sending me in for a liver biopsy--yet.

Downnote: I gained four pounds.

Upnote: blood pressure is down to 125/70. Fabulous for this fat-ass.

He did recommend getting a personal trainer (I'm a "governmental" worker--where will I have the funds for that?), and a nutritionist. One of the last visits I had, he suggested getting those Zone meals delivered to my home ($$$); and then another suggestion was a recommendation that I attempt to make an appointment with Dr. Stephen Gullo, author of The Thin Commandments.

If I thought the Zone meals being delivered would be cost prohibitive, the fee to see Dr. Gullo indeed was beyond what my wallet would allow (sorry, I can't see taking out a personal loan to justify going to a doctor for this--if I were to spend that much money, I might as well go in for the gastric bypass surgery, at least I would know with some level of certainty what the results of that would be). And even if I *had* the funds for such an endeavor, the waiting list to get in to see Dr. Gullo was something like 6-12 months. Sorry, this is my health--not some vanity trip I'm on.

I go back in February.

Mood: Ambivalent with not-so-fleeting sensation of failure & defeat.

A gf met me in the city after the visit with the specialist, and we went to Intimacy to get our bazongas properly sized (for years I have been wearing a 44C, when I should be wearing a 42E--when the gal who was sizing me helped me into the proper sized bra, I tell you the ANGELS SANG! I had to buy at least two bras to get myself started (not cheap), and when I go back to the specialist in February, I'll buy several more.

We then walked about 20 blocks to grab a bite to eat at Burger Heaven (I needed to drown my sorrows, post-specialist visit, with a burger-induced FoodGasm. Once we hit the 70s, I started chanting "Burger Heaven" over and over again--I lost track of where it was, thinking it was in the 80s-70s, NOT the 60s. My heel spurs are in agonizing pain at the moment as a result. But the burger was worth it. After our meal, we took a cab back to GCT, so we could take our respective trains home.

Not the best day in NYC, not the worst, but made considerably better because my gf was there to distract me from dwelling on the doctor's visit.

T-Minus 12 Hours

Until I see the specialist.

Mood: Less-than-enthused.

Wishing I Were Numb

Still processing... he called me a... "Fuck."

Is it *ever* appropriate for a husband to call his wife a "fuck?"

For the first time in my marriage I called him what I thought of him at that moment, "You fucking asshole."

Q: If the tears are still able to come after my "alleged loved one" calls me a "fuck," does that indicate that I am not completely dead inside?

And yet he gets indignant about how I don't want to exist anymore.

A Week Before Specialist Visit--Doesn't Bode Well

That whole line of bullshit I was fed about topamax helping me to dump off a shitload of weight was just that... bullshit.

I hopped on my scale yesterday and didn't see a marked decrease in my gravitational pull.

All the sluggishness and fatigue I've felt, both mentally and physically have been for nothing...

However, I must admit I haven't had a debilitating migraine in months.

PS: Aunt Flow is coming due for a visit. Splendid! Better get compliant with my lexapro before the emotions get out of whack!

Tired of Being Tired

Tired of being tired.

Which is to say, I'm also tired of being "compliant."

I feel so un-refreshed, it's amazing I can function. Amazing how the brainstem continues plodding along, functioning when the rest of me feels like giving up physically.

It's not so much depression talking. I walk around feeling so fatigued, like something inside me is knotted up and blocked, preventing a flow of energy, I suppose oxygen. I feel like I am slowly choking, and alternately having the marrow in my bones slowly slurped out with a Crazy Straw.

No amount of sleep nor caffeine is changing this.

Last night and the night before, I cut back my topamax from 50 to 25, just to see if there will be a change. I'm not taking this for seizures, but for migraines, so I don't see the harm. The neuro wanted to try and cut me back last month, and I held out, thinking I haven't even started really benefitting from the "appetite suppression" aspect of it, so I figured I'd hold out a little while longer to see if I can dump off any more weight--since the ReproEndo guy wanted me on this for that exact reason, not for my migraines, even though that is why I went to the neuro in the first place.

My migraines were debilitating. I was losing not just a day or two of work a month due to them; I was losing a day or two of my life each month as a result. Being overweight might be debilitating in the long run, but not on this very tangible level.

So last night I rolled up a heating pad and stuck it in the nape of my neck, right where my "bulge" of my herniation is. I've spent far too much time doing transcription work and too much time farting around online. The heat took effect immediately. That "knot" I mentioned above shifted a littled.

So this morning I woke up in not-so-much-of-a-haze as I normally do, and spent the time it takes the husband to shower, tractioning my neck on my foam wedge for that purpose.

The result of all this?

My right eye isn't drooping like it was, and I feel like I am on the path back to the "Land of the Living," or some facsimile thereof.

I think.

But it wouldn't be the first time my judgement has sucked hairy hobo taint.

Is This The Year My Cooter Needs An Overhaul?

Not only did the Vagina Whisperer shake my confidence I had in my ReproEndoGuy;
Not only did he leave me defeated by suggesting I was, in fact diabetic just by looking at my cooch;
Not only did he send me home last week with a scrip for some Diflucan and some antifungal vuvular cream;

This week?

Turns out on top of the yeasty-beasty, I've also got a case of bacterial vaginosis.

I think I need one of these... preach on, Sistah Wanda!

My Gynecologist: "The Vagina Whisperer"

There I sat, clammy and clothed in my uber-chic paper gown and drape, waiting entirely too long in the exam room; much as I waited entirely too long in the waiting room staring at pictures of babies, obviously happy additions to now happy families.

Each moment ticked by with me talking out loud to myself, about how the doctor is probably with a patient, a pregnant patient, obviously more important than fat, infertile me. It's not as if MY time has value. Too much free time, no reading material, no crochet to occupy me, and the emotional downward spiral was set.

As cheerful as my gyno is, he totally unravelled all confidence I have in my endo, who is a leading endo in the field of reproductive endo-stuff-ology.

The Vagina Whisperer thinks ReproEndoGuy is a "cowboy" who is overlooking simple stuff, even though in August he claimed I was out of the bracket for "pre-diabetes."

The Vagina Whisperer thinks I, in fact, AM pre-diabetic, if not actually DIABETIC, due to my near constant bouts with yeast.

And with that, I just couldn't hold it together a moment longer and sobbed.

And at this point, it's not even about the idea of not having a choice in the matter of my own fertility, or whether I will have a flesh and blood child of my own. It's about how very alone I am. How truly alone I am. Alone to struggle and flounder and fail, and rather than be "picked up" and comforted by my mate and made to feel as if "it's okay, we're together, we can get through anything," I'm made to feel as if I have failed once more.

This Won't Ever Exist For Me

Heaven/Where True Love Goes
(Yusuf)

The moment you walked inside my door
I knew that I need not look no more
I've seen many other souls before -- but,
Heaven must've programmed you
The moment you fell inside my dreams
I realised all I had not seen
I've seen many other souls before -- oh but,
Heaven must've programmed you
Oh, will you? Will you? Will you?

I go where True Love goes
I go where True Love goes
I go where True Love goes
I go where True Love goes

And if you walk alone and if you lose your way
Don't forget the One Who gave you this today
Follow True Love, follow True Love
Follow True Love, follow True Love
Oh, will you? Will you? Will you?

I go where True Love goes
I go where True Love goes
I go where True Love goes
I go where True Love goes

And if a storm should come
And if you face a wave
That may be the chance for you to be saved
And if you make it through the
trouble and the pain
That may be the time for you to know His name

The moment you walked inside my door
I knew that I need not look no more
I've seen many other souls before -- oh but,
Heaven must've programmed you
Themoment you fell inside my dreams

I realized all I had not seen
I've seen many other souls before -- oh but,
Heaven must've programmed you

The moment you said, "I will,"
I knew that this love was real.
And that my fate was sealed -- oh!
Heaven must've programmed you
The moment I looked into your eyes
I knew that they told no lies
There would be no goodbyes --
Ah, 'cause
Heaven must've programmed you
I go where True Love goes
I go where True Love goes...

On Noncompliance.

What I refer to as "remiss" in taking my Lexapro every day, has a technical term: "noncompliant."

Up until last night I was about 2-3 days non-compliant.

Last night he "treated me" to dinner. So we drove out of our way. I'm famished. Muttering to myself, "holy fuck am I hungry" over and over (because he INSISTED on packing my lunch--of course too light in the calories for me, leaving me totally empty and my sugar bottoming out)... until he venomously flipped out as if I am nothing but a complaining gadfly, and it was like this surge of heat forming a fist from his tongue to my solar plexus. I could hardly park the car fast enough before I started sobbing uncontrollably.

Lately, all I am able to say to myself over and over again like those silly chanty things folks say to themselves when they get so overwrought they talk to themselves all snotted up and upset... I don't want to be married anymore.

He flips out about when I make a statement about how hungry I am, or if I'm exhausted... which I am constantly thanks to the topamax... imagine if I let loose.... I mean really let loose about all the injustices I've experienced in this life. The biggest one, I'm afraid, is being married to a man who doesn't love me unconditionally.

I don't know if he's capable of it actually.

If he's not I don't know what to think of that, either.

But I do know enough to realize it won't be solved with another husband.

The idea of cutting and running, cutting my losses and enjoying what is left of my life while I'm still young... I'm past the point of running.

I await death.

Still Here. Somewhat.

Haven't had my menses since June, as I started taking the Topamax for my migraines and my fat-itude in July.

From July until August, total poundage lost was 6. Uncertain of any subsequent loss since.

Sunday, menses returned with a vengeance. Of course, because I had a gynecologic appointment on Monday. Rescheduled for the following Monday. Let's see if it abates by then.

Not sure what the lapse in menstruation is a sign of. Any kind of medicinal tinkering and it throws my feminine parts into a tailspin.

Haven't been compliant with my Lexapro, been trying to see if I can get by just on the Topamax as the neuro claims it's good for mood (but it's not, it just fatigues me even more and weirds my mood out). Got into a fight with the husband today as he mindlessly took our dining room closet door off the track... again. That thing (the closet door) is an INSTANT fight starter. The EFFing thing is installed poorly, he refuses to indulge me in a pair of "pocket doors" which would eliminate this problem, as well as be another INVESTMENT in our home, I've got perspiration trickling down to my asscrack, him getting snotty with me, me getting huffy and slapping him, him insulting me, and all this is before I can even take my first cup of tea and my blood pressure pill for the day.

Me without Lexapro? Not a good thing. I went into my den, and sobbed and silently welped out the words, "I don't want to be married..." to myself, rocking myself, sobbing, saying it over and over until it was more like echolalia than actual thoughts, and then the condo manager appeared (to help install some duct work for our bathroom ventilation fan), and I didn't even disguise the fact I had been crying.

I'm almost to the point where wanting to shout how alone and abandoned I feel (emotionally) off the rooftops isn't *RIGHT THERE* in the forefront of every moment. But it's there in the background.

I smile.
I laugh.
I distract myself with friends and my hobbies.
But those who know me... and there aren't that many who truly DO know me, who have taken the time and have the fortitude and have the unconditional love to know me... they know otherwise.
And we smile.
And we laugh.
And we distract each other with our hobbies.
Because we know all too well what each other is going through, and know all too well we cannot take away each other's bag of sorrow and regret and pain.
We can only hold each other's hand...
Whether in thought or in deed
And hope for the very best.
And smile...

Was supposed to go get some blood work today and then the gyno.

That can wait til next week. I need a mental health WEEK this week; but I'll settle for one day... next Monday.

For Jocularity, Go Elsewhere.

I don't know why it bothers me so much. Why it matters. *IT* of course being the notion of perimenopause, the notion of the polycystic ovarian syndrome, the notion of never having a choice in the matter of whether I would have had a flesh and blood family of my own. Adoption has been pooh-poohed by him. And the older I get, the less patience I have for things, the more I need to heal myself, and the more I am aware of how very little I have left to give a child... or anyone else. *IT* is all just so incredibly sad. So when one spiral happens, it unlocks that lock... and it all tumbles out, in an uncontrolled, never-ending, and never-comforted, deep seeded, primal wail, which eventually trails off to a noise that only dogs and aliens can decipher.

The rage over never having had a choice, and being oblivious of the point in my life when the option ceased being mine to make... *IF* it were ever mine to make in the first place.

Then the existentialist bullcrap kicks in over, who am I? Who am I supposed to be? If not a mother then who? What is the point of my existence? My purpose? Because at the moment, I vascillate between feeling like a life-support system for my cunt, and the rest of the time, I feel like a 260 pound shit, methane, and carbon dioxide making machine. Surely there is more to my existence than my carbon footprint, isn't there?

And here I sit, in a termite riddled wooden row boat, sans oars, adrift in a pea soup fog of sadness, tears, confusion, and very little else.

YouTube Rant

Pharmacy Snafu Rectified

Current Dosing: 4 Met XR tabs in p.m. with dinner.

Menses Still MIA.

That is all.

Funny, I Never Equated My Self Image With That of Shrek...

What Not To Wear (If You're Fat)

The Post-Specialist Post

Good News:

• 6 lbs lost since starting Topamax over a month ago.
• BP: 117/70 [Last: 138/80].
• Hemoglobin A1C: 5.5 [Non Diabetics <6.0%]>
• Cortisol, total serum: "In range," 11.3
• LDL Cholesterol: "In range," 122 [<130>
• HDL Cholesterol: 34, "Low," [>/=40 mg/dL]
• T4, total (Thyroid Function): "In Range," 8.5 [4.5-12.0 ug/dL]
  

Bad News:

• Menses still MIA. [Though starting to spot 8/24]
• Glusose, fasting: 108, "High," [65-99 mg/dL]
• Insulin, serum: 22 [ <17>
• Uric Acid still elevated. [9.7; Range: 2.5-7.0 mg/dL]; Still concerned about possibility of Gout.
• Fatty Liver Syndrome still a concern:
  Triglycerides: 238 [<150 mg/dL]
  AST: 55 [10-30 U/L]
  ALT: 114 [6-40 U/L]
• Discussed "gravel" stones in Gall Bladder.
  

Plan of Action:

• Double up on Tricor.
• Continue taking Topamax for migraines and hoping for best with appetite suppression.
• Follow up w/Neuro re: Topamax [might increase due to mild breakthrough headaches].
• Gradually switch to Metformin XR, since my evening ones are appearing in morning stoolage.
  

Specialist is concerned about my depression and how I'm "not myself."

No shit.

Now, A Rant.

Hey asshole:

So yeah, we were rolling around, playfully on the bed tonight. And holy shit you had a huge boner. And yeah, I thought about letting you roger me with it.

But you kept yammering.

I was still willing to "take one for the team," and let you slap a jimmy on and hit it with some lube and just whale away on my hole, doggy style, as you always want it. Doggy style. It could be any anonymous twat being offered up for you to pump away for all of what... five minutes, and at the end you act as if you did me some great favor.

But you kept yammering.[about how you need foreplay too, when I said I needed it, that I needed to get warmed up; yet there you were, fully engorged, and ready to go]

If it's at all possible, I could feel the membranes of my vagina dehydrate as you reminded me of how when we got married I foolishly said how I'd never "deny you love." All I wanted tonight was a definition of what you thought "love" was. Apparently it's: penis inserted in vagina until it emits a viscous load. Funny thing is, way back in the day when I foolishly said I'd never "deny you love," you were still somewhat interested in whether or not I achieved an orgasm, or at the very least, if sex was somewhat satisfying for me. Luckily for me we live in the electronic age, and I've got Billie Bob... my back massager, who I might add, does not yammer.

NOT.

ONE.

WHIT.

So, with that being said, as you came in here, and interrupted me pecking out this rant to "request" access to my squish mitten, only didn't even sweet talk me, I believe the term was, "I want to stick it in," was met with me admonishing you with, "Hey, you had your chance. I was going to take one for the team, but you wouldn't shut the fuck up," and you said that you were going to stick it no matter what...

Newsflash...

I'm going to sleep tonight with an old fashioned, spring-loaded mouse trap.

We'll see who's laughing in the morning... or on the ride to the emergency room.

WHICHEVER COMES FIRST.

Signed,

Underfucked & Overfrustrated

PS: I took Friday off for a long birthday weekend--and I think the first gift I'll give myself will be the best multiple orgasm that alternating current can provide. He who laughs last, laughs best... and has the best orgasm. Try to top that!

------------------------------------------------------------

This is devastating to me actually. Always been a very affectionate and very sexual person... for my sex life to suck so royally... it's like a little piece of me dies every day. And the way he talks to me... and despite me being as blunt as blunt can be... I cannot for the life of me convey to him what his words and actions do to me.

Honestly, I sit at my desk and simply make a prayer "I don't want to be here anymore." I say this everyday. And by here, I mean existing... AT ALL. The deep dark nothingness that awaits after my last breath has got to be a lot more peaceful than this.

In my first marriage, which had its own set of faults and flaws, I never sat down and analyzed every little transgression, every little hurt word; and yet, in this marriage, I analyze everything, and see a pattern of verbal and emotional abuse, which in hindsight parallels the abuse and feelings of being unwanted that I suppressed or disregarded in my first marriage.

And I am so impotent, flailing about, crying on the inside, feeling trapped, and unloved...

Only this time, I'm five days shy of 39 years of age, by all accounts an old woman

A fat, polycystic, possibly infertile/perimenopausal, old woman, whose husband only views her as nothing more than a burden half the time, and the other half the time, a life support system for a glory hole.

Menses Missing in Action

July's never came.

Next specialist appointment: Aug. 20th.

Hate to say it...

But despite his best intentions to the contrary, my husband is the "trigger" for most of my depression related outbursts and sobbing episodes. And rather than listen to me when I speak, he zones me out.

Lucky for me I have very sharp knives, because tonight when he refused to stop pestering me while I was cutting some chicken, I cut about 1/8 of my fingernail off, right out of the nail bed, a whisper more keratin more, and it would have exposed all the nerves under the finger nail.

I sobbed that I'm empty and that I want to die. And he just doesn't get me at all. He comes in all kissy kissy thinking that he can cute his way out of anything, and when I am still a quivering mass of tears and sobbing and wailing in a primal way, unresponsive, he then gets indignant, when all is required is a sincere, "I'm sorry," and just holding me, rocking me, in silence.