Altered States

I finally broke down and decided to get back on an anti-depressant. Between my physical garbage going on and my depression, persistent state of being blue on top of still grieving for my dad, there's not much else I can handle to be honest.

A week ago I had an appt w/my internist to discuss five different things. I know I've got problems when there's so many I have to write them down on a 3x5 card to ensure I mention all of them.

I knew instinctively the office visit was going to be an *ahem* "issue," when I showed up and they had me fill out all my forms (as if I were a new patient; including every last Rx I'm currently on), and doing so on an electronic pad with an electronic stylus. ONE MOTHERFUCKING LETTER AT A TIME.

Nearly 10 minutes later, I finished, the doctor isn't in yet, and I'm there on my lunch hour. FML.

So I wait another 10-15 minutes only to be told the doctor I scheduled the appointment with won't be in until 2 p.m. (the appointment was scheduled for 1:15). I WAS EFFING LIVID. "What kind of operation are you running here? Why would someone schedule an appointment KNOWING FULL WELL the doctor won't be in for another 45 minutes? I'm here on my lunch hour. How unprofessional! Someone should have given a call so I could reschedule and not waste my lunch hour waiting!"

This of course was made worse by the fact that it took me getting emotional and yelling for them to suggest I see Dr. G., of whom I have also seen (as he did my endoscopy in 2008). Now why the fuck did they make me wait a half hour before even suggesting this?

So they usher me into an exam room, and the whomever-she-is came in to take my pressure and temp. Of course I'm furious. She then asks me, "Are you on any medications?" I immediately crossed my arms over my chest and said, "Yessssss!" "What are they?" I then lost my shit and started yelling, "Didn't I JUST fill out all that information on that useless form? Isn't all this shit in my chart? This whole thing was a mistake coming here. I have problems every time I schedule an appointment." She got huffy, I don't care. I hope I made her cry. Lord knows I was on the verge of it myself, and no one was giving a shit.

So the doctor comes in and immediately is on the defense because the walls are paper thin and everyone in the office could hear me yelling. And no, I don't regret it, and neither am I embarrassed by it.

I told him why I was there:

1. To get back on anti-depressants (no shit!);
2. To get seasickness patch Rx;
3. To get something to treat this sinus infection I now have;
4. To discuss getting on track with appointments to document everything to get insurance to qualify me for bariatric surgery.

I could swear there was a fifth item on that list, but it escapes me now.

So he started to disarm me by asking me about the cruise we're taking (hence the seasickness patches), and as I was telling him point by point, I was on the verge of laughing and crying at the same time. A sense of relief and just reflecting on how unnecessary all that stress was. How it all could have been avoided had anyone given a shit and not just been in paper-pushing drone mode at the front desk.

Turns out, he went to medical school with my surgeon. And realizing this, I then realized how fortuitous it was that I was seeing Dr. G., that he knew "my guy," and that he's the best, giving me one more reason to think I picked the "right guy" to do the surgery.

My eyes are dilated from the Celexa now, and I need a nap, and I still have 8 hours of work ahead of me.

Hoping no one harshes my mellow.

My Day Off

Off for President's Day. Thank goodness. Woke up with a head full of goo, which now makes me wonder and worry if I can take Mucinex D (or any other 12 hour time release cold remedy) post-op?

I Hate Know-it-Alls

To the dumb shit on the "Have your innards been rearranged" group on Ravelry: No, dumbshit, acesulfame K is NOT the same thing as aspartame. I hate your disingenuous replies to everyone. Not every post demands your reply.

The Initial Consult

I’m now plunged a bit further into a slump given that all this time with my researching the gastric bypass I had been whining about “only 4 ounces” being the capacity of my stomach pouch post-op, only to find out today from the nutritionist that my post-op pouch will ONLY BE ONE EFFING OUNCE CAPACITY.

Let that marinate for a bit.

One ounce roughly equates to 5 teaspoons. How the hell can you even quench your thirst 5 teaspoons at a time? I’d sooner give up food than to give up drinking; and SHIT! If you’re ingesting it 5 teaspoons at a clip, that’s probably at a slower rate than you’re perspiring or urinating it away.

I’m devastated by this. Shocked actually.

The actual meeting with the surgeon went well enough and he’s not as folks had described (some said he wasn’t really warm and fuzzy). He seemed interested in my case, we talked over each other at points, and I think I let him know that I have been doing my homework on the topic and it’s not a decision I’ve made casually.

Additionally he discussed another procedure called a banded bypass, and he took out some of the polypropylene banding material, and my husband laughed when I said, “Wait a minute… is that knitted?” He would have given me the sample to take home, but it was the only piece he had on hand.

In all the YouTube Vlogs I've seen thus far on the topic of WLS, I have yet to see one where someone shows in REAL TIME how long it takes to drink their shake or how long it takes to drink water of any varying unit of measurement. Too many folks I guess armed with good intentions (or egoism, too) are putting themselves in front of a camera and you can tell how uncomfortable they are or how shy they are because they're not really talking loud enough for you to hear them, and some just have too much whining about whatever it is. I'm trying thru process of elimination to find someone's "journey" which is more of a balance of experience PLUS expectation.

Will go to my PCP to follow up with him, and well... start the HURRY UP AND WAIT process. It'll be agony.

Perhaps I'm a bit OCD

I don't do anything without doing as much research and meditation on the topic beforehand. Why bother attempting anything if I'm going to fail? Not researching or meditating upon something, to me, is a formula for failure.

This could explain the condition of my den, which is always in some level of disarray. The room just is lacking the necessary organizing tools for me to get everything the way I need, so why bother?

Both my den could be a metaphor for my life and my health; and my life and my health are a metaphor for my den, as both are in chaos.

And I suppose the same could be said about my health or life in general. Only as it pertains to my health, no matter how little I eat, it has the inverse reaction, that of agitating a hungry lion. When I eat very little, my hunger just grows beyond where I can manage it. So why bother attempting to do anything to change it, when it so clearly has a life force of its own?

Bottom line is and always has been, I am tired of attempting to slay this beast by myself, with my bare hands. I'm 41 and I am tired. Physically and emotionally. I don't have it in me to fight this fight anymore, and I am surrendering to it. I'm acknowledging my shortcomings and limitations. I just can't do this anymore.

From middle school until present day, I've tried all manner of things to fight this beast: Cambridge Diet, Ayds Diet Chews, Dexatrim (back in the day when it had "the good stuff" in it). Then along came anorexia and bulemia and obsessive exercise, and for a while, I thought the monster was dead. It was merely in hibernation, to awaken a few years later with a mighty vengeance, hand-in-hand with Satan's handmaiden, PCOS.

At some point in the late 1980s, I was involved with someone who had "feeder" tendencies, who fattened me up gladly with the most delicious tortellini Alfredo and Caesar salads ever crafted by a human. That entire relationship was a haze of Parmesan cheese flavored infatuation and drowsiness, allowing the sedentary lifestyle take root.

The late 1990s saw me thru three car accidents, one of which I suffered "soft tissue damage," no broken bones, but exacerbated a congenital defect in my spine (diminished disc space, "hip dysplasia," etc.,) and gave me a herniation in my neck. Everyday is spent in pain to one degree or another. Some days just getting up out of my chair at work to walk a few feet is too painful for words. Gone are the days of high impact aerobics and running mile upon mile.

Then along came Slim Fast and Weight Watchers, both with marginal result. Two years of Atkins helped me lose close to 30-40 lbs, but fears of gout and just an overall disgust of eating such a protein intensive diet got to me. I am an omnivore! Slowly, nearly every Atkins-lost pound found its way back home.

Then Xenical and the "sudden onset liquified indignity." Then topamax, with its promised to not only help my migraines but also dump off a shit-ton of weight. Migraines were kept in check, not one pound of weight came off, and in the end it made me more depressed and hostile and paranoid.

I can't take amphetamines to help me lose weight due to my blood pressure, though high it is being managed with medication.

I recognize that if I lose a lot of weight, it'll ease my joint pain and lead to the very real possibility of being more active than I am.

At the moment, I'm viewing surgery as "surgically induced anorexia" and "surgically mutilating" my stomach into submission. I can do this. I can "comply." I just don't want to think about or be ruled by food and my connections associated with it anymore.

Hypothetical Post-Op Ass Wiping

Oh yeah. Today I stumbled upon the little nugget of information (from viewing several WLS journeys on YouTube) that the possibility exists that post-op, I might not be able to twist my torso (as a result of pain from the surgery) to wipe my own ass.

My husband and I have been arguing for the last hour over the possibility/hypothetical post-op ass wiping.

Yeah. Laughable, but my reality is isn't. He's it for a support system. And I don't want to run the risk that the nursing staff could care less.

Talk about putting the cart before the horse.

A HIPA Type Question

15 months after dad passed, and now I'm wondering if I call his cardiologist, if the cardiologist will tell me if the assortment of things wrong with him, his heart, and his mitral valve were congenital or not?

I know one of my vena cavas (I believe my inferior) is in the "wrong direction," from what I've been lead to believe due to a renal doppler I had back in 2000, that little anomaly turned up. Is it related to the mitral valve defect dad had (of which his mom's sister also has)?

ETA:
So I called and left a message for his cardiologist to call me. He might return call tomorrow. Now let's wait and see if the office calls my mother first, and then SWEET HOLY HANNAH ALL HELL WILL BREAK LOOSE: "Why did you call?" "Why haven' t you called me back?" "I'm so lonely." WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH. I just want information, leave me the fuck alone!

PS:
2/1/10
Dad's former cardiologist called me back finally. Turns out the valve problems were the result of his heart being weakened by the several heart attacks he had (grand total, 3-4?), which were the result of 20+ years of smoking. After the first heart attack dad became Type II diabetic due to the cardiac meds, and that in turn further weakened his heart.
Summation: Dad's heart problems were not congenital, and not related to my inferior vena cava being in the wrong position.

Not Sure How Much Value I Should Put Into This

I was hoping it would give me some insights into the how or why I am (I feel, IMHO) an emotionally reactive person.


(Edited link)

[Insert name here]Cunt123

Yes. I am using the name (of the coordinator who is supposed to field harassment complaints in our office) + Cunt + 123 as my network password.

In front of others, she referred to someone elsewhere as "Fat Frank." How original! How mature! How CLEVER! And yet, because Frank is a fatty, and because Frank isn't there to defend himself and his fatness to this cunt, no one said ONE word about it. Of course "Fat" was being used negatively and with judgment, not merely as a descriptor. And we all know fatness is the last acceptable bias.

Yeah, I can only imagine what she thinks of me. (It's all about me, don'tchaknow.)

I found the whole thing fucking distasteful.

People suck.

It's the depression talking

I hope that the surgery leads to significant weight loss, whereby my hormones even themselves out.

And if not, I hope that if there are to be any life-threatening complications they happen while I am under general anesthesia and never wake up. There are worse things than death, namely a painful, pointless death. A black hole of inertia and nothingness doesn't scare me. I can't continue living my life as a total failure.

Heaven and hell are both within reach in this reality. I don't need a parallel universe with some Omnipotent being, of whom, I will never be who I am expected to be.

I'm such a poser. I want to die.

A Psychotherapy DON'T

Whatever you do, even in the lightest of context, DO NOT work into your therapy session how on one occasion, after a Sunday dinner at the parents' house no less, after quoting "Welcome to the first room in hell," from the Dark Brothers classic porno, "The Devil in Miss Jones," DO NOT... I REPEAT... DO NOT tell your therapist that you, your mother and brother all sat huddled around the glowing t.v. watching the aforementioned porn flick.

I find him and his journey w/WLS an Inspiration

Watch Me Get Skinny

Mind Eff

Just a note to myself:

Why am I writing my appointment times down incorrectly in my day planner?

1/18 Endo Follow-Up

Not sure why there were no bloods for this visit. I don't go to see the bariatric surgeon for my consult until 2/9.

Appointment was anti-climactic without something to compare previous visit to current, though blood pressure was a strong 120/70 thereabouts, given I rushed to get there, I thought it would be higher.

Upping dose of Riomet.

Nothing else to report.

The Brilliance of Stupid Remarks

Upon hearing I managed NOT to lose weight but "did not gain either" this holiday season, the husband's reply was "Well it's not like you could possibly gain MORE." WUT?

So...

I eventually screwed up the chutzpah to call the surgeon's office. They require that I view their online seminar prior to making an appt for consultation (of which, I wouldn't meet w/the surgeon, but some other medical professional on staff).

The seminar consisted of six or seven videos. At the end of each video, I was required to take a "quiz." After I finished viewing all videos and taking all the quizzes, I then had to print up a "certificate of completion," which I then faxed to his office along with my registration form, and insurance card information. I was told I would hear back in 24-48 hours in regards to scheduling the consultation.

I faxed everything in on November 27th, nearly two weeks ago. Haven't heard a peep from them. It took every ounce of grit in me to even get "this far." Their inaction is unnerving me. And yet, I don't want to follow up. I'm resistant. I can intellectualize I "need" the surgery; however, I know the moment that the consultation is made, my life for an entire year is not going to be "my life" for an entire year. I get depressed thinking about all the appointments and demands put on me, both pre-op and post-op. I get even more depressed thinking about the post-op.

I'm miserable now.
I'll be miserable if I have the surgery.
I'll be miserable if I DO NOT have the surgery.

I continue to see my psychotherapist every two weeks (of which makes me anxious, because of scheduling all THIS time off from work, given how short-staffed my office is, and I do not see that changing any time in the near future).

Courage Is Under-Rated

I finally finished viewing the online seminar, containing 6-7 videos with accompanying quizzes.

I finally printed out the "certificate of completion" to verify that I saw all the videos and took all the quizzes.

I printed out and filled out the "registration" form.

I photocopied my insurance card, front AND back.

I faxed all this shit to the surgeon's office, with the expectation that within 24-48 hours I would receive a call back to schedule a consultation, of which I would not meet with the surgeon but someone else, perhaps a "liaison" of sorts. Perhaps a physicians assistant or a nutritionist.

Amount of time which has now elapsed since I jumped through all these hoops and faxed out the necessary paperwork: One full week.

My mind was made up to go thru with this surgery last year. Then dad died, and I gave myself a year to cope with the loss. The topic is now front-and-center and needs to be addressed. Sure, I could have had all this done last year, so then when the year was up, I'd be "on deck" and ready for surgery. However, I was barely functioning last year. If I could not manage to get my act together and remember to re-up for the flexible spending account for my medical reimbursement for 2009, I doubt if I would have been salient enough to jump through all these hoops.

So yes. It's a mind fuck. The surgeon's time is too valuable to deal with me directly on this level, so I have to jump through hoops and wait for them to respond. And yet, my time has zero value at this point. If I think about this any longer, I will probably explode with rage due to the fact that their inaction, their devaluing MY time and my effort and the sheer CHUTZPAH it took to do all this, to attempt to get this process started, only furthers the agony of my obsessing on how horrible it all will be: all the ADDITIONAL pre-certification firey hoops I will have to jump through; all the pre-op firey hoops I will have to jump thru; and all the post-op firey hoops I will have to jump thru. A year's worth of shit for me to swim through personally before I even see a GLIMMER of a normal-ish life.

It's a Hobson's Choice really. What choice is there to have? To go in and have my stomach surgically mutilated on the off-chance it will change this legacy of shitty health I have been born into VS not doing a damned thing and being just as miserable.

Life is a never-ending stream of suffering. It's those few precious moments of joy that fool me into thinking that life could be anything other than suffering. Because even when I experience the rarity of joy, it is fleeting, and I revert back to suffering. All of this is in vain. Life is the ultimate vanity trip.

A Wasted Day

Fuck you to my husband’s snoring, leading to my sleep deprivation, and exacerbating my depression.

I had wonderful plans to go into NYC early today to check out the Spider Silk exhibit at a museum, then go to 1-2 yarn stores, then stock up on bath shit at Lush, then lunch at a Malaysian place before my appointment (which I thought was) at 3.

I woke up feeling like crap, dropped the husband off at the train, and thought I’d just go into NYC later just for my appointment.

So then I start constructing my “Plan B,” building a small itinerary after the therapist appointment. I scheduled a hair appointment at Aveda, and mapped out which bus to take to get to Lush in Herald Square.

I was in the process of IMing the husband about how shitty I felt, when my cell let me know I had a voicemail. Time: 11:45. It was my therapist wondering where I was, as our appt was at 11. FML.

So I had to go and reschedule my appointment for next week, and hope I’ll be able to get the time off as we’re running FOREVER short staffed it seems, then had to cancel the hair appointment I JUST ARRANGED, and will have to wait one more week until I get to go to Lush to stock up on my bath shit.

Husband’s response: Take a nap.

FUCK THAT! If I were getting good sleep, I’d be alert enough to salvage my day. Now I’m up and irritated at a perfectly HORRIBLY wasted day off (state holiday), and will have to dip into my sick time to take off to accommodate another appointment.

I’m incredibly fed up with the sleep situation here. And even in my sleep-deprived-addled state, when he wakes me up in the middle of the night due to his CONSTANT tossing and turning and OH MY GOD SNORING, I scream out, “WHAT THE EVER LOVING FUCK?”

On top of this, I've only seen about four of the videos of the online seminar the bariatric team demands I watch (and respond to the quizzes at the end) before even arranging a consultation with me.

I'm alone. I'm exhausted. I'm depressed. And the whole situation once that consultation is arranged will be nothing but six months to a year's worth of aggravation, depleting my sick and personal leave at work, and just inconvenience and irritability. No wonder why I'm procrastinating and meditating too long on this shit.

Three Out of Six

So I sat down and plodded through three (or maybe four) of the six videos of the online seminar which is required before scheduling a consult. In hindsight, I wish I weren't me. I wish I were more of a go-getter. Had that been the case, I no doubt would've been able to get in for a consult this Weds when I'd be in NYC anyway for another appointment.

I fear once I set this thing in motion, my life will be a flurry of doctor's appointments, requirements, and further reminder(s) that I am a failure.

On Diminishing Joy

I'm still menstruating at age 41. Increasingly intense pain from lower (left side) back straight through to front of body out the pelvis. Why should I still menstruate? It's a sick cosmic joke.

Too many years have been languished and complacency has settled in. First w/a (now ex) husband who wasted ten years of my life before PCOS took a foot hold. Second with a husband who isn't the same age as me, different thoughts on when to start a family despite my being six years older. And really now, it's too late. So why menstruate anymore?

I won't have a kid of my own flesh. Between all the risk factors (both for me and a fetus), plus this overriding fear that I'll fuck up an innocent life, coupled up with the overriding sense that I'll be in it alone, I'm paralyzed to even follow thru on this.

And now it seems I'll be on track for bariatric surgery, after which, vitamin and mineral deficiencies will be something I'll have to stay vigilant of, so post-op pregnancy I doubt it's even advised.

Just attempted to get aroused and tried to have sex, which just left me in a crying jag fueld by female impotence. I used to have a stellar and enjoyable sex life. I don't know if the increasing impotence I am suffering from is from the excess weight or my depression or what. It saddens me intensely that something I used to enjoy so much may be gone forever.

And sadly the last thing that brought me so much enjoyment, FOOD, will soon be taken from me too.

Though not suicidal, I am prone to intellectualize what is the point of living when two very essential things in my life are escaping my grasp.