Today has been an exercise in reminding me why I decided to do this.
Haven't been sleeping well - probably due to some anxiety - so I took some Zzzquil last night and passed out before I could put on my CPAP mask.
For those of you lucky enough to be not in "the know", that stands for Continuous Positive Air Pressure Machine. Basically, I have so much excess weight around my face and throat that it collapses my airway when I get relaxed enough to sleep. This hand dandy device blows air down my nose and throat all night, keeping me alive.
It makes you look like this:
and you sound really funny when you talk.
It also makes dating and intimacy REAL kinky. lol
But, I digress. As I said - the Zzzquil knocked me out before I got my handy, dandy mechanical elephant trunk on to keep me alive, but I was drugged up enough to sleep through my apnea episodes where I wasn't getting oxygen. This lead to numerous dreams about suffocation and left me completely dysfunctional upon waking up. In addition, it triggered my asthma, which sent me into an asthma attack, which left me with no choice but to call out of work.
After a couple of breathing treatments and another four hours of passing out unintentionally, I took the Phentermine pill my Doctor prescribed me to help suppress my appetite and boost my immune system. I then popped three Tylenol (as I do on a regular basis now before starting my day) as a pre-emptive strike against the lower back pain I experience on an ongoing basis. Yeah, I know - it helps with my back pain today, but I ultimately face liver damage because of the excessive Tylenol usage.
I guess I'll just cross that bridge when I get to it.
The Phentermine, which I haven't used in months, kicked in fantastically and I found I finally had the motivation to work around the house like I've been wanting to. In all honesty, my mom's 9 cats tore our house apart during her illness and death, and Dad and I have been overwhelmed and struggling to get it back into shape. So, by eleven am, I started a Tasmanian Devil routine throughout the house.
And, by 11:45, I had to sit down because my back was killing me.
The rest of the afternoon progressed much the same way, only with my cleaning intervals decreasing as my resting intervals increasing.
Soon, my ankles joined my back's cause, swelling and hurting from the constant pounding of my weight. My feet followed suit. And, five hours later when I simply couldn't do anymore, my entire body ached.
Not just because I am out of shape and don't exercise, but because forcing myself to lift, carry and move all this excess weight is an exercise in and of itself.
I mean, as of this morning, I weighed 425 lbs.
If you take a track and field star and make him carry 400 lbs of excess weight...he'd slow down and be pretty sore too.
During my rest periods, I found myself chatting with friends on FB Messenger. Two were lovely ladies who also struggle with weight and weight loss. Both are about five to seven years younger than me, and both are significantly smaller - but my advice to them was the same.
"Even if you are not dieting. Even if you are not exercising. Even you are not actively putting in an effort to lose weight, do ONE thing different from me; just focus on not putting any more on."
It sounds stupid. It sounds like common sense. But, that is how I find myself where I am today. I got frustrated. I got depressed. I got angry. And no matter how much weight I'd lost, when I gave up trying, I put that much back on and then some.
I didn't just become 425 lbs. I was160, then down to 120, and then went up to 180. I was 230, and then went down to 195, and then up to 257. I gained, I lost, then I gained more.
My 35 years has been this same vicious cycle over and over and over again. And it's always "just five pounds" or "just one dress size." And you'll always "start Monday", or you'll always have "just one more cookie".
It's easy to look at me and think of how disgusting I am. How little will power I have. It's easy to gawk, or judge how very far I let myself go.
And yes - you're right. It's true. I take full responsibility for where I find myself today. No one put that food in my mouth...no one sat my fat ass down but me.
But, please know that I wasn't always a failure. There have been times...sometimes moments....sometimes weeks and months...where I have said no. Where I did exercise till I almost couldn't walk the next day. Where I did serve my friend's birthday cake and wouldn't even lick the icing off of my finger. Where I did bring carrot sticks and diet ranch dressing to Thanksgiving dinner. Where I did get off from work and immediately walk two miles before coming home suffering from heat stroke and severe dehydration.
You missed those moments and when you look at me...when you see me waddle by...when you see me stop to catch my breath, or lean against the wall to take some of the weight off of my back...please just remember somewhere in the back of your mind that I have tried. I have fought.
I've failed miserably, yes. I'm imperfect.
But I. Did. Try.
And although I'm asking for help this time around, the bulk of the work will still belong to me. Having this surgery doesn't make me weak. It is not cheating. I am no less worthy than a person who buys a treadmill to get into shape.
Just like that treadmill, this surgery is a tool to help me get to where I need to be, but the responsibility still falls on my shoulders to do what it is that needs to be done.
One month till the chop-shop.
I am excited. I am hopeful.
I am worried. I am scared.
But I am strong. I am determined. I am persistent. And I will beat this demon, once and for all.
At least, I sure as hell hope so.
Please be kind.
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