All that we cannot see.

I went camping this weekend with my daughters' Girl Scout troop.  I was kind of dreading it, to be honest.  Being in the woods, in the summer, with nowhere to turn if panic set in was scary.  I was sick for the few days before going.

But let me backtrack a bit.

***

I've lost 80 pounds since I started this journey.  Eighty pounds with which I fought.  Eighty pounds of blood, sweat, and tears.  I work at it, you guys.  It's hard.  I cry sometimes.  I want to give in often.  I am angry and sad and defeated more than I would like to admit.  But I still try and I still go on.  Because - I promise - it is worth it.

Anyway!  I have always been a jiggly fat person.  My fat was never firm.  There has always been droopy, wiggly, jiggly skin.  I have always had flips and flaps and bounces. 

I have spent years hiding those bits that bothered me the most.  While my body as a whole was acceptable to me, those parts were not.

My inner legs.  My arms.  My breasts.  My lower stomach (or fat chunk as I affectionately call it).  I hate them.  Their jiggle is what annoys me the most.

Since losing weight, the jiggle and flaps and loose skin has gotten so much worse.

But, you guys, it was going to be HOT.  I needed to get spending-time-in-the-woods-without-completely-dying clothes.  I was terrified.

First order of business:  A bathing suit.  I'm ok with them, to be honest.  Not sure why, but they don't bother me.  This time, however, the skirt part (don't hate) was a bit shorter than previous suits I had gotten.  Not only was it shorter, but the jigglies are hanging lower and the flappies are more noticeable.  Could I do it?  I bought the suit and worked myself up and told myself it is what it is and I needed to just deal.

Second order of business: Shirts.  Cap sleeve shirts are the worst, friends.  They cover a bit of the shoulders and then my wings are exposed for all the world to see.  They were out of the question.  As were tank stops.  Which, for some odd reason, are pretty rampant in the fat girl clothes arena.  Am  the only jiggly one?  Or am I the only one that cares?  Shit to ponder at 3 AM when I should be sleeping but need to go over every single thought that has ever occurred to me in the past 41 years (where is that Holly Hobby doll, anyway??).

I tried on a few shirts.  Not gonna happen.  Then I tried on two more.  They were tighter and shorter than I was used to.  And, they had shorter sleeves.  Not straps.  Not caps.  Just shorter.

I tentatively showed Mike (who, to his credit, honestly loves every bit of me) and asked him if they were ok.  He said he loved them and they were perfect.

While I wasn't sold and I was still worried about wearing them, I bought them.  I packed them and panicked and debated leaving them home.  In the end, off they went with me to Jellystone Park (Yogi Bear reprezent!).

The time came to dress for the day.  I considered wearing something else I had brought with me.  I cringed a little inside just thinking of my arms showing.  And then, I put one of them on.

And I left the cabin (yes, I didn't sleep in a tent.  Small steps, y'all!).  Self conscious the entire way, I walked to the tent area and tried to act as if everything was ok.  Inside, I was still freaking out.

And then it happened.  Nothing.  No one looked at me or whispered about me or even cared, to be honest.  No one cared but me.

***

The day went on and I wore the hell out of that shirt.  I hung out and laughed and ate and just enjoyed myself.  I even took a picture.  I forgot that my arms were out and I forgot that the jigglies were even there.

I looked at the picture later on that day.  It was me and some lovely ladies sharing a moment of happiness.  And it was ok.  Yes, my arms were wrinkly and baggy and not very attractive.  But the world didn't end.  No one shunned me.  My heart was still beating and i was still enjoying life.

I posted that picture to Facebook, made a joke about my arms, and went about my day.

***

Here's the thing about those arms:

While they ARE fat and they ARE jiggly and they ARE baggy, they are still strong.  They hold my babies when they hurt.  They hug those whom I love.  They lift and they carry and they drive.

They get me where I need to go. 

You may see wings of skin and fat, but there is so much more that you DON'T see.

You DON'T see the strength it took to decide to get myself healthier and to actually do it.  You DON'T see the weight I was before and the weight I am now.  You DON'T see how hard I have worked and how many tears I have shed.

You DON'T see that the woman inside of me has made her way out.

And yes, there will always be remnants of my old body.  And yes, I plan on losing so much more.  And yes, as time goes on, I will have more and more loose skin and baggy parts.

But you DON'T see how proud I am of that skin.  I am proud because it is a testament to the fact that I can do it.  I CAN work hard.  I CAN see the evidence of that work.

*** 

There is so very much that you can see when you look at my body.

But, my friends, there is even MORE that you cannot.

And those things are the very things that matter the most.

***

hashtagSadface

Ugh.  Life is so sad lately.  Sad things in the news.  people feeling sad.  People doing sad things.  People making ME sad.

Just so sad.

I want to be all cheerful and say, "Buck up, world!"  I don't, though, because 1) that's rude, 2) people who say buck up are usually lame and ignored, and C) the world doesn't want to hear that.

But for real.  Buck the fuck up.  Stop being mean and vindictive.  Stop holding grudges.  Stop KILLING each other and BLAMING each other and being assholes in general.

I am so tired of shit bringing me down.  I have enough chemical crap going on in my head like a huge, bullshit stone soup kind of thing with each different area throwing its own piece of garbage in it and I am DONE.

I"m exhausted, people.  I am sure so many of us are. 

***

So, yes.  This is my whiny post.  My post to say get over yourselves, people.  If someone gets you upset, talk to them privately and hash it out.  I'll be doing this myself this week.  I'm feeling like I need to EXPRESS MYSELF(™).  It's time, yo.

***

This bipolar shit doesn't give a break, you guys.  Just when you think you've got it under control, it comes up behind you and punches you in the back as if to say, "Tag!  You're it now!" And that makes me angry, which makes me sad, which makes me want to rant and whine and punch people.  And that is where I am right now.

Congrats!  Now you all win because you get to read this.  Sorry, peeps.

Also, if this sounds all over the place, it's because I am super manic and had to take Klonopin to calm the fuck down.

Not crazy.  Just tired of stupid shit.

Don't worry, though!  I have tons of other shit to post about in the future.  Only not really.  I have two more things.

If there's anything you want to know or ask me or make me talk about, feel free to comment here, message me, text me, or post on facebook.

Other than that, sorry for the shitty post.

Verbal diarrhea, this one!

***

P.S. I had to buy new bras and now my boobs look FABULOUS!  They think they are 19 again.  Ok, 29, maybe.  35??

P.P.S. Happy Father's Day, fathers and single moms!!  We love you guys.

BFF

“There is no sincerer love than the love of food.”

-George Bernard Shaw

I googled food quotes for this post and saw that one and chose it. I don't know if Shaw actually said it, but I am ok with believing he did and moving on.
***
 
I'm Italian. Growing up, we celebrated everything with a meal. You graduated? Let's go out to eat! You're engaged? Come over and I'll make you some lasagna! You found the best nail polish ever? Let's have a BBQ!

Just kidding about the last one. We didn't have a BBQ at our house.

Food was a way to celebrate. Food was a way to show your love. Food was my BFF. I spent a lot of time with food. I was a latchkey kid. I came home after school, sometimes with my friends, and I ate. I ate a lot. Sometimes good things like tuna. Sometimes crappy food like bread crumbs and egg fried into patties. DON'T JUDGE. I just ate.

***

My mom is an amazing cook. She makes the best sauce and amazing broccoli rabe and even her salad made with vinegar and oil is somehow that of angel's wings and fairy dust. I have tried recreating her food hundreds of times, but always fall short.

When I was little, I loved "helping" her cook. She gave me important jobs like grating the parmesan or shredding the mozzarella. Sometimes, if she was making stuffed shells, I got to help mix ingredients in the ricotta cheese for the filling.

I loved it. I loved spending time with her and making something for people and just feeling loved and needed. I associated those times with her love for me and her love for others. She cooked BECAUSE she loved and those she cooked FOR no doubt felt that.

Therefore, food equaled love for me. I don't say all of this to blame my mother or claim it's her fault. On the contrary. She instilled in me the love of wanting to do for people. Of wanting to show my love with my skills and not with money. Those are wonderful traits, and I am grateful for them. It was my own mind that confused me.

And now I am craving chicken cutlets or meatballs (saved out of the sauce just for me!). Sometimes it's a good thing that she lives 750 miles away from me. She would, no doubt, cook for me all the time. I may have to have another baby, though. She cooked and cleaned my house and brought me food in bed and shit like that when I had the other ones. Let me go get Mike....

But, I digress! I am too old for babies and too tired to even eat right now.

***

As I grew older, I still had a love affair with food. Only this time, it wasn't delicious pastas and breads with salad. It was whatever I could get my hands on.

Quick interjection:

I was clearly in need of some mental health help when I was younger. I once wrote a note saying I wanted to die and put it into my little Jordache (REPREZENT) purse. I lost it at school and the principal found it. She looked inside to see who the bag belonged to, found the note, and called me to her office. I was eight. She asked why I wrote it, I told her it was a joke, and she sent me back to class. Can you even imagine?? What were we thinking back then?

I was also sent to the school therapist when I was 14 because I was talking about suicide. She talked to me, told me I should lose weight, and sent me on my way. Even suggested Weight Watchers. Once you lose weight, you guys, all your problems disappear! I know this because Richard Simmons told me so.

So, yes. I needed help, but didn't have anyone to help me, so I ate my feelings. Sad? Food. Happy? Food. Scared? Food. Tired? My bed. I couldn't cope with things on my own, so I recruited food to try to help me.

It DID make me numb. It DID help me forget for a few minutes. It DID give me indigestion. Help me, though, it did not.

I was still sad. I was still suicidal. I was still fucked up.

***

You all know the song and dance, I imagine. The sadder I got, the more I ate. The more I ate, the bigger I got, the more I NEEDED to eat to keep my shit together. I am surprised I never ate myself into a heart attack.

Don't get me wrong. I was a relatively happy child and teenager. I think I was, anyway. Happiness is not the same as not being depressed, though. Being depressed doesn't mean you are sad. I don't know any way to accurately explain that, so you're gonna have to trust me on this one.

***

For the next twenty or so years, I ate my feelings. I didn't know any other way to get through them. Also, once you've been doing it for so long, it is who you are. It's not strange or shameful or embarrassing. It's just what you do. It's just how you cope.

And it's EXTREMELY hard to get over.

***

Beginning again.

So there I was, in all my glory.

To say I was shocked would be an understatement.  Again, I'm not sure what I had been thinking, but I guess I didn't realize how much I had gained.

Looking at myself next to my six-year-old, it finally occurred to me that I wasn't only damaging my OWN life, I was damaging the lives of my children.  I mean, look at me.  I was out of control in so many ways.  I was passing horrible habits down to my children.  I just didn't care.  About much.  Or anything.  Or a LOT.

I am not joking when I say that, like THAT, I decided enough was enough.

I know people always say, "You won't do it until you're ready," and it's seen as a platitude or an excuse, but I truly believe it's the truth.  You won't.  You may consider it.  You may start it.  You may think you want it.  But you don't and you won't and you don't again.

That was the end of May.  By the beginning of June, I had started over.

At first, it wasn't a lot of changes all at once.  I didn't think I could handle that, to be honest.  I started by basically lowering my carbs.  I didn't count calories or fat grams or protein or lettuce leaves.  I counted carbs.  My MAIN goal at the time was to keep my diabetes under control, but also to take it to the next level.  My a1c was 6.2 at this point (I'll explain that business in another post - EXCITING, I KNOW!), but I wanted to get it lower.

I counted carbs and tried to move more and got myself down 30 pounds.  I was super proud and excited and I felt as if I could do anything. 

My sister and my mother visited in July.  I know I didn't LOOK much different, but I felt so much better.  I was able to handle doing more things than I had on their previous visits, and I just felt more in control.  This affected my relationship with Mike (which I MAY get into at a later time if he is ok with it).  In a good way!  Being happy with MYSELF made me happier in so many other ways, and that creates a domino effect in that the people around me enjoyed my company more and then I felt even BETTER about myself.  And so on.  And so on.  And then I shampooed my hair and told all of my friends about it and if that makes no sense to you, then you are officially too young.

***

So, this continued for a few months and I started having to buy new clothes and starting fitting better in things (like my car and chairs and THINGS in general).  Stuff AND things, you know.

Intermission:  If you are not morbidly obese, it may not occur to you that you look at everything before you sit in it, step on it, or lie on it.  You nonchalantly check things out to see if you will fit, and if so, how uncomfortable will you be?

So, yes.  That shit started to get better.  Not perfect, but better.

***  

In the middle of April, I had a regular appointment with my doctor.  Blah blah blah, meds.  Blah blah blah, possible menopause.  Blah blah blah, weight and diabetes.

My weight was officially down 60 pounds and my a1c was 5.5.  Both awesome numbers, but I still knew I needed more.

I really started clamping down on my calories and carbs and I have lost another 17 pounds since then (77 pounds total!).  Totally proud and totally excited and not even the slightest bit modest about it. 



And now I am here:

It has been SO hard.  Food is my friend.  For realsies.  I love it.  I love the way it tastes.  I love the way it smells.  I love how it smiles at me 


and gives me little air kisses from the plate and tells me how pretty I am.

Putting some distance between myself and food was one of the hardest things I've done.  And you guys, I had two c-sections, had staples rip out and new staples put in without any anesthetic of any kind, moved to effing CINCINNATI by myself, and lost the only father figure I ever had.

This was worse.  I KNOW I sound melodramatic.  And I probably am.  But guys, I love food.

Only, food never loved me back.


***

Excess Baggage.

Let's go back a little bit.  I don't want this to be all about my weight loss.  I mean, that WILL be a big part of it, but it's more about a transformation as a whole. If you think I'm going to post lame cliches and random INSPIRATION posts, well, you're right!  I know some people find that annoying and self-righteous and that's all good.  I CAN be annoying and self-righteous and it's only fair to be completely honest about that!  And, to be TRULY honest, that kind of stuff DOES help me.  If it works, I want to share it, because why wouldn't I want to tell everyone what makes me happy and what gives me inspiration?  I spent a LONG time being quiet about the things that hurt me AND the things that helped me.  Not sure why.  I guess some of it has to do with trying not to annoy anyone.  Or perhaps worrying that people don't care.  Or both.  I'm not sure, really.  I AM sure that I am ok with sharing (most of ) the good and bad things about me.

But, I digress!  Which I will probably do a lot.  I love to talk and I love writing (typing?) even more. 

I wouldn't have been able to set a course for myself and stay on it if I hadn't gotten rid of some other things that were bogging me down.  I couldn't have, actually.  There wouldn't have been room enough in my head to stay focused and sure about my plan.  I needed to let things go.

***

Years and years ago, I did something pretty horrible.  I don't feel comfortable saying what it is right now, but suffice it to say it was not good.  I know, I know.  I HATE when people bring something up all Facebook-style, but then don't tell you what it is.  "GUYS, PRAY FOR ME.  I CAN'T TELL YOU WHY, BUT I NEED PRAYERS.  IT'S SERIOUS, YOU GUYS.  PRAY."

I WILL pray for you, but like, what level of prayer do you need?  Do you want me to pray that your mother isn't ill or that your cat makes it through surgery?  Or am I praying for your ingrown toenail to stop hurting so much?  I need to know!

So, trust me when I say it was bad, and I wouldn't even have brought it up if there wasn't a point and if it hadn't had so very much to do with who I had become.  Forgive me.

I had been carrying that shit around with me for years.  It was shitty, it hurt people, and it was against everything I thought I stood for.  I apologized (which, trust me, didn't even begin to make it better).  I tried to atone.  I explained my actions.  I am positive now that it had a lot to do with having undiagnosed bipolar disorder.  I am not excusing it, I'm just explaining.

So, one day I said to myself, "Self.  You fucked up.  You did a shitty thing.  You were super selfish.  You tried to make amends.  This is eating at you.  You can't let this rule your life."  And then it was over!

Just kidding.  I still felt like a douchebag.  Only, I started thinking about it and praying about it and trying to figure out how I could fix it.  I couldn't fix it, though, so I had to forgive myself.

The thing is, I had taken some time and forgiven so many people over the years.  Forgiveness truly IS good for your soul.  I can never forget most things, but I CAN say, "Hey.  It happened.  It probably won't happen again.  I have to be chill and assume the best from now on." 

And I had to forgive myself.  This took work, y'all.  It was hard.  We sometimes (especially as women) can't forgive ourselves because it seems selfish.  But, if I could do a BAD thing out of selfishness, why couldn't I do a GOOD thing?  I could!  And I did.  And I spent time saying to myself, "You did then what you knew then, and now that you KNOW better, you can DO better."  Props, Oprah.  Thanks for representing the '90s for me.

So, I let it go as much as I could.  I swear, you guys, it made a difference.  Once I let THAT go, I could work on other things that were holding me down.

***

My 30s were not the greatest decade for me.  I mean, I had both of my girls in my 30s and I grew to know myself a whole lot better, but some pretty sad things happened in my 30s, as well.  It just wasn't good.  One thing that I DID do in my 30s was figure out some pretty rad things about friendship.

You see, you don't HAVE to be friends with people if you don't like them.  I know, right?  Mind. Blown.  I had some "friends" in my life that literally brought me nothing but pain.  They had absolutely NO benefits in my life.  I never felt good in their presence and, for the most part, actually felt like shit.

So, I stopped being friends with them.  I cut them out of my life.  It didn't go over well.  I was told I was selfish and crazy and a mean person.  And I cried.  I cried a lot, my friends.  I felt like a shitbag. 

And then after a few weeks, I woke up and there were little robins outside my window singing catchy Disney tunes and waking me up with a smiling sun in the background, scooping out some cereal in a bowl for me.  It was awesome.

Only, that didn't happen.  What DID happen was that I slowly realized how much confidence I was starting to get back.  I started feeling ok about myself again.  I started, wait for it, BEING HAPPY.

I also started appreciating my awesome friends even more.  Making your circle smaller may seem counter-intuitive, but it actually opens you up to MORE love.  And it did.

And it was good.

***

Begin at the beginning.

I've always been overweight.   Well, maybe not as a newborn, but ever since then I have weighed more than I should.  I was cute, don't get me wrong, but I was always bigger than the other kids.

I was never traumatized by my weight.  I DO remember shopping in TSS (a New York-based department store) with my mother when I was little and having to go to the "chubby" section to buy clothes.  I'm sure it wasn't literally CALLED the chubby section, but that's what my mother asked for, and that's what the lady directed her to.

"Oh, you'll need to go to the CHUBBY SECTION for her, ma'am."

Y'all, I could feed a goat with the best of them!

When I was 13, my mother took me to my first Weight Watcher's meeting.  I was so annoyed.  Surely she didn't expect me to join her and my sister on the weight-loss journey when I was perfect as I was?  Was she insane?  I humored her, of course.  I let her weigh my foods and used Sweet 'n Low liberally and attended my weekly weigh-ins.

This was the beginning, you guys.  I spent years after this losing and gaining weight.  I repeated the cycle, got angry with myself, and finally realized I liked food too much to be divorced from it.

****

I totally always felt as if I were hot shit.  From my youth into my teens into my young adulthood; I always felt confident and secure.  I was fat, sure, but I was beautiful.  I don't think I every TRULY thought anything else.  I was aware that people made fun of "THE FATS," but I never really felt as if anyone made fun of ME.  Perhaps I was naive.  Perhaps I was immune.  Perhaps I didn't give a shit.  No matter what, I never played myself down.

I dressed up.  I got my hair did.  I put on makeup.  I accessorized.  I was a stone-cold fox.

This went on for years.  Even when someone DID bring attention to my weight, I was almost shocked by it.  I remember being in Kmart when I was around 22 or so.  I was browsing greeting cards and a young teen walked by the aisle and said, "Hey!  I think somebody FREED WILLY."  He laughed and pointed.  I looked around me, horrified for the person he was talking to.  Would he or she be hurt?  It was only as I noticed that I was alone in the aisle that I realized he was talking about ME.  I was taken aback. Is he calling me fat?? 

Well, yes.  How I made it that long without noticing anyone making fun of me is beyond my comprehension.  I didn't get sad, though.  I walked around the end of the aisle and called out to him, "You're an asshole!"  Great comeback, I know.  Pretty sure it made me super cool.  Or something.  You work with what you've got, though, and asshole was it.

Life went on, though, and I got older.  I had boyfriends and fiancees and husbands.  Well, one husband.  I wasn't a whore, you know.  My point is that I never had problems with guys.  I assume it was my attitude.  I thought I was amazing, so why shouldn't everyone else?

Then I had my babies, you guys.

I lost 52 pounds when I was pregnant with Alyssa.  Some of it was the fact that she was a human parasite and consumed everything I put in my mouth.  Most of it was the fact that I threw up constantly and the very HINT of cooking meat sent me to my room for hours.

It was cute, though.  Look at me being thinner AFTER birth than before.  Only, you guys, I still loved food and made up for those nine months by gaining back my lost weight AND a ton (omg pun) more. 

 

Then I had my second parasite and gained even more.  What can I say? I really enjoy the eats.

Years went by and I really didn't give much thought to my weight.  Sure, I couldn't run around a lot with my girls.  Sure, I got tired easily.  Sure, I went through a lot of Doritos. I was still pretty much fine with my body. 

Then, you guys.  Then I found out I was diabetic.  It was November 2012.  I am on a few (ok, QUITE a few) meds for my mental health.  I had blood tests taken every three months to check my liver and kidney function.  This time, my doctor walked in the room and looked sad.  I assumed I was dying.  AS YOU DO.

She sat down, grabbed one of my hands, and said, "Adrienne, you have diabetes."

Again, I was shocked.  SHOCKED.  How could I have diabetes??  That's for fat people, you guys.  I know diabetes can be genetic and it often runs in families and that I DID have diabetic family members, but it still never - in a MILLION YEARS - occurred to me that I might develop it.

Well, I did.  I was diabetic.

 I cried and made an appointment with a Diabetic Nutritionist and went home with two new prescriptions and no clue at all.

I changed the way I ate ENTIRELY.  I watched what I ate.  I took my pills.  I lost 30 pounds.  My A1C went down to 6.0.  I was kicking ass at this diabetes thing!

And then I gained that weight back, plus ten more pounds.  I was horrible at weight loss.  I just lost steam and wanted pizza and GOD DAMN IT, I was going to have it.

And I did.

***

This continued until May 2015.

That's when I saw this: 

And I died a little inside.

***