Weight-watchers be damned…

17522556_1301392963277581_5645933189065747420_n.jpgFor the third time this week, I have been asked if I have lost weight. For the thousandth time if I am okay. For the hundredth time, given advice.
The answers are respectively: yes, no, and no thanks.

I struggle to lose weight usually, and I have finally found the secret. Want to know it? Stop giving a fuck. It’s really that simple. Stop trying, stop doing anything at all. Oh sure, you could take the conventional route of healthy eating and exercise, and maybe even live longer, but this is so much simpler.
I have skipped meals for nights, days, who knows how long? I have intermittently added copious amounts of alcohol to the equation. I have slept a total of about 10 hours over the last week. I have engaged in heavy labour, while running on nothing more than a few sugar-free energy drinks and an odd vitamin. Oh, and walked quite a lot. And it seems I have found my thing. That thing that works for me. Oh goody.

Obviously this is all a product of two factors. Copious amounts of stress/pain and a less than fulfilling job.
I currently work odd hours, so eating properly becomes a juggling act of when, what and where, so it’s easier not to bother. (Don’t worry, my dogs are still getting all of their proper, regular meals). The energy drinks keep me awake for work-minus the sugar hit.
And the stress…well that takes care of the rest. Lack of appetite, sleeplessness, alcohol (but it’s good home still, crap-free alcohol-honest).
16976992_10211245417424952_493780419_nSo all in all, it’s quite a balanced plan of deprivation, and generally not caring. If only I’d known sooner. All those clothes I could have seen in a window and *not* bought, because that’s generally one of the things I don’t give a fuck about.

So, now that my heart and soul are at an all-time low, at least my self esteem will benefit from it. Always a silver lining huh? I might go down in a screaming heap, but at least I’ll look pretty good on the way down. And people are noticing to boot. I’ve been told I looked thinner (Okay…maybe they also added pale and distant), attractive, have great muscle tone (they may have said similar to She-Ra…or maybe not-you’ll never know), that I am impressive (even criminals can be impressive), that someone ‘wants’ me (don’t hold it against them-everyone makes poor choices), and even that my arse looks ‘perkier’ (don’t ask).
Sadly, the only person in the whole world, that I would want to notice, isn’t even looking. Not that I need the attention, or have done anything I regard as ‘notice-worthy’, it’s just a really shit realisation, that that’s the way it is.
17799354_1037995019669667_5197261132301515712_nI have lost almost a full clothes size in the last month by the latest measure, but I still have a ways to go, so I guess there’s a LOT more fucks to not be given. I’m not a comfort eater, in fact quite the opposite. Not only do I forget to eat when I feel bad, but I also feel bad when I eat. This where my lack of fuck-giving falls down. Every calorie makes me feel guilty and regretful…And I don’t need to feel worse than I already do (if that’s really even possible?)

As for being okay. I think it’s fairly obvious that I’m not, but we don’t need to go into any further detail just yet. If I can accept it, you can.
I’m pretty sure that the few people asking if I am, are really doing it for decoration, because they know otherwise, but just can’t change the fact. It’s a bit nice to know that they care enough to ask in the first place. Someone actually told me that if they can hear me making any noise, they relax for a while, because they know I’m still here. A pretty grave thought. I guess I can’t hide how I feel right now as well as I thought.
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My last word on the topic, is that I don’t really recommend this type of weight-loss regime for anyone. In fact I hope none of you, ever feel like this. But if you do-milk it.

Cheers Kids *raises highly alcoholic, sugar free mixer, terribly strong, glass*
V

It’s Doctor Nick!!

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Most people have had the unfortunate experience of having to go to hospital (A big white building with Doctors…but that’s not important right now) at some stage in their lives, usually before adulthood. Whether a broken bone falling from a tree (you know those things kids used to climb before todays generation was wrapped in cotton wool?), an appendix that wanted OUT.. NOW!!!, a crash on something vehicular, or just general sickness. I had however, managed to escape any such incident. Apart from being a visitor on too many occasions, and the one drama drama incident of 1981 (playground collision half night stay-just for the jelly and ice-cream) I had never been rushed off to spend a night in sanitary confinement.

This past 12 months changed all that.

Gradual pain build-up, shortness of breath, severe chest pains and crippling stomach cramps later…Oh crap.
I have now been admitted to hospital several times and have one procedure, one laproscopic surgery and one open-cut surgery under my belt (and that is literally where one is).

They say a job is never done properly unless there are left over parts that you really didn’t need and I think I have well and truly proven that theory.

Now a lot of people would be all “What’s the big deal?”, but let me tell you the background here. I HATE HOSPITALS.
There’s nothing quite like the feeling of knowing your sedated bare body is in a room with a total stranger (who’s writing and first language you couldn’t hope to understand) and they are equipped with a large tray of sharp objects. What’s more, their aim is to cut you open and poke around until they find a bad bit to remove. Comforting, I know.

Another little gem. I HATE NEEDLES. To which the usual first response is “But you have piercings and tattoos?”
News Flash…it’s NOT the same! I wanted them, so much so, that I gritted my teeth, closed my eyes and dealt with it. It doesn’t feel the same. The end result is not the same. IT’S NOT IN ANY WAY THE SAME…KAPEESH??
woman fear or scared of  syringe injections

My recount of the whole drawn out experience is not pleasant by any means either.
The first procedure, I was petrified, but I went in (waited the obligatory 3 hours in the waiting room with hideous paintings and daytime television) and was out that night. The anasthesia took two groggy days to wear off.

The second procedure had a hiccup. I went in, waited (see above) and as I was being wheeled into the surgery room, the doctors decided they had done enough for one day and cancelled. As the nurses told me this, a wave of anger, disappointment and relief washed over me and all the hideous anticipation burst from my body in a flurry of tears. I quietly removed myself from my trolley and shuffled off to remove my sexy purple gown and reaquaint myself with non-humiliating clothes designed in this century.
I was back in a week later for real, but I was so freaked out, the nurses had to hold me down to the table to sedate me.
Also, you know all the pictures you see of happy smiling ‘nice’ Nurses. Yep, none of them, all nasty heinous witches.

The third procedure (after being rescheduled twice over a few months) seemed to go fine. No problems with surgery, nice nurses, three night stay, but eventually had a worse hiccup. Post-op internal infection. Imagine some of the hottest chili on the planet, and now picture that inside your stomach eating its way back out. Now to add to that, imagine it getting into a papercut 15cm long across your lower stomach. You are now beginning to grasp how this felt. No standing up, no moving without pain. (According to my brother, that problem could have been due to the fact that I am a “girly wuss-bag”)

However…it’s all done now. I am mending, however slowly, and on the road to recovery. They tell me in a few weeks time, I will feel better than I have in a long time (I assured them it couldn’t be too much worse) and have a lot more energy to burn.
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With everything we still have to do around this place, I know I’m going to need it, so bring it on.

XX-V