I'm feeling all Sprat-like...

I grew up in a house where thinness was next to g-dliness.
You could never be too thin.
Jutting hipbones or razor-sharp clavicles were a source of pride.
A badge of fucking honor.

Unfortunately for me,
my mother was convinced that I was fat...
So I went on my first diet at 6.

I remember it vividly because we went out to dinner with my grandparents and she dictated what I could eat.
She also wouldn't let me have dessert.
I remember crying, not because of the lack of dessert, but from the abundance of shame.

Fueling her fervor--
I developed early.
Booooobs by 10.
Period by 11.
I was petite and curvy. (I'm 5'3ish)
Curvy in my house?

Just translated to:

You're too fat to wear that....suck in that tummy...you need to go back on a diet....wear black, it'll hide your pudge...

and so on.
In much uglier words than I care to repeat.

By the time I was 13, I had been on every diet known to man, and had serious body image/food issues.
I was basically a functioning anorexic.
It never got to a hospitalization level, but it was still there all the same.

I counted every calorie and starved myself whenever possible.
If I did eat, I berated myself and did crunches til I thought I would pass out.

But nothing worked...
I was still "fat."

As I entered adulthood, my body started changing (like it DOES), and I did everything to fight the tide.

Getting to 100 on the scale was tough...
Especially with my mother constantly pointing out my every flaw.

From 18-22, while completely on my own, away from the environment I grew up in--
I still struggled with food and weight.
This time being my own tormentor...

I was trying to eat normally and abandon my anorexic-type habits (with the support from my then-boyfriend), but I discovered:

I didn't know how.

Add the stress of working full-time, supporting myself, the shitty eating habits of college kids, and weight started creeping on.

I "ballooned" from 100 lbs to 140lbs.
I looked at the scale and wanted to die.
Literally.
I was disgusting, right?


In the Summer of 2003, as most of you know, I was raped.

In what I saw as a protective measure, I started gaining weight.
A lot of weight.
I had been told my whole life that know one would want me if I was fat.

In my head?
I was already fat.
So in order to be safe, I needed to be really really fat.

Then no one would touch me ever again.

Fast-forward a year, and I had put on over 100lbs.
I woke up one day and didn't recognize myself.

It was as if every insult my mother had ever hurled at me, everything she said I was, her perception of my obesity- had come true.



I felt invisible.
Ugly.
Safe.

Eventually, I got some therapy, meds, support, and I started to heal.
I wanted my life back.
I wanted to move past the nightmare.

But I was trapped in my own body/my own head.
Years worth of tapes played in my head, and I hated myself even more.
The perception of fat was gone, and the reality of fat was here to stay.

The first time a doctor used the word obese in reference to me--
I felt like he was finally seeing the truth I had known my whole life.

I wanted to get the weight off but I didn't know what the hell to do.

Because of the CP, I am not a great exerciser.
Most workouts and machines are hard for me to do.
I can't go running/biking/rollerblading...

I was eating right, walking, doing the best I could to be healthy.
I quit smoking
I didn't drink.
I was TRYING.
It wasn't working.
At all.

Back to old habits!
Starvation.
Crunches galore.
Diet pills.

The weight was clinging to me like white on rice.
My metabolism was all kinds of fucked up due to the years of dieting, starvation and poor nutrition.
Go figure!

So here I am today, still battling the bulge, as it were....

It's been 7 years that I have carried the bulk of this weight...
and a lifetime that I have struggled to accept my body.

I've lost and gained and lost again...always just increments.
Never big losses.
I was my heaviest at 255
I'm now at 200.

A number that I am deeply ashamed of.

But there are days that I feel like I have accepted myself, and gotten closer to being mentally healthy about body/food/eating disorder issues.

Then there are days where I know the fight is not over.
It may never be.

Days like today.

My FIL got my Husband a Summer pass to the local gym.
He thought it would be a good stress reliever in the midst of our financial clusterfuck.

My husband came home sweaty and exhausted, but excited.
He needs to lose 30 lbs.
The trainer at the gym said that they can have him down to that in 20 weeks.
Six-pack and all...

My husband loves me. Tells me so every day.
He also tells me how beautiful I am, how attracted he is to me.
EVERY DAY.

He could give two shits about what I weigh or the size sewn into my pants.

But as he was talking?
I started to worry:

What if after he gets back in shape he notices how big I am?
What if he's no longer attracted to me?
I should go do some crunches....

Seriously. That ran frenzied through my brain....

Can I lose enough weight by the time he loses his weight that I won't look so bad next to him?

Fucking insane.

And I KNOW that, but it hasn't stopped me from feeling like Mrs. Jack Sprat all damn day.

Sigh.

The saddest part to me is that it wouldn't occur to me to look at someone else the way I often look at myself.

Never.

I don't look at my husband and see 30 extra lbs.
I just see my man.

I don't look at friends and see flaws.
I see people.

Despite my education, my years of therapy, a loving support system, etc.
I still have my days.

Days where I see myself through someone else's eyes and hear someone else's voice in my head.

I do need to lose weight.
We all know that it's good to maintain a healthy weight.
I am not at one.

What I fear is that If I ever make it back to that healthy weight, I won't accept it.

Because my body was never allowed to just BE.

Food was not simple nourishment and occasional pleasure, it was the enemy and my weakness.

I was not taught about healthy, I was tortured for perfection.

Healthy was never really the point.

I want it to be.
So I keep on trucking.

I force myself to eat. Because sometimes? I don't want to.

I try to exercise but if I eat a brownie, well then I ate a fucking brownie.

I make myself hear my husband's compliments.
Make myself accept them.

Someday, I hope to completely and wholly believe them.


In related news?

I started back on anti-depressants today.
We were approved for Medi-Cal.

Halle-fucking-lujah!

Meds for everybody!
Okay, just me, but still...

This is going to be one of those "Did she REALLY just share that?" posts...

So I had my 6 month visit with the Obgyn today.

Technically, I'm at 26 weeks, not 24, but whatever.

But on that note, my fundal measurement (the length from the top of your uterus to your pubic bone) is measuring at 28 weeks, so Owen could be here early.

Which is what I've been saying all ALONG, but my Doc keeps shooting that down...WHAT DOES HE KNOW? He's just the doctor. Ha.

I also gained 6 lbs since my appointment last month. I'm only supposed to gain 3-4 lbs a month, so I felt pretty behemoth (don't even get me started on the TOTAL number, yiiikes), but since I was still negative 3 lbs from my starting weight at the previous visit, I'd technically only gained 3 lbs.

He was happy with this, I was not.

I'm afraid the weight is going to start snowballing in these last 3 months.

I've heard that happening to a lot of pregnant women and it scares me.

Not from a vanity standpoint, but a health one.

I did not start this pregnancy a small girl, and even though I'd SWORN to myself that I would lose all the weight I gained after the rape before I got pregnant....

the intervening 5 years has taught me that A. life never goes according to plan, and B. 100 lbs is WAAAAAY easier to gain than it is to lose.

Obviously, being overweight is not ideal, pregnant or not, so the concept of adding 20-a gazillion lbs to that is scary, but I mostly worry about it in terms of things like gestational diabetes, and healthy labor and delivery. In 3 weeks, I'll have my glucose test, so I'm even more nervous.

I know, I just have to be careful, and I can't beat myself up, but I can't help it sometimes....


All that being said, Owen is doing great, so I should just shut up and be grateful!

On to the TMI portion of our program.....


I'm pretty sure that at this point, my vagina hates me.
I'm thinking it's because she knows of the battle that lies ahead, and is none-too-pleased about it.

I can't be sure of this of course, but all I know is that from the day I got pregnant, I have had nothing but issues in the "lady business" area.

Bladder infections, yeast infections, urinary tract....ay yai yai! It's like she's leading a protest revolt or something....

If that wasn't enough, over the last couple of months, sex has become incredibly painful.
Like the "don't even come near me, no matter how much lube you have" kind of painful.

My poor husband. He's been so understanding and patient, but the poor bastard just wants to get laid, and it's kinda, really, NOT happening for him.

First it was the morning/all day vomiting, then the round after round of antibiotics, now this.

So, I mention this in passing to my doctor last month, and he says:

"No worries, probably just from lack of sex in the previous months. Take it slow, use lube, foreplay, you'll be fine."


No dice!

So I mention it AGAIN today, during my appointment. He asks me to describe it (the pain) in a bit more detail....

Now, I am not a shy or conservative woman, but there's something a little unnerving about having to say the following the man who will deliver your child:

"Well, when he tries to penetrate, it hurts the way it would if you were still recovering from a previous night of really rough, unlubed sex, and THEN were stupid enough to go at it again at full tilt, without a breather....KnowwhatImean?"


The words just fell OUT OF MY MOUTH.

It was like I couldn't stop myself. Oh, wait, that's right: I DIDN'T.

Well, the look on his face was priceless.

He then proceeded to clear his throat, and ask me if I had any history with herpes and/or other STDs.

Thought I was going to DIE.  Roseanne Roseannadanna-style.

After I vehemently stated that I have never had herpes or any other type of creepy-crawly in my bathing suit area, he moved on to doing a vaginal culture, and concluded that it is probably a type of "non-infectious vaginitis" (mmmmmhmm, SEXY) which is apparently, super-common.

Oh, goody!
Treatment?
MORE antibiotics, and you guessed it, no sex.



Sorry, Hubalubs.

Looks like I'm not the only one "SHE" hates......