Thank you, Lupron

I am now about five pounds away from an overweight BMI! Oh, how things have changed.

Ever since I had my tonsils out at age six, I have been extremely picky. The shitty thing is it's not just a matter of "not liking" something -- it's a matter of involuntary gagging and heaving. And my appetite, for as long as I can remember, was inordinately small. I could eat maybe a quarter of a modest-sized meal before I was at the point where I actually could not swallow any more food, because I would start gagging once it hit my throat.

My neurologist indicated in my records that I was visibly undernourished. At the time, I was 5'8", around 115 pounds. That's a BMI of 17.5, or 1.0 past the cutoff for "underweight." And a bra size of 34notevenA. (Different brands call it different things, but the one constant is that the bra would be a bit too big for me.)

(I hated my weight, for the record. My shoulder blades hurt anytime they were pressed up against anything, even a soft bed. My hips and pelvis cried out in pain from grating up against a hard plastic chair (i.e. 2/3 of every weekday ever) or even just against a fitting pair of jeans. I always felt like my bones were ready to snap at any moment. Weak, fragile.)

Right before new year 2005 I got on the Lyrica, which has a side effect of weight gain/increased appetite. I saw both. Yay! Within six or ten months I saw my body become more and more padded. It settled down around 150. BMI 22.8. Recently re-fitted for a bra (I was still wearing my stretched-out 34As) at 36C. Took some adjusting, certainly. I had always had a bit of a roll on my upper tummy, even when I didn't have much of any fat there at all. That remains. My legs are nice and firm and muscle-y now, since I started working at a place that requires me to be standing or walking all day, but besides that I am basically composed of significantly less muscle mass than a "normal" woman, and make up for that with a bit more fatty tissue. It's how I've been whether I'm completely sedentary or whether I am active and regularly exercising.

The first of these two pictures were me around my high school graduation in 2004. The last is me as of this month (taken to earn discounts off Threadless shirts. Whee!). There's a significant difference.

I've grown to be mostly happy with my body. The fact that I have extra tummy fat -- or just that my breasts are fairly small proportionately, which has the effect of making my tummy seem bigger in my mind -- is really the only thing that gets to me sometimes; besides that, for the most part, I'm certainly comfortable walking around nekkid all day, and I can admire even the unconventional things -- like the multiple scars on my back and my side, my silly slightly-crooked nose (the Hungarian in me) and my wide, full hips and butt. I like those.

Those are fuller now, though; I weighed in at 158 at the doctor's office yesterday, and I am sure over the course of this six-month treatment I will see a little bit more gain (it is only just today one full month since my first shot).

I should get used to this, right? Of course, people only gain, bit by bit, as they get older -- and it's usually better for them to do so, in terms of health and mortality. And I do plan on going through pregnancy at least once in my life. And for as much fucking medication I'm on, I can't expect not to see some weight gain. Really, which would I rather have: another five pounds around the hips and tummy?, or debilitating neuralgia, crushing anxiety, or endometrial implants growing and spreading and scarring up my insides, creating an awful amount of pain and frustration?

And culturally, which do women often choose? Not every time, but enough times that clinical trials do often see patients dropping out early for the side effects, the most common of which in medication for women is weight gain.

This is a lot for me to get used to. Really, four years later, I still have an image of myself as the skinny minny. I still expect people to recoil when they hug me because they're afraid they'll hurt me if they squeeze too hard, and remark with a concerned tone on how little I am. I still think of my breasts as exceptionally small, rather than absolutely average -- and when I think of it that way, I think that they can't be counted that way because I have more than enough tummy to make up for it. I still expect to be able to fit into Mediums and Smalls on the dress rack...

I know I am measuring against a fictional standard. But God it's just all over, and I can't escape it. It's woven down around every thread of thought that has anything, anything at all to do with outward appearance, even in the most indirect way. And I know that even if I can somehow purge myself of it, clear my own head, it's still permeated throughout our culture in an even worse way. I can't escape it -- I can never escape it.

I try, little bit by little bit, to be positive about my body around other people, and to be positive to them about their bodies, and to remind them that it's better to live a happy, healthy life in the body you've got than to stomp all over your health and happiness to change your body. But that doesn't mean I, myself, am unafflicted, unconflicted on the matter.

I was hesitant to include this next picture with those above, because it doesn't just show me as "average" -- I immediately see that spare tire below the breasts, how it pops out over the top of my jeans so obviously, how plump my thighs are juxtaposed with those skinny little toothpick calves and arms.


But you know what? I shouldn't be tearing myself down over these things. I shouldn't.

This post was originally going to be just that first line.

I'm trying to make sense of all this. I guess none of us ever fully do, do we?

May Twelfth

kaweah river valley

One year ago today, holding hands at the far end of a covered deck over the roaring Kaweah River, my husband and I were married.

This has been my freedom. This has been my life.

He and I became fast friends when I was sixteen and he, eighteen. A year and change later, we admitted what was inescapable: we were stuck with each other. Love will do that to you.

He grew up south of Pittsburgh, in a family home in Castle Shannon, playing in the woods with his two younger brothers. I was raised between Tulare and Visalia, my mother's youngest child -- my siblings were old enough to have begun having children before I was so much as conceived -- bouncing between rental homes until a settlement allowed my mother to buy a run-down home as I was entering high school.

We met online well before it became acceptable to meet online. The internet allowed me a social outlet as a young teen with yet-to-be-understood disabilities, allowed me to grow an identity under the roof of a controlling single parent. And, to the contrary of the current conventional wisdom, interacting with the invisible people in my computer pushed me to develop social skills, which allowed me to fall into an awesome group of friends as I hit adolescence.

It came to a point where we talked every spare moment of every day. And it hasn't changed since.

To this day I'm not sure what drew him to me. Looking back, I see a confused child living with severe depression and toxic levels of self-loathing. But when I look forward and see a young woman fighting to break out from under the influence of fear and abuse, I see this quiet, steady young man standing next to her, coaxing her to come out into the light, step by small step. And I see that same young man realizing a greater confidence with the knowledge of his partner's trust and love.

The both of us have changed so, so much in this time. But as we have grown, we have grown together. We are not compatible in a simple sense of shared interests; we are compatible in our mutual adaptivity: teaching, learning, understanding, growing, and deepening our sense of self only helps our love, trust, affection, and understanding of one another do the same.

This has been my freedom -- this has been my life.

We have come so far together, and I hope we will go so much farther.

I love you, Matthew. I hope this year is only our first of many.

Lazy Sunday

Bookends.

***

On the way to a Penguins game one day earlier this year, we realized we didn't have any dollar bills -- which we'd need to ride the T up to the arena. I ended up in a Petsmart looking for something cheap to break a larger bill. I walked out with a handful of dollar bills and a rattling furry mouse toy.

The toy has since lost its tail but -- miraculously -- the eyes, nose and ears remain. (I've lived with cats my entire life; I know those little plastic and felt additions usually last all of a week.) What surprised me further, though, was that Mitsy is thoroughly attached to this toy. She will carry it around the house and sing and coo at it -- or toss it about and yell. And if you shake it, she'll come running. (She never actually does anything once she's there. She just sits prettily and stares up at you, as if supervising.) I suppose it's as close as anything will ever come to a teddy bear for a cat.

We call him Ratticus.



Of course, what surprised me the other day, when I came home with a new litter box (big enough for our very big Buddy cat) and an impulse-purchase cat toy -- a catnip bee that squeaks when it senses motion or impact -- is that Buddy latched onto it almost instantly. Understand, Buddy doesn't play with cat toys. He plays with pen caps and pieces of plastic and his eternal favorite, twist ties, but he doesn't play with cat toys.

But he plays with Tweety Bee. Maybe this will be his Ratticus.

Things I learned yesterday.

• A man coming on to a woman is one thing. A man who holds a copy of the keys to the woman's apartment coming on to her, however, adds a whole 'nother level of scary to the equation.
  
  What disturbs me the most is that when my husband related that his coworker -- who also lives in our apartment complex -- has also had a history of harassment from the landlord, I felt relieved. WTF? The reasoning, I think, is that if he's done it to someone else and they were never physically assaulted, that means I don't have to worry too much about it either. But I know even that is iffy. And either way, I shouldn't be happy that someone else has gone through the same thing. Blech.
  


• When we got on the trolley/subway/train ("the T") last night, all the seats were taken -- we weren't the only ones heading to the Penguins game. I am loathe to ask people for any sort of assistance when I'm out in public, because it opens me up to questioning that I don't particularly want to deal with. So I figured, you know, it's just a quarter hour worth of standing, it won't be pleasant but I should be able to manage.
  
  Little did I know that it's not just being upright on one's own two feet: it's holding on to the rail (holding my arms in any unnatural position for too long is painful) and keeping one's feet planted on the ground. Every time the train stopped, started, lurched, turned, or hit a bump, it meant a serious effort to stay upright and not go crashing into some other poor passenger nearby. And it was seriously hard on me, particularly that one arm, and all up and down the backs of my legs.
  
  The suckiest part is that I then had to walk uphill about a mile to the arena, and then try to maintain my balance on a wet cement "bench" while trying to get a decent view through the people and trees in front of me. I emptied a small handful of pain killers into my bag before we left, and there were only two halves left by the time I got home. And I woke up with an awful headache this morning, that I'm still trying to fight off.


• Gas is expensive...
  
  
  ... no, seriously:
  
  
  
  This same station has before advertised their gas at $2.09 when the prevailing price was just a few cents above three dollars: they were obviously going for $2.99. That was the most tightly-packed gas station I've ever seen -- and I lived in California my first twenty years.
  


• I had a bit of a realization on the way home last night. Stress and pain are irrevocably intertwined, we know. I've never been able to pinpoint a recognizable pattern of correlation in my own life, though. Until I paid attention to how I reacted to point no. one above: I pretty much fell into a slump, blank and depressed emotionally, slow and devoid of any energy physically. This is very common for me as a reaction to any stressor.
  
  And now that I think of it, I know I've read on adrenal fatigue (?) -- essentially, in chronic pain patients, the body compensates for the effect of the "extra" pain with adrenaline, but after overproducing for too long, the system becomes fatigued -- and when traditional "fight-or-flight" situations are encountered, the body just sort of shuts down. Whatever the merits of the condition itself*, that's certainly a fair description of what happens to me when I face very stressful situations -- I just shut down, not only emotionally but physically as well. It pretty much lasts as long as it takes for me to be able to clear the worry from my head.
  
  In fact, it's rather similar in function to a panic attack. What's different are the symptoms experienced.
  

*Ugh, I know I started the "alternative takedown" thing here, and I'm still not entirely happy with people who push scam treatments on people who are desparate or disillusioned enough to try anything. But I don't think scorn should be directed toward the people who are suffering with problems that their doctors can't (or won't) diagnose, for whom traditional means of treatment prove ineffective. These are people who are navigating the world they live in as best they can. If there is judgment to be given, a better focus would be the practitioners who push ineffective treatment on people for profit.

Monday Family Blogging

Husband and child, so to speak.

Husband was lying down next to Buddy in the same position: tummy up, back legs splayed, front paws held up to one's chest begging-style, staring up wide-eyed but vacantly into the air.

He wouldn't let me take a picture of the two of them like that. Spoilsport.

By the way,

Interlude

Surely Pittsburgh sports fans will recognize Sax Guy.

(my own photo, thankyouverymuch)

Hi, Sax Guy!

I look forward to a Pirates season full of Pink Panther melodies walking the bridge over the Allegheny River.

Friday Catblogging

It's Friday in another dimension somewhere, I'm sure.

More cats in boxes:





Mitsy had been begging to go outside lately, so we honored her request today...





(I'm not jumping over that wall today, Mitsy. Two feet or not, I've got two gashes in my stomach that I'd rather prefer to heal.)





And the flowers Mom sent me.

Friday Catblogging

New toy: the laundry basket!

"O HAI" ...


... "can I come play?"

Snowday Catblogging

I decided to introduce my sunny California native cats to the wild world of winter this week. They, um, didn't make it very far.




May I add that it is friggin' impossible to correct for white balance in the snow? At least there's a little wiggle room in other settings, but man, you can definitely detect that slight pinkish or yellowish (or whatever) cast to a snow picture. Please, don't ever drop off a roll of snow pictures for me to develop for you.

Catblogging

Yes, I am quite often late. Comes with the package.

SMACKDOWN.





Buddy's favorite toy -- his printer. It never fails; when I press the power button, he's there before the machine can even power on, watching intently.





I'll save the next set for next Friday...

Sunday Birthday Blogging

After our wedding last May, husband's parents showered gifts upon us. They are quite comfortable financially and can certainly afford to do so, and we were deeply appreciative. There was one problem, though. When we opened the wrapping around what was quite obviously a bedding set, it wasn't what we had registered for. In fact, his mother and brother described walking through the store, seeing what we had chosen, and deciding that what they had chosen instead "matched your carpet better." (Our carpet is blood red. What ever "matches" blood red and yet remains tasteful?)

This is what they picked:


I call it "vomitatious."

Now, his family was doing something incredibly nice for us, bless their hearts, and make no mistake: I adore these people. But this just clashed so painfully with my own decorative taste that it was rather obvious I wasn't really happy with it. There was a little bit of tension for a short while, but I settled down, and we continued cuddling under the orange stripes every night.

Until Friday. I had known it was coming, which is a long story and not at all the typical one (wife drops hints relentlessly, husband finally buys gift, wife snoops and finds it ahead of time), but he presented it with me that morning, and I was very happy when he did. It fits so perfectly with my tastes, and it so very well toned down the bright red carpet, instead of highlighting the pukiest strains of it -- and it's something that can be ours.

That last note is particularly important for me: I made a point when I moved in with him just over a year ago that he needed to stop calling it "my apartment" -- it was ours. I had just abandoned my entire family and network of friends, the place I grew up and the place I made home, every earthly belonging that didn't fit in a box suitable to ship Fedex, and flew 2500 miles across the continent to settle down in a place I had visited once, to live with a man in whose physical presence I had been a total of five weeks previously -- I already felt excluded by default; I didn't need him to reinforce that feeling.

(He, being the understanding person he is, then stopped.)

Anyway, it just makes me happy. Most everything in this apartment came from his parents, but most all of it is also stuff that we are happy with. It's not like he was excited about the orange stripes. We were just both happy to have actual bedding (before that, we had been sleeping on a $15 Target sheet set and a couple old blankets). Now, we have something that makes the place look like ours -- instead of looking like we were renting a room from the in-laws.

Happy sigh.

I may be a day late

but I'm sure not gonna be short.

To spare you the loading time, I will let you follow this link to see all the cat pictures since I last blogged regularly.