And, boy, has my body decided it’s had enough.

I became social again last year, which effectively doubled the amount I’d been drinking. It became far too regular, and had it not been for the drinking, I’d probably have lost more weight instead of just having maintained my numbers for a year now.

The drinking escalated last fall. More this spring. A good three or four nights a week would be 2-3 drinks, maybe more often than that if it was a busy period.

Just how often became a significant realization this week.

Now and then, too, I’ve had phases of a week or so when I have neck or back pain from too hard of working out, and have to take one or two painkillers a day for a few days in a row — the heavier Naproxen type. I honestly don’t like taking these pills, so I tend to use them very sparingly, but the price of ignoring escalating pain means I either start getting bad spasms or migraines, so taking pills is an evil but infrequent necessity.

But here’s the deal. I’ve always had a tough tummy, so when the doc says, “Oh, take these with food to prevent upset tummy,” but I never get the sick stomach, why worry about taking it with food?

Because apparently it turns out that the food prevents bad shit from happening to your stomach lining.

GOOD TO KNOW. DULY NOTED.

Yesterday, the doctor told me I’ve got gastritis. This, apparently, is why I vomited under a bridge after work on Friday, after a coffee sent me to hell and back — just the latest in unpleasant tummy-type developments in my recent past.

I’ve been putting all the information together since I got home last night, getting all Gregory House on my health’s downward trajectory.

Alcohol helps wear down the stomach lining so it’s more susceptible to things like gastritis and ulcers. So do painkillers like the ones I’ve been prescribed.

Best I can figure is, I had an unholy perfect stomach storm kick off when I decided to work at home, with a very bad set-up, upon the Olympics rolling into town. I was getting migraines daily, but it wasn’t until a week or so past their onset that I realized it was because my desk was too high. So, I’d been medicating with the pain pills, often on an empty stomach.

Then, the Olympics kicked off. You know, the “drunkest Olympics ever”, as dubbed by international press? Not many Vancouverites made it through the Games without a bender or two.

Normally, I drink wine. Beer’s not something my stomach enjoys in large doses, but when it’s sports and pubs? I’m a beer girl. I was a beer girl for the whole Games. A cheap-beer beer-girl. Oh, lawdy.

After a week of having to take two painkillers a day.

Well. Lawdy!

Let’s just say I’ve had a hell of a time for the last couple weeks, I thought I was getting an ulcer.

It’s part bad habit, part dumb luck.

But it’s all a fantastic lesson.

I’m tired of the booze. I went more than a year drinking once a week or so, maybe even once every two weeks. It makes me sluggish, cuts my effectiveness, makes me gain weight, maybe even depresses me.

I just happen to like it, too, is all.

Wine, oh! I mean, the non-alcoholic stuff has nothing on “real” wine. I’m a foodie, I love to cook, and I love a great wine that complements my efforts. I see no shame in enjoying the wine once or twice a week. That’s fine.

The frequency I’ve been drinking at is by no means “acoholic” status or anything like that, but it’s too fucking frequent for me. My body just does NOT like it. That’s the point. I don’t give a shit if it’s socially acceptable or not.

I’ve worked too hard to get too far on my health journey to fuck it up over some drinks. I’m angry, very angry, that I’ve felt as lousy as I have for the last two to three weeks.

That anger’s getting channelled, though. I’ve been eating fantastically — I’m doing really well for diet and nutrition, even portions. While I am indeed angry I’ve let my health go this far — regardless of the whole “once a lifetime” Olympicky business — I am absolutely ecstatic that I’ve re-found my commitment and desire to get on path.

Feeling like I have for the last month, it’s a goddamned crime after I’ve lost 70 pounds. But my body couldn’t handle the booze and greasy pub food overload that came with the Epic Olympicky Games In My City experience. My body got used to me shunning processed food and always getting back on a healthy path within a few days of neglect, not after a month, like it has been.

The funny thing is, I used to live with a pretty alcoholic intake — drinking a bottle of wine a night, eating absolutely shit food every fucking day, three meals a day, hitting likely 3,500-4,000 calories a day — for about two years around ‘99 to 2001. Never did I even need a Tums.

I guess it’s a testament to how healthy I was actually eating in the last couple years, then, that my body’s rebelled so harshly.

I’m oddly proud of that.

So, whatever. I’ve felt like shit. That corner’s turning. I’m glad that obstacle has come. I’m glad I remember what it’s like to be so tired and lethargic all the time, to feel like I’m getting absolutely no nutrition, to loathe the fog that comes from almost-daily drinking for a couple weeks.

I’m glad. I can use this. I can feed of it and become better. THAT’S how I choose to respond.

I might be young at heart, but my body’s 36. It’s important I act like it, and I’m grateful for such powerful motivation.

I’m also grateful for really powerful antacids.

*Fantastic drunken Tom Waits number.

**I am not giving up coffee. I am not giving up coffee. I am not giving up coffee. I am not giving up…

But working from home? Like, omigod. Discipline will be tough, but a deadline is a deadline, and my work has tangible starts-middles-finishes, with daily deadlines, since I watch television and caption it for a living.

My biggest struggle I face right now is not my weight; my weight is partially a byproduct of my ADHD — because ADHD causes problems with maintaining a routine or even achieving one, but also makes me prone to becoming hyperfocused on whatever I’m doing at any time — like eating.

Because I’ve been diagnosed with ADHD for well under a year, it’s been a massive learning curve — the realization that I’m not some fuck-up that can’t manage time, but that I’m biochemically disposed to not be able to do so without extensive systems in place. I’m only now starting to try and put those systems into play, but because of the chaos of the last two months before Christmas (keep in mind, I’ve only been diagnosed since July…), that’s just happening now.

This temporary change at work is at an exciting time. The idea of being able to remove from the equation some 8+ hours of work commute a week, plus, the flexibility of working in shorter, more powerful bursts (I hope?), and the ready access of being at home so much more for accomplishing things like healthy cooking and keeping the home in a decent state, might just make all the difference in my being able to start to get a handle on things.

The next two weeks will be me trying to lay a groundwork in place that’ll let me be successful working from home.

I’m not sure I can even begin to explain how hard I find this working-with-ADHD thing these days. I think I was always pretty good at basic functioning under ADHD, but I never used to try to accomplish much. I was fat, depressed, and not very interested in pursuing much, for about a decade. That’s not a hard lifestyle to “stay on top” of.

Then I tried to accomplish things. Whew, that was tough. But I had a plan. Every weekend had a schedule, I stuck to my rough plan, and I accomplished a lot. I changed my diet, I got active, I lost weight. Turns out, exercise & diet are the best ways to manage ADHD. So, when I was doing between 6-10 hours of high-intensity exercise a week and eating well because I was cooking and planning my diet, I was more on top of task-accomplishing than I’ve ever been.

I spent the better part of a year living at THAT level, and while I wasn’t diagnosed with ADHD at the time, I’ve never felt as crisp and clear as I did then — mentally speaking. My writing came back, my focus was strong, my goals were tangible. I was doing it, man!

But then I blew my back out. I went from sometimes doing an insane 10+ hours of hardcore cardio — like climbing up & down 30 flights of stairs or cycling 35km without resting — to doing FUCK ALL for the next 6 months. It was 2 months before I could do exercises of any worth, and about 4-5 months before I even began doing cardio.

For 2 months I couldn’t clean, I had a cockroach problem, and life was fucking hell. For 9 months, my schedule was loaded with 3-4 appointments with care professionals every week. I could barely cook or clean for myself in the early days, and, as a result, my life completely came apart on me.

I did not KNOW I had ADHD, remember? But all of a sudden I lost control over everything in my life. Nothing has ever left me feeling so impotent as just trying to tread existential water while living alone on a 4th floor walkup, without a car or the money to make life easier, with a back problem as bad as I had before Christmas of ‘08. Unbelievable.

Emotionally, I was getting more and more angry about everything being so out of my control. The overwhelmingness of my life was just suffocating me from sun-up to sun-down until about April, when I could finally ride my scooter again (mechanical problems & weather & heavy painkiller sedation kept me off if for most of the first 6 months) and making my life more efficient became possible — barely.

Then, boom. My friend hands me this book, says I should take this ADHD quiz. So, I do. I’ve always been a good student — aced that bitch. Shazam.

I was getting 90% of the questions, and I answered about 150 of ‘em, so that tells ya.

Bret Easton Ellis once opened a story with something like, “Richard didn’t use an alarm clock. He was comprehensively alarmed.” I’ve always identified with Richard.

Then July hit, right after the diagnosis, and I had a back injury relapse, and I just folded. DONE. Fuck “improving” myself — I just wanted to get out of the year alive. Overcome the back injury, find some semblance of normalcy, stop needing so much rehab from professionals I had to pay for and clutter my already-full schedule with.

I’m excited, you know? I have no illusions — this learning to control my ADHD demons and find a plan that really works for me, so that I finally have the organizational grasp for accomplishing my Big Dreams — this is gonna be some hard-ass work and it won’t come without some prices paid. I know.

But I have the currency now. I have the means to overcome these things. I know the working out is crucial, I know the diet is crucial. I’ve mastered those things before, I’m on my way to doing so again. I understand the systems I need to try to create, I have the desire to pursue it all.

It’s gonna be hard — but the first thing I’m doing is making the choices over what gives. This is why my social life has been such a fail in recent months… I’ve been so overwhelmed by all that’s on my plate that I just don’t have it in me to go to a party or event that’s just going to throw even more sensory overload on me. I really just don’t have that in me. And, frankly, you don’t want me there when I feel that way. Que sera, sera, if people don’t get over the ego-fail of me cancelling. It’s not you, it’s me. Really.

So, as of Tuesday, I’ve ditched the shrink I was seeing. He’s more a social worker I was seeing for free. Free? Great, I’ll try that! I went for 6-10 appointments before I realized: I am not my damage. I know my damage. Mommy attempted suicide, Daddy drank too much, yada yada yada, and all the million other horrible things that happen to us all. But I don’t hide from those things and I haven’t suppressed my pain. I’ll talk about it, share it, and don’t feel I have to apologize or feel shame for adversities that weren’t my making.

I’ve been exploring those places for years. I don’t need a trained professional to guide me out of my darkness; I’ve been clawing at the light for a damn long time.

But what I do need is a way to get control back over my life.

The month of February is about trying out a new routine to see what happens.

The simple fact is: I can speculate about outcomes all I want. You can, too. But until it’s given a shot and a serious effort is made, speculation’s fuckin’ moot.

This year is about me taking control of my life. It’s about me getting what I want — not because I want it, but because I’ll fuckin’ earn it and I plan to take it. This is THAT year. I’m not my ADHD. My ADHD is just another know-thyself hurdle I have jump. And jump it I will… in good time.

Women will relate — me finding out that I have ADHD and that it explains why so many things have been so insurmountable for me (like time management) when I am one goddamned smart and driven woman, THAT was kinda like when I’ve found myself being a complete cunt for no reason, feel like shit about it, then I get my period and I realize, “Oh, okay, yeah, THAT makes sense.” It’s the same realization that I’m not to blame, but I also don’t need to stay a victim to it — knowing it’s there is huge in dealing with it.

Truth be told, early 2009, with my back injury, was the struggle of my life. Through it, I rehabbed every other injury I never knew I had, strengthened all the areas that have always plagued me, learned how strong & resilient I am both emotionally & physically, and even learned new areas in my life that needed work. Had I not had that injury, maybe I never would have come apart so harshly and had to seek professional advice. I’m grateful for that now, however endlessly hard it seemed at the time. Knowing I have ADHD is a very empowering piece to my puzzle. I know the problem now, and science knows how to overcome it. I’m smart, I will too.

Here, now, I feel overwhelmed. My home is in chaos after “phoning in” my cleaning since before Christmas, thanks to my recent bronchitis. There’s filth and disorder everywhere.

This weekend I have zero plans: My home will be my bitch.

And that’s where it all starts this year. This is the first week I’ve begun to feel healthy in 5-6 weeks. I’m stoked. What a daunting year ahead, but, oh, the possibilities. Yeah, baby. :D

___________________________

HAITI: My god. How tragic. Please give to ESTABLISHED aid organizations as much as you can NOW, because dysentery & other mass-displacement situations will be occurring soon. Red Cross, etc, are on the ground NOW. They’re THERE, helping. Give! Do not donate “things” like clothing, etc, for another 2 weeks — charities cannot distribute them now, they’re not a priority now. It’s about water, sleeping spaces, securing dangerous debris, avoiding mass outbreaks, and just feeding children. It’s medical supplies, water desalination, and other urgent needs that require your CASH donation today. After two weeks, donate to Haitian local & national agencies that will be operating on the longterm recovery plan. For now, just save lives. Red Cross has already run out of supplies in Haiti once. Give! Give! Give! Thank you.

Me, I was both ignorant of just how bad my diet was, and dishonest about to what extent I was misbehaving. That was then. Now I’m only ever guilty of the  lack of accounting. Ignorance isn’t such a problem anymore.

But that’s the thing with weightloss. Everyone talks like it’s only about the diet or the exercise, but, for me, the head game’s been at least 50%, maybe more, of my success.

I doubt I’m alone on that.

Once one wraps their head around the head game — whether that means learning the true calorie count behind food, really owning up to how many calories enter in a day, or just learning what the right amount of food one should eat* — the rest of it falls into place, because it’s not about willpower, it’s about simply making the correct, healthy choice. Once you know the true damage behind that apple fritter, believe me, that choice isn’t hard to make.

There’s a world of difference, though, between merely receiving a reality cheque and having the balls to cash it.

Fact is, sustained weightloss can often be managed with small changes. It need not be some radical 180-reversal overnight, and probably shouldn’t be.

All my changes over the last couple years have been small, but the compounded effect? Monster. Gradually, I made litle changes — brown rice, not white; whole wheat pasta; more beans, a veg with every meal — and now, two years later, I couldn’t stomach the food I used to eat en masse even if I tried. It’s foreign, and offensive, to me now. Although I go for phases still where I do eat badly, I almost never eat anything near as badly as I once did. It’s just that I know how bad not-good-but-not-horrible can be, when added meal upon meal upon meal.

The opposite effect, though? Little changes compounded atop little changes, over a long term, amount to massive changes overall. Believe me.

You will WOW yourself if you slowly, consistently, make little additions of good behaviour to your routine. It’s not about becoming perfect at weightloss this week — it’s about setting a positive framework to which you can continue to add and improve over the next years of your life. It’s like all true change — implemented practically and realistically, the results can be staggering. Too-much-too-soon often is done at an unrealistic pace and doesn’t often sustain. “Slow and steady” is ideal for weightloss. It’s why I can have the hard year I had and still be down 20 pounds total this year, because I didn’t set unrealistic expectations for myself — I simply changed my lifestyle and my lifestyle changed me.

I may have gained 8 of my 70 pounds lost back this winter, but that’s actually typical for me over Christmas, so I don’t even give a shit about it. That’s just my holiday thang. It’s my stuffing, I know it’s my stuffing, but that’s a price I’ll pay, ‘cos, like, it’s turkey stuffing, man. Balance, grasshopper! Choose your failings. I choose Christmas.

STILL, I know I can, and will, bring it. I know how to be successful at weightloss. I’ve proven it. I’ve sustained it through the physically hardest year of my life, a fact that still astounds me, since I was on THIS side of that.

Losing weight ain’t some fucking holy grail. The food industry wants everyone ignorant, and that’s how it’s played out, and look how fat we all got.

What is weightloss? Simply put, it’s…

• eating slightly less than what your recommended caloric intake is (too little will fuck you up and you WILL gain weight — your body’s a machine & needs food; specific kinds at specific quantities — science).
• exercising as often as you can (it’s actually considered more effective for weightloss if you do cardio in separate 20+ -minute chunks because it activates metabolism each time, ergo burns fat).
• being active in little ways as often as possible (take stairs, not elevator, park further, etc) because every physical effort counts against every calorie you eat.
• being accountable and realizing EVERY SINGLE CALORIE counts and you can’t fake your body out, this shit’s science, so if it goes in your mouth, it goes on your ass.

Most of all, though, you gotta tackle this from a place of love. You’re not losing weight because you’re a loser and no one loves you, you’re not being active because you’re a fat-ass and have no self-esteem — you’re eating well and being active because you VALUE yourself NOW. You NEED to believe that. You ARE worth the effort. You’re not a failure for doughing up — you’re a success that got interrupted. Period. Now matters, not then, not tomorrow — now.

You’re taking control. You can do it, you will do it, and you’re worth the effort and time and passion that it takes to live a healthy, managed life.

And it’s not about the number on the scale. It’s about the feeling inside. If you feel good, if you have more energy, if your mindset’s more balanced, if your stress level’s mitigated — then isn’t THAT what you want? Don’t kill yourself to be some size the magazines tell you to be. It AIN’T about that, and the struggle to be that can be more harmful to you than just living a good, balanced life.

Perfection? The “ideal” weight? For what, so you can be “wanted” and envied? Why you wanna perfect yourself for anyone who’ll only want you when you’re perfect? Who cares if they envy you, if it leaves you envying someone else for living a simpler life than you? Perfection’s an awful tough life to set oneself up for. Instead, strive for contentment, feeling good, and having energy, then focus on living life, not seeking perfection.

Me, I have my size / weight goal because I know I haven’t killed myself to lose weight yet, and I know it’s been coming off properly as I apply myself. If I’m living healthy and not losing anymore weight, then so be it. I’ll live with that, but I don’t think that’s the case. When I start behaving, my metabolism goes through the roof, so that’s an indicator to me that I’ve got the room to improve. The goals I’ve set for ME seem reasonable, weighed against the experience I’ve had so far, but I’m open to re-evaluating, and even scaling down my goals because I’ve not been under 200 pounds since I was 18 — what the hell do I know about who all this will make me? I’m winging it, but so far, where I want to go, is about 40 pounds from here.

But that’s not the standard YOU have to live by. “Healthy” means different things for us all.

Just make sure you’re being honest with yourself when deciding what “healthy” means for you. Don’t take the easy road out because you don’t think you can handle it.

If a person who was as fucked up and depressed as I was when I started my path to wellness could manage to take 70 pounds off over 2 years, even with a year of that spent rehabbing a blown back, and still find it in me to enjoy wine, cheese, and red meats… well, you probably can too. Losing weight isn’t a death sentence to deny yourself — it’s a life-sentence of balance and awareness, and that means enjoying the things you love, too. Maybe just a little less of it, is all.

Again: Here’s to us all kicking ass in 2010.

Citius, altius, fortius, baby.

*Because a lot of overweight people try to lose weight but eat too little, which triggers the opposite effect and they gain weight — education is CRUCIAL to weightloss, and to assume you know ANYTHING is arrogant; go in open-minded and learn everything you can. Science is always bringing new information to light.

Heart attack, in case you didn’t know, is one of the most common demises after long battles with eating disorders. Why?

“When anorexia has become this severe, the heart is often damaged. Not only is there not enough body fat to keep internal organs like the heart protected, but anemia, which weakens the blood, and the poor circulation which results in a lower body temperature means that the heart is unable to pump and circulate blood as effectively as it might otherwise. The loss of muscle mass can also apply to the heart, meaning that the muscles of the heart can physically weaken, and an overall drop in blood pressure and pulse can contribute to slower breathing rates. Unfortunately, if not remedied, these risks can lead to death.”

- Excerpt found here.

In this more recent photo, it’s obvious she’s too thin. Her head is bigger than her waist. That’s beauty? Really?

My eating problems have been, and will continue to be, the struggle of my life. I can’t imagine the emotional and spiritual pressurecooker a life in Hollywood would have been for someone as fucked up as I once was. I can’t imagine how emotionally fragile teens and young adults navigate the psychic timebomb that working in the film & beauty-focused industries must be.

Every time another death like this happens, it takes weeks to find the cause. By then, the emotional impact of that celebrity’s loss has evaporated, and the angst over the stupidity of how they died and how needless it was, that just evaporates too.

There is no reason for anyone to die like this, assuming she’s dead of anorexia, but I daresay I’m not reckless to jump to that conclusion.

There is no reason an industry should sanction the kind of pressure many starlets feel to do this to themselves.

There is no reason you as an audience can’t stop supporting this endless vacuum life of never-good-enough by continuing to purchase magazines that perpetuate too-thin-is-beautiful aesthetics.

It’s time that we jump to conclusions. It’s time we get angry that somehow we’ve institutionalized Wasting Away as some kind of beautiful virtue that all women should aspire for, or that we seem somehow justifying the ever-fattening of our society by pleading for “fat acceptance” and talking about “weight discrimination,” instead of tackling both these problems in the education system.

Eating disorders, whether eating ourselves to morbidly obese deaths or wasting away via starvation, kill the soul long before they kill the self.

Kate Moss is famous for having said that nothing tastes as good as being thin feels. Really? She hasn’t had my chicken pot pie, man.

Life is meant to be lived — food savoured, bodies worshipped, comfort enjoyed.

Despite my strong beliefs on these issues, I will lose 30 pounds by next August. But I’ll do it still having beers and burgers, cheese and wine, because those are parts of life I should value too, and without guilt. The thing is? Food isn’t just about eating, it’s about who you’re eating with.

Food is community. Via community, food becomes communication. It’s about soul and companionship, slowing down and focusing on one thing in a moment in a big world. Food has always been the cornerstone to our societies — any society — and their social structure.

Because food and the celebration of it is so integral to our world — look at the dread of Christmas weight, because we all associate the treats with the warmth & glory of the season — people with these afflictions are robbed of much of life’s joy.

When someone suffers an eating disorder, it becomes toxic to every level of their life. They have to lie to loved ones, live duplicitously.  It kills the soul, then the self.

The tragedy here isn’t just that Brittany Murphy is dead.

The tragedy is, we all helped.

If you support the magazines and the industries pushing these unrealistic and perverted ideals of what “beauty” consists of, you’re helping to perpetuate this endless cycle of thin-is-not-thin-enough.

I haven’t bought a single beauty magazine in 10 years, and I’ve never seen obvious hot-chick-vehicle movies, so I know I’m not a part of this endless cycle of stupid. Are you?

Who else do I blame?

Men.

The guys I talk to claim they like “real” women. Oh? Well, Hollywood’s marketing this to you. Where’s your outcry? Where’s your steadfast roar about how great cushion-for-the-pushin’ is? Where’s your willingness to say outloud that a little extra somethin’-somethin’ works for you? Where’s your insistence that a size 10 is a perfect 10?

Because I’m not hearing it.

Instead of all this bullshit “Aww, Brittany, we hardly knew ye” in-mourning-platitudes crap we’ll be hearing for the next week, let’s get real, all right?

Yeah, Brittany, we knew you had an eating disorder. We tried to shame and mock you for it, instead of help you. We didn’t point fingers at the industry that helped make you fitted for a size extra-thin coffin in your 32nd year. We didn’t say to ourselves “Well, she’s not alone, maybe there’s something needing fixing here.”

Because though we’ve said all that shit before it’s obvious we never meant it, because the magazines keep selling, we keep buying, and thin girls keep dying.

Wake the fuck up, world.

It’s the Olympic year in Vancouver, you know. “Citius. Altius. Fortius.” Faster. Higher. Stronger.

Considering a couple years ago I weighed 65 pounds more, couldn’t run a block, do a single push-up, and was 8 sizes larger, being faster, getting higher, and becoming stronger than I already am will be a challenge. And I’m so up for it!

I’ve had a really hard time not going all medieval on my psyche in the last few months. I know when my workout will broke. Hell, my will shattered. June 13th, when I blew out my back again. Spent the next 2-3 months rehabbing TWO back injuries. Oh, joy. So, I stopped everything.

Then, of course, began the mental heavy lifting this summer, followed by therapy (begun because I found out I could get it for free, and you’re a fucking idiot if you don’t at least give it a shot when you literally have nothing to lose), and the last thing I needed was more mental pressure.

But, game’s on, kids.

Bought my gym membership yesterday. I’ve gone two days in a row now, and plan to keep it up. I don’t give a fuck if you’re skeptical. You can be anything you wanna be, honey.

Anything you wanna be. But you just wait.

Getting my mental game back on has been hard — it means overcoming a lot of fear, mostly because I know EXACTLY what I have to do to have more of the success I’ve already tasted. First, I have had to walk right past the angst I have about stagnating for so long, because I also have had to understand that we simply do what we need to do when we need to do it. And I’ve done just that.

I have the comfort of knowing it took me a couple months to throw things into gear the first time I had my massive weightloss. This is apparently how I roll, it’s my process.

Being back in it, though, means making choices — knowing where my priorities lie. That’s tough at a time like this, socially, when everyone’s out and eating before Christmas. It gives me an excuse to avoid parties and unhealthy food, though, for the most part. I’m trying to hold off being really social for ONE more week. Lay the ground work, start the battle. You know. Socializing at Christmas is great and fun, but it’s also a lot more empty and pressure-filled. There’s only so much you NEED to do to feel a part of the holidays.

It’s been a long time since I’ve gone into Christmas with such positivity around me — promise for the year ahead. It’s one thing to tell yourself it’s promising, but it’s another to see it unfolding. There’s something incredible about just quietly believing inside that everything’s going to be fine again. Much better than the quiet fear you never want to put into words.

Well, 2009, you knew how to pack a whole lot into my life in one year — starting with my father nearly dying on New Year’s Eve & going into ICU, all the way to me magically clearing up my finances weeks before the year-end, and all the rehab and victories and grief in between.

What a ride. 8% remains. Let’s see whatcha got. And, 2010, you look fab, baby.

I’ve been getting increasingly stressed out about several areas of my life, just because it’s coming down to the crunch and probably also because I’m incredibly skilled at making things more difficult than they need to be.

As a result, I’ve had sort of the perfect emotional storm that every recovering fatty wants to avoid. I know, all too well, that I’m an Emotional Eater. I nearly got to 300 pounds because I can be a very emotional girl, apparently.

I lost 70 pounds by proving I could overcome that. And then life just kept on coming and slowly I stopped overcoming and just coping.

But the last thing I needed last weekend was the Dad-has-cancer thing. Then I probably didn’t need to distract myself by being The Ultimate Hostess for a chicken pot pie extravaganza a few days ago. I also didn’t need my guests to be the incredibly awesomely generous people they are, and feed me BadnessThatTastesSuchGoodness. Because god knows I’m far fatter this weekend after everything that’s happened this week.

Now I’m taking stock. I’ve been avoiding my emotions, avoiding writing, avoiding people, avoiding honesty.

Shit happens.

I bounce back better when I bottom out. I’m not sure what it is, maybe the riccochet of shitty from hitting bottom HARD gives me the jump I need to effect effective change in short order. When I’m just gradually sucking, I feel like I have time to sort it out. But when I bottom out with style like I feel I have this week, I take a couple days of really digging deep, then I spring into action.

My problem right now is fairly simple. It’s accountability. I lost 70 pounds by KNOWING that EVERY little thing counts — whether it’s another flight of stairs you chose to climb or another pat of butter you chose to eat.

My body — my gut, my ass, my blood pressure — doesn’t give a shit if I have a good excuse to find solace in a cookie. And find solace, I will. I am an emotional eater. I will always be an emotional eater. Any one who claims they can change that about me is lying. But if I eat that cookie, regardless what my heart or soul feels, my body’s going to own that cookie in all the ways I wish it wouldn’t.

I can justify that cookie six ways to Sunday on a shitty day, but it’s science and my body WILL NOT justify that cookie. That cookie WILL expand my ass. Especially when I have 6 of them.

There are times when I’m strong enough to realize that. But maybe sometimes life feels like such a fight that the little things like, say, an easily attainable cookie, a moment of chocolate happiness in the midst of it all, maybe they really do make the difference between the eternal slog sucking or not.

Maybe? Good luck with that. Cookie’s got nothing on real happiness.

I’ve been weak, in every way. I’ve been emotionally at the point where you really just want Mom to tuck you in and say it’ll be okay in the morning. Of course, Mom’s dead, so good luck with THAT, needy girl.

OH, DON’T WORRY. It’s the emotional equivalent of wanting your blankie and wishing life’s problems could be like they were when you were six and Joanna wouldn’t give you back your Smurf figurine, okay? This “grownup” thing wears thin, I’s still a toughie.

But when the cancer thing was thrown into the mix, then the stress of having to pull off a dinner party on a work night, and THEN I got handed tasty wonderful things, well, yes, it’s the Emotional Eating Perfect Storm.

As a result, I’ve eaten badly. I’ve eaten incredibly badly. Add to that the rather-failed-experiment of getting up at 5 to work at 7, for the last month, and how that’s cut into my ability to write, and my tendency to shirk my exercising of late… and, yeah, I’m not in my happy place tonight.

It’s good though. I’m glad I shook up the mix and honestly tried a different schedule to see if that would help things, but the reality is, no. It didn’t. There’s nothing WRONG with me going into work late if it means I work out and write every morning. I can’t AFFORD a life, so why work earlier so I have one? None of that computes.

Tomorrow, I’ll go back to The Way Things Worked. I’ll be up at 6. I’ll work out. I’ll eat. I’ll write. I’ll work later. All good.

I tried to solve my problems the wrong way a month ago — I shook up the mix so much that it shook me up too. Then life shook me up more. To cope, I ate.

And I’m glad. I’m glad it’s all come apart at the seams. I’m glad I’m paying the price. I’m glad there were consequences for going off the wagon. When there aren’t, I get lax and push boundaries further.

None of this scares me. I’m pissed off at myself and in touch with my insecurities all over again, sure, but I’m also angry because I KNOW I can kick this shit. This is exactly like last Christmas when I blew my success all to hell after the arrival of THE BEST FOOD BASKET EVER. (Hull-less caramel popcorn still makes me titter and moan.)

Then I lost 12 pounds in 3 weeks by channeling that anger.

The hardest part of this will be getting off the drinking. I’ve become an emotional drinker, too, and it daunts me. Too much. Far too much.

For me, though, will power is ultimately a switch that gets flicked on and then is very hard to flip off. And vice versa. But I do flip it.

So where am I tonight? Somewhere between pissed as hell at myself, disappointed that old patterns re-emerge in tough times, and exuberantly excited at the knowledge that I’m about to prove everything I know I can prove to myself.

You know what it is? It’s choosing differently. That’s all. All of this — every bit of what troubles me now — all of it, it’s my choice.

I can choose differently.

And I am.

I got up this morning and I was at least 2.76% wiser. That’s pretty cool. Take what you can get in a recession, eh?

All I got for my birthday, really, is this curious sense of “What now?” that comes with the next morning when you’re staring at the new year ahead of you.

Last year, I didn’t have that. Last year, I was a little preoccupied, so this year’s feeling phenomenal in comparison.

As much as this is probably one of the most embarrassing stories I’ll ever write, it’s also a great example of why reflecting works so great sometimes to put some perspective on who you are and where you are in life. See, last year, I was not in my Happy Birthday Place. I wasn’t even in my Remotely Satisfied Birthday Place.

Oh, god. I so don’t want to share this story, but I secretly know EVERYONE has had one of those Shitty Birthdays that just makes you loathe Hallmark and the Birthday Machine, and wanna haul up and hit anyone who goes “Hey, what’d ya do for your birthday?!”

Because last year was one of those years where I really didn’t want anyone to know what I did for my birthday.

Because it was The Birthday of The Horrific Yeast Infection. MEN, don’t worry, no details will be shared about THAT. Keep reading, it’s fine. No, this is the comedy of errors that ensued when I attempted a “natural” remedy. Which, as it turns out, there was fuckin’ nothin’ natural about.

What you need to know is, I’d had about six months of chronic yeast infections last year, sigh, that no one could figure out. Haven’t had any in MONTHS, so I don’t know what the hell happened, but around my 35th birthday I had gotten to the point where I was either going to go on a rampage killing everyone I met, OR I was going to try everything I possibly could to get rid of the problem.

Coming to the end of the list of remedies, I had one suggested by a reader, which I then researched on the web — and which filled me with a great deal of unease.

The process? A clove of garlic is peeled, wrapped in cheesecloth, a string tied around to close it, and long enough for, um, retraction, and then this is shoved up one’s twat overnight.

So, the night before my birthday, I’m all teary and angry, thinking how it’s bad enough I have to get older, but to get older while feeling all festery and yeasty like THAT? The fucking HORROR. Insult, meet injury.

It was time, I decided, for extreme action.

This was a case for garlic.

So, I did it. Late that night, the night before I’d turn 35, I shoved the garlic up where the sun’s never gonna shine, and laid me down to sleep. It burned. It was awkward. I was aware that it — and that godawful cheesecloth — was UP there. I eventually did the fitful get-up-stretch-go-potty thing in the middle of the night, being careful of the Invading Garlic-String-Thingie’s positioning and such, which I could feel seemed to still be snugly in place.

I finally got three or four good hours sleep, got up the next morning, and went to remove the offending garlic. The string was gone. What? I squished my legs together, back and forth. Yup, something was still up there. Things felt swollen and tight. Uh-oh. Where’s the fucking string?

Next thing you know, I’m on my bed, looking both on it, and in me, to find this goddamned piece of string-tied garlic.

And finding nothing. Something clearly still felt like it was inside me, and yet… I was finding NOTHING.

I went to work, still alarmed. Put on a nice smiley-face, since I was supposed to be the Happy-Happy Birthday-Girl. Secretly, I’m the “Where the FUCK did I put my garlic?” Girl.

Unfortunately, my job involves sitting for about eight hours. During which my poor twat made it evident it was not a happy thing. Had to be the garlic, I surmised.

Just barely, I survived my workday. Then it was off to my best friend’s for the decadent hamburger dinner we had planned. I got to GayBoy’s (@Mr_Tits_Pervert on Twitter) and, given the state of my twat, was a right cunt from the get-go. After 15 years of friendship, we know how to shut down each other’s bullshit in a hurry, and he did exactly that, even if it was my birthday.

All of a sudden, I burst into tears — “I lost my garlic! I can’t find the string.”

“What?”

So I had to explain, in detail, the problem and what I was trying to accomplish, and how. Basically, I lost cheesecloth-wrapped garlic and a 10″ piece of string up my twat. Not your everyday problem, you know.

Then he cracks up, just breaks into hysterics, while trying to look sympathetic, because I’ve carried on — “…And now I think I have to go to a clinic tomorrow and get them to look and see if… and how do you say, “Oh, I lost my garlic” to some cute young stuck-in-a-clinic doctor, when you just KNOW it’s YOU they’re gonna be talking about around the watercooler today. ‘Hey, did you hear about Garlic Cheesecloth Girl? ON HER BIRTHDAY?’ Oh, this is the worst birthday ever–”

And that’s when he shoved alcohol in my face.

Thank god, things were better in the morning. Apparently my vaginal canal had just been swollen and I’d probably peed the garlic out only 3 hours after it was inserted. Ironically nothing was actually wrong with me when I’d had the worst Monday Birthday ever.

And 2 days later? I blew out my back, spent the next 9 months rehabbing. All in all, turning 35 pretty much sucked sweaty donkey balls.

Turning 36, however, kicks ass. This time, my garlic was on my food.

Which, as it turns out, is how I prefer it.

Happy Birthday to me, indeed.

*Unless you want to believe all the “economic indicators” conveniently growing just before the onslaught of the evil Christmas retail season. Me, I’m curiously amused by the timing, and will believe it when my average wine-purchase price is upgraded from $10 a bottle to $12, thank you.

PS: I wanted to get acidopiolus for another yeast infection during the same horrid few months last year, went to the local health food store, and who walks up to help me out? The hottest man ever. I said, very meekly, “Um, I’ve been getting chronic yeast infections, and…” So he cuts me off and sighs empathetically. Then he tells me about when he had horrible diarrhea. Moral of the story, health food stores are no place to pick people up. I got my acidophilus, though.

Luckily, I tend to pay attention.

Tuesday has been “headtrip day” for two weeks now. Yesterday was jam-packed — a night of chatting with one of my best friends immediately after another trip to the headshrink, and then this morning I got to watch last night’s The Biggest Loser.

And I’m not sure where to start, so let’s do the Tarantino end-middle-beginning-takes-you-to-a-new-ending thing, shall we?

Shay, of The Biggest Loser, is the biggest player in the show’s history, beginning at some 470 pounds or so. She’s trying to heal after being raised by a heroin addict mom who died young and left her in foster care, shopped around for the rest of her life. She’s 30 now, and realizing her life can start over. Knowing her weight is ENTIRELY about her level of fuctedness, she commented, “Each of these pounds is a wound.”

…Which turned the lightswitch on and I remembered my conversation with JT last night, about how I’m having a really hard time getting my game back on with the weightloss thing because of everything that’s been coming at me — what a time of chaos. Also, summer has made a valiant return, and knowing how seasonally depressed I get in the winter, I’m trying to seize the end of the sunshine, hamstrung by the shorter days, but also trying to get everything done I feel burdened to get done. Oh, and I’ve begun writing again. It’s just so hard for me to get everything settled enough to find a routine that works.

Now, keep in mind, I get my 3-4 hours minimum of activity per week, which is classified as a “healthy” lifestyle. I eat better than I ever have, but still have further to go, right? But I’m still better than most — just with too big of portions for me to lose weight. I’m maintaining my weightloss and living a tasty and literally “full” life.

But, as I was telling JT, I’m 5 pounds from breaking the weight I became around 18 years old — and when I do that, I undo ALL the physical harm that has happened since my life went from averagely-sucky to “You’re gonna need therapy for ALL this shit” when I hit 18, after my mom’s attempted suicide, stupid love, and all the drama and near-death events, etc,  that would follow for years.

Every one of these pounds is a wound.

And when I get past that emotional boundary, past the 200-pound mark, back into the territory of “normal” people, I prove to myself that I have literally overcome all that came at me in all those years.

Deep down inside, I don’t feel I have, and I wonder now if it’s part of why I’ve been stagnating at this weight for so long.

I don’t remember who I was before my life railroaded with my mother’s suicide attempt and the years of depression and self-hate that it’d spur for me. I don’t remember the girl I was in my teens… not really. I remember the insecurity was there even then, because I was still “heavy” fat, I just wasn’t “fatty-fat-fat” fat.

Every one of those pounds was a wound.

Every candy bar was a hug. Every sugary tasty drink was a soft sigh. Every extra helping was a wink and a hug. Every layer of fat was a blanket to wrap myself in against the harsh coldness of a big, bad world.

I’m realizing now that I haven’t been ready to heal all those wounds. Not yet.

This therapy I’ve begun is dredging up issues that are making me realize, I guess, just how much my eating really was a response to serious emotional challenges that just NEVER FUCKING STOPPED for 16 or 17 years. When there were lulls, I was so depressed* that it didn’t matter that the barrage had stopped, because the wounds had begun to fester and puss.

The walls I put up, man. Oh, the walls. When your method of coping is one that produces shame, you need to hide yourself. You need the walls. You need to be stoic in public, and beneath contempt in private. Because that’s how shame rolls. Trust me. I know.

I know far more about myself now than I care to share with the likes of you in a place like this. This is what I know.

But I don’t know everything, not about myself, not even close. The amount I’ve learned in the last year — since the one-year anniversary of blowing my back out and the biggest personal learning curve in my life — makes me shake my head in wonder.

I just don’t know how one person can absorb all that in a year. You know how you put a sponge in water, it soaks up everything it can, you pull it out, the gravity sucks half the water back out? For a moment, the sponge absorbed it all, and then it washed away. I kind of feel like that. I’m an overloaded sponge. Knowing this, I sometimes wonder what has washed away, what I’ve forgotten that I swore I’d remember, that I’d learn from.

So when my therapist asked me last night what I hoped to gain from my sessions with him, I just didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t really thought of a specific goal. What do I want to be? I want to be better. I want to be better at being comfortable with myself. I want to feel better about myself, not be so aware of the insecurities and fears I’ve been long trying to overcome. (And have made incredible strides with, really. Incredible.)

But, most of all, I guess I just want some guidance making it through the last of my journey.

It’s not 5 pounds I need to lose. It’s not 50 pounds I need to lose. It’s many years of wounds. That’s what I need to lose.

At this point, it’s proving harder than just getting on a bike. Yet, at the same time, it’s not harder than that. THAT is all I need to do. Work. It’s inarguable, it’s science. That’s weightloss; work more, eat less.

But right now? It’s about the wounds. I’ve proven I can melt my ass. I know I will do every bit I’m of mind to do. I’ve not known why NOW wasn’t the time for me to do so… until now. Knowing? Priceless. I’ve long known I was scared to break that boundary, because once I’m not so obviously damaged with that big “200-something” weight, then who will I be?I just haven’t been willing to admit it, not really.

You don’t have a fucking clue who I’ll be, nor do I. And I can pretend to be as excited as I want to be, but deep down inside, I’m still scared. You don’t realize the foggy, hazy dream we lifelong fat people have of our thin selves — it doesn’t exist because we can’t imagine how we’ll look. We don’t know what our bone structure looks like, or what’s possible for our features when all that fat vanishes.

Doesn’t change the fact that I *will* make the weightloss happen in entirety, it just acknowledges that I finally maybe understand why it might not happen right now.

And I’m okay with that.

*Incidentally, probably 70% of my depression, I now realize, was made far worse by bad diet and no exercise. As soon as I was exercising three times a week and eating less sugar, taking vitamins, I had to go OFF my anti-depressants within three months, because I’d regulated my chemistry myself. I still have ups and downs, but they’re natural ups and downs.

Being a lowly writer-type girl who works to live rather than lives to work, which is to say she works as little as possible, I thank ze gods for the recession because it’s saved this work-to-live ass from overtime.

And being a lifelong David Letterman fan, I like his lists. But I’m an underachiever. So here’s the Top Five Reasons to Lose Weight in a Recession.

5. Veggies & fruit are trendy ‘cos you can grow ‘em & they’re cheap, so a Krispy Kreme sneak-attack is less likely. And a banana is 32 cents, score.
4. I smell a liquidation! When better to replace a wardrobe with all those pounds lost?
3. You can’t afford to have a life, but you can afford to jog.
2. When you can’t afford to eat out, it’s so much easier to avoid restaurants & their evil hide-the-fat ways.
1. Thinner, you get drunk faster. Here’s where being a cheap drunk pays, baby!

This is turning into a monumental week for me, a week of massive change that I think is laying the groundwork for what’s going to be one hell of an interesting upswing.

There have been a number of things I have been wanting resolution with for a long time, but have only really pursued this year. Among them was finally getting diagnosed as ADD. I never wanted to go there, never thought it applied to me. But I fake it well, right? I delude people into thinking I’ve a better grip on things than I do.

Deep down, I know how much it’s interfering with my life and affecting my day-to-day. I know how overwhelmed I feel. I felt overwhelmed when I was depressed a couple years back, but this is different. I’m pretty content and even happy these days, yet totally overwhelmed. I love where my life’s headed, and yet I’m totally overwhelmed. I’m always overwhelmed. But happy won’t last if this sense of being impossible to control keeps up much longer, so dealing with it now is smart. Very.

I can’t even focus on conversations anymore, and I feel like I can tell people think it’s rude, but I just can’t focus. At all.

So I never realized how ADD I was until recently, since it’s easy to ignore shit when you turn yourself into a recluse. I’ve been social and tackling so many things that the reality’s been unavoidable, so it was time to own up and Go There.

Friday, I get my shiny new trial of drugs my doctor’s wheedled from the pharmaceutical gods; a low-dose, non-addictive, mild ADD drug that will take many weeks to kick in, but still. It’s a start, and I can be patient if I know it’s worth the wait, but it’s expensive as fuck to try out, hence my doc wheedling me a schwack of it for free, apparently.

Unlike some people who think pills are cure-alls, I don’t. I asked for something I’ll be able to kick in a year when I’ve got routine and peace of mind, something that’s not habit-forming or too intense, and that’s where we got to. Still, I’m attacking this from every direction I can.

Part two of that strategy, and another very exciting development, is that I have an appointment Monday to set up counselling that another organization will be picking up the tabs for. I’ve done a profound amount of mental heavy-lifting in the last couple years but I’d love to talk it out with someone impartial, who might push buttons, and not just leave it in some never-to-be-opened document or journal, or dump it on here for the masses. It turns out I have access to free counselling. Who knew?

Then, sometime next month, a good Samaritan claims she’s gonna come over and whip some order into my chaotic world. I’ll have to post before and after photos of my crack den– I mean, apartment– when she’s done reaping the whirlwind. And give her full and glorious public credit, of course. I’m so hopeful this happens, because I’d love someone else’s perspective on how to make sense of this madness.

And I’ve finally conceded I’m not going to get over my back problem without serious hoodoo-voodoo mojo-juju shit or something, so I began some acupuncture sessions yesterday. I’ve got five more on tap, but I smell some serious frequent flyer miles after feeling so good this afternoon.

The last, and arguably the most profound and immediate life-impact, bit of happy happenstance is that I got word the government will be springing for some swank new hearing aids for this Steff. Mine after nigh on five years old are obsolete, and one’s dead entirely. The government’s gift to me? A total of about $4,000 to $5,000. But the ones I’ve been wearing haven’t been strong or good enough for years now, and I’ve noticed its impact on my social life. However, it’s for work that the government’s giving them to me. Might as well have me keep my job as a television captioner, since hearing’s vital to it. Keeping people employed in a recession is apparently desirable. Again, who knew?

So all of these things are resolving within seven days of each other. How’s that for strange timing?

And talk about clearing one’s cerebral desk before a vacation. Schwing. Mission accomplished.*

Amazing what a week can bring you, if you start asking for help and looking for opportunities. That’s all I did. And, look, I got what I wanted on every count.

Lesson learned, Cosmos.

*I’m off on a biking vacation in BC’s interior next week, letting family cook for me and provide me with copious alcohol. I’ll earn my keep with a meal or two.