I WANNA SAUSAGE ROLL ALL NIGHT (AND PARTY EVERY DAY)

I have to eat a sausage roll today and I'm freaking right the fuck out.

Frequent readers of this blog will probably know (because I don’t stop banging on about it), since my weight loss surgery, I’ve developed a fear of some foods.  I’m seeing a psychologist and things have been going great, until now.  My anxiety is increasing with the thought of having to eat this pissing sausage roll… and I know how much of a hardship it sounds, I’ve already had people say ‘I’ll do it for you’, and yes it does make me smile the 93rd time I hear it, part of me is thinking ‘if you could please, that’d be ace.’

I’ve been rather jolly and joking about the fact that I am having to eat a sausage roll in a medical setting, but as the day draws closer, I’m not finding it quite so funny

My psychologist and me are working using something called Graded Exposure Therapy (minds OUT of the gutter please).  So far we’ve ranked the foods I’m scared of hierarchically with the most feared (bread/pizza/doughnuts) at the top of the list and the least feared (pastry) at the bottom and all the stages (fruit/veg, rice, pasta etc.) in between.  I’d been so blasé with the psychologist about it, I thought I’d be fine, but now as the day draws ever near (I’d convinced myself it was actually NEXT Friday) the familiar anxiety beats kick in; racing thoughts, palpitations, inability to sit still, fidgeting.  They’re not as pronounced as they once were, and if I can’t sleep, my brain STILL makes me recite the cooking in prison scene from Goodfellas.  So we’ll see what 2pm holds, I guess.

In other news, I’ve been back at work now for three weeks (two weeks of half days, almost one of full) and I’ve gotten on okay (other than a bit of a blip last week when on top of all the changes made in my absence –staff changes, management changes etc. – I had a bit of a kick off and almost left because of another change that they dropped on me).  It’s good to be back in a routine, to have something to get up and go out for.  My colleagues have all been brilliant too, trying to compliment me on my weight loss (I don’t take compliments well so I try to fire back a self-derogatory remark because it’s an automatic defence mechanism I’ve developed over my life), asking how I’m getting on and genuinely giving a shit about me and the state of my mental health which is extremely encouraging.  Some people are scared to discuss mental health at work, but I absolutely advocate it.  A simple ‘How are you feeling?’ or ‘Are you okay?’ could make the world of difference.

TL:DR?  SAUSAGE FUCKING ROLLS

Snapshots

I've just come back from a much needed break away with my parents and my niece, Gabby.  My folks thought I could do with the break, so they booked us to go to Amsterdam (comments about weed and sex workers are not welcome).

I felt guilty going away, I mean I'm still off sick from work with mental health issues (and issues surrounding food). I felt worried for what people would think when they saw my Facebook updates and photos.  There are a few snapshots where I look happy and you wouldn't guess that I'm battling with low self esteem, self hatred and depression.  Speaking to a friend, I confided my worries but I also said that snapshots are just that, a snap, a moment in time and I'm great
at faking a smile.

Faking it?

I take and post a lot of selfies, my reason for this is that I can control how I look, if my smile looks okay, my usually tend to be close mouthed because when I smile with my teeth, my top lip disappears and I look even more ridiculous.  And I tend to just post my face because, even though I am losing weight (too slowly for my liking, and I'm still convinced I'm not losing enough despite having been told that my weight loss is fine and in fact ahead of where I should be) I don't want people seeing the mess that I am.

The holiday was wonderful, and a lot of those smiles in my photographs are genuine, but they're just a snapshot where it looks like I haven't a care in the world, where I'm not concerned with what I can and can't eat (what's SAFE in my mind for me to eat and not eat), where I don't feel like an enormous whale, an embarrassment for my family and friends to be seen with...

Yes, I am scared of bread.

I'm still awaiting a psychology appointment through the bariatric service (thanks Tory bastards).  I still need help, discussing with my GP my food phobia, when I said something about not technically
being an eating disorder, she said that there's a spectrum of eating disorders and I'm on there... Great.  Imagine you went from not caring what you put in your mouth to having to check everything, to look at the protein content of everything, so I eat virtually the same things (nuts, hummus, cracker breads, king prawns, eggs, mash)  - these are my 'Safe Foods'.

I'm hanging in there, still not sleeping brilliantly, lying in bed because there's no reason to get up, same with showering...I know that's disgusting but I'm still pretty much 'Meh, what's the point'. Thanks depression, you wanker.

I know my friends and family are all supportive and love me, and I know that when I write blog posts like this, I upset them.  I'm sorry for that, I have to write down my thoughts and feelings, it helps me and God knows I need all the help I can get.

Today's Forecast Calls for Blue Skies

Hi, me again. It's been almost two months since my weight loss surgery, so I thought I'd
update you all on how I've been getting on.

It hasn't been all plain sailing as I alluded to in my previous post.  Physically it's been tough with delightful things such as constipation and crippling pain from that, but mentally...it's been, and is continuing to be, absolute hell.

I mentioned in my last blog that I didn't think I was losing as much weight as I should be; that has continued along with some new issues.  I've developed a food phobia (which is as lovely as you'd expect) coupled with a newly found fear of vomiting (if you eat too quickly or don't chew the food enough, this makes you sick.) 

So I'm scared to eat 'new' things (things I was eating before the surgery).  I have established things that I eat but I'm literally just sticking to Weetabix, beans, cheese, tuna and potatoes.  And not a great deal of any of those things.  I'm scared I'm not eating enough, but then I know if I eat too much, I'll get a pain in my chest or stretch my sleeve, which I really don't want to happen).

I'd been passing the surgery off as no biggie, because it wasn't open surgery, it was being done via a laparoscopy.  I genuinely, somewhat naïvely, didn't think it was going to be as big a deal as it was.  I mean, I was only having 75% of my stomach removed... how hard could it be?? What an idiot I am.  I'm sort of coming to terms with the fact it WAS actually major surgery. 

I've been dealing with feeling like I've made a massive mistake, due to the pain my body and brain have been and are still going through.  Can't go back though, they can't rebuild me...maybe they could shove a load of sausage casings back in and see how that goes...

So I'm trying to cope with that, on top of feelings of utter misery and inflicting misery on David and my family and friends.  I'm no fun to be around, I'm generally usually down, crying at the drop of a hat, and my old arch nemesis of Low Self Esteem is popping her head in, telling me that I'm failing at weight loss, how I'm pretty much a failure in life anyway because I can't have children and that how that even if I get to the desired weight for IVF, it won't work because I don't deserve it.  I don't deserve to be happy, I don't deserve to have a child.  She tells me that David will probably leave me when the IVF fails because I can't do anything right in life.  Happy cheery stuff like that.

I've told one of the bariatric nurses my concerns, and she's referred me to psychology...but I don't know when I'll get an appointment (cut backs to mental health services, thanks you Tory cunts).  I know I need help, I've identified my problems, I've told my GP and she was going to try to expedite my psychology appointment.  Speaking to my GP helped a bit, she signed me off for another four weeks, so we'll see how that all goes.  I've had to up my antidepressants again (as a sort of a sticking plaster until my psych appointment).

I'm so lucky to have David and my family and all my friends...and even the cats - Aslan is an excellent nurse (well okay maybe not but he's always good for cuddles).  And writing helps me out a lot.  I know a lot of this might seem extreme but I have to be honest about how I've been feeling since surgery.

I'll get there, I know I will.  I'm loved and adored and well cared for.  And I'll be a mother one day, I know this too.  I just need to see more blue skies than grey.

Tears for Paris

I don’t know if I have the right to feel how I am feeling.  I was there, yes, but not close to where the attacks took place.  We were in Les Halles when everything kicked off.  In an Irish pub (story of my life) I got a BBC news alert telling me there had been a shooting in Paris.  David and I sort of shrugged it off as maybe a lone gunman or whatever.  We even joked that no-one would be in touch to see if we were okay cos it was Friday night and everyone was out getting wrecked.  Watching the Ireland/Bosnia match (terrible fog, even worse game), I went to post on Facebook that the owner had given me free Guinness due to my Irish heritage only to discover  my phone had died.  I thought nothing of it, happens all the time.  I sat and watched the game, eating my Taytos and drinking my Guinness.  David was watching the France/Germany game.  We had a bit of an argument about stopping out for ‘just one more’ (those who know me know full well it’s never ‘just one more’).  David wanted to go back nearer to our hotel in Montrouge as we weren’t too familiar with the centre of Paris he’d feel safer nearer to where we were staying.  We got the Metro and popped into a restaurant/café/bar nearer to our hotel for a last drink.  Both phones were now dead, so we had to resort to talking to one another… Imagine that.

 

Glancing at the TV in the bar, the news was on.  Everything looked a hell of a lot worse that we could have imagined, there were scenes from the France/Germany game, and a number that seemed to be rising all the time.  We drank up as quickly as we could, and briskly walked back to the hotel, passing several police cars and ambulances, their sirens wailing in the dark night.  We arrived to the hotel, plugged in our phones where they both promptly exploded with texts, emails, Facebook messages and voicemails, one in particular from my mother sounding severely distressed shouting in the background to my dad ‘She isn’t picking up her phone…’  We checked the BBC news website to see the full atrocity that had been committed in Paris that night, people out celebrating, just having a Friday out at a restaurant or a football match, or a gig attacked for no good reason.  Murder and rampage; Panic on the streets of Paris.  Obviously we got in touch with everyone and let them know we were okay.  Hundreds of people, people I don’t even know that well, just concerned that we were alive and safe.  It was overwhelming and we felt guilty for having that little joke earlier on.  I spoke to my dad and I’ve never heard so much relief in a single person’s voice.  Turns out he, along with Tom and Fran and others had phoned the bar we had been at to check we were okay.  We watched the French news in complete shock.  There was a state of emergency in France.  We were due to travel home on Saturday, what if we couldn’t? 

 

Well, as you all know, we got back safe and sound having spent the ENTIRE day at Charles De Gaulle airport (just as boring as you think it would be).  We’d intended spending our last day in Paris seeing things we hadn’t seen like the Arc de Triomphe and walking down the Champs-Élysées but it seemed safer to just go straight to CDG.  An uneventful tube ride from Heathrow to Euston and then a cab from Coventry station to Pie Bash and things seemed right and okay with the world again.  But I think that with the adrenaline of getting out of Paris and back home to Coventry had got me through, because on Sunday evening, the tears started and they’ve been on and off ever since.

 

The tears are a mixture of sadness, fear, rage and guilt.  Sadness because of the sheer loss of human life and devastation to so many families and to Paris herself; the fear has literally just hit me over the past few days; anger manifests itself in the question of why the fuck did these cunts think it was okay to attack and kill innocents?  And the guilt?  The guilt is that I lived but many others didn’t.  There should be 129 more living breathing beautiful humans on this planet but there aren’t because murderous cunts stole their lives.

 

It’s been odd seeing the reactions to what happened in Paris on Friday 13th: such sympathy and solidarity with the French populous, the simple act of changing one’s Facebook profile picture so it is the colour of the tricolore has been derided by many as slacktivism but fuck that, people have a fucking choice to change their FB photo just like those who didn’t change theirs (myself included) also had that choice.  It’s a sign of solidarity so take your derision and shove it right up your arse.  I am also very much aware of other atrocities that took and continue to take place and I am able to feel sadness for all of those things.  I am expressing myself about Paris because I was there, so it kinda hit me a little harder.

 

I’m not entirely sure what the point of this blog piece is, truth be told.  Probably catharsis, most likely.  I started back at work today and was dreading it because I was expecting the third degree about the whole thing; I was in tears last night when I was trying to go to sleep because I didn’t want to have to talk about it to anyone at work.  Thankfully, save for one person*, they’ve all been fine when I said I didn’t want to talk about.

 

I just can’t help but feel though that it isn’t right for me to cry, to have this grief or whatever it is.  I wasn’t directly affected, other than being in the city when it happened… I don’t know… I didn’t lose anyone, I didn’t get shot at, I wasn’t near an explosion… why do I feel this way?  It can’t just be because I’m a caring individual, David is a caring person and he hasn’t reacted this way… it’s caused me to take a break from one of my volunteering posts because if I’m in this state, I can’t think about being there for someone else completely.

 

This is the end…I’ve sort of tailed off… my mind isn’t in its usual (just about) working order.  Oh, and may thanks to Carl for the call this morning…I’m sorry you had to hear me cry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Me: I don’t want to talk about it

Them: Oh why, how close were you to it all?

Me: Not that close but…Excuse me *rushes to bathroom to cry*