Royal Blue

Ah, here I am again. After another long stay away, I am back. At least this time, I come bearing good news and updates of my life.

I have officially lost 28 pounds in two months, and I am elated. I haven't done anything really all that different, except eat less and cut out soda for the most part. I have seen success in inches and pounds, and I'm excited to continue on this journey. It's been long, with a lot of fluctuating up and down like Oprah in the 90s, but this time around it seems like it's going to stick. The difference being is that it's not a diet anymore, it's just a lifestyle change that has turned into a habitual journey.

Which, in the last year, or rather two years, has been up and down and pretty much a roller-coaster of epic proportions. And yet, here I am; still riding it and learning new ways to cope with everything and love myself. Which is the most difficult thing I can imagine doing, honestly, is loving myself fully. Despite all my faults, and fuck-ups, self love is the biggest struggle. I guess I should catch y'all up to date on my life.

In my last post, I spoke of my depression, which is very much still a part of my life. I spoke of the things I forget when I am living under the Stephen King novel-like fog that depression casts over my life. Unfortunately, it is a war that I fight every day, and thankfully every day I choose to continue fighting.

But it wasn't always that way, unfortunately. I have struggled back and forth on whether or not I want to share this with the world, and the people on social media. My therapists have told me on countless occasions that they think it would be a good idea because they think that my story may help someone that I don't even know. You all know my struggles with weight, and my stories involving my drive to live a healthier lifestyle; but if I am going to be a hundred percent transparent, I need to fill you in on what a truly healthy lifestyle means to me. So here it goes.

For me, getting healthy physically is not as important as getting healthy mentally. And that more than likely has to do with the traumas I have endured over the last two years, and my recent attempt at ending my life in February, and the time spent in the psychiatric hospital afterwards. My diagnosis, thanks to the wonderful team of Yale Psychiatric doctors, is Depression; psychotic, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dissociation Disorder, and Anxiety Disorder. With a good helping of paranoia and guilt heaped in to make it all the more fun.

For me, those diagnosis's mean that I have auditory and visual hallucinations, my mind will black out while I'm still able function physically, and I have very real and jarring flashbacks to my traumas. It has caused me to self harm myself in various ways. Whether it's by physically hurting myself, seeking comfort in different men that do not have my best interest and well being in mind, or in food. I've sought various comfort in things that are not healthy, and do not serve me well. It is a dark hell that I live every day; some days being worse than others. Despite these episodes of extreme depression, dissociation, and paranoia; I have been able to recapture some of who I was before my first trauma two years ago. And even more so, I have the biggest and best support system in the entire world who hold my hand, rub my back and reassure me that I'm safe and it'll get better.

And it has. As much as I struggle, or get frustrated that I can't be the person I was as little as two years ago, and sometimes still think life will never be okay again, it has already gotten better. I'm able to go out in public alone, without freaking out. I've stopped scanning crowds every 15 seconds to make sure that there is no threat in the crowd. My anxiety attacks are less and less every day. I haven't dissociated in about 2 months, and it's been so long since I've self harmed that I can't even remember the last time I did so. Life is on an upswing, and I am ready for it to keep moving that way. My god, am I ready for this upwards momentum to keep going, and to continue losing weight and learning new skills to keep my mind healthy.

Accepting myself means accepting all of it. It means being comfortable in my own skin, and mind. Do I need to lose weight? Absolutely. Do I hate myself for my weight? Not anymore. Is it difficult listening to different voices telling me to give up and end it? A thousand times, yes. Do I hate the voices? Sometimes. But those voices are a reminder that I'm still alive and I didn't succeed at killing myself when I really wanted to. And that's what self love means to me. Loving all the dirty, dark parts of me, as well as the things that make me really good. (For example, my flawless humor and rockin' dance moves)

So I guess if you've made it this far, I'd like to say: Thanks! You're awesome, and my god, are you important. Not just to me, but to a lot of people. Thank you for allowing me to share this long winded update, and for sticking around. I'll see you again soon, hopefully when I'm another 10 pounds down and further along in my journey to a body like Beyonce and the mind of Eleanor Roosevelt.

Depression.

I have been going back and forth between whether or not I wanted to continue with this blog, considering I'm not losing weight currently. I decided I would continue to write because I need an outlet, and I'm fighting an uphill battle and I need not write for others but for myself.

It's an embarrassing thing to admit, when you're fighting something much bigger than yourself and you've asked for help and received it; and yet you're not getting better. It's a hard, and lonely life when you're depressed, which I am.

I have existed in my life for the last two years under the cloud of depression, and the storm has not subsided. I use the word exist, because I do not live, I do not participate. I merely am. It is a sad, but true thing to say. I am not an active member of my life, due to my disease, and I'm not sure when I will become one again. Depression is different for all different people, and it affects them in different ways. Much like snowflakes, there is not one person with depression who is exactly like the other. For me, depression makes me forget.

It makes me forget if I brushed my teeth this morning, or where I put my sweater. It makes me forget that I left my purse in the kitchen, while I'm tearing apart the living room. I can't remember what day of the week it is, and whether or not I called back my dad. The things I'd like to forget take over my mind, and I cannot remember where my keys are. It doesn't just make me forget material things, it makes me forget all things. It makes me forget how good it feels to laugh, and the sound of her tinkling bell voice. I cannot remember how good his arms feel when he hugs me, and how soft my cat's fur is. Depression makes me lose track of when the last meal was that I had, and who told me a story. It makes me forget what love feels like, even when it's all around me.

I am living in a hell that seems to have no end in sight, but I fight every day because of the love and support of my friends and family. I keep going because I cannot leave them behind; I would miss them and they would miss me.

Where depression makes me forget who I am, they do not. And for that I am eternally grateful.

Like a phoenix, I will rise from the ashes.

Okay, that may be a little dramatic. Especially considering there has been no great reason why I have disappeared; no reason for my lack of blog posts other than I was busy, and I was embarrassed by my level of stress eating. I've found throughout my journey that this is a "walking 15 miles in the snow, uphill both ways" type climb, and sometimes I trip and roll down the hill and have to restart.

As much as I mean that figuratively, there's also some literal meaning to it. Living in the valley of Connecticut ain't no joke, especially when you're trudging your way up a hill. Over the last month, I've tried walking a few times around my neighborhood only to end a sweaty, out of breath, hot damn mess. I'm not sure if it was because I was still recovering from my bronchitis, or if the hills are really that steep, but I thought my calves were going to explode and my chest was going to catch fire and burst, especially on the hills that I would have to climb to get back home. One of the major questions that flew through my mind(other than, "how the hell am I getting up this hill?" and "will someone please kill me?") was, "how did I ever let myself get this out of shape?".

Some answers to that last question are easily answered, and other answers are not so much. If you were to look back over the last 12 years of my life, you would be able to see a steady increase of weight alongside a steady decrease of activity and exercise. It would be much easier to play the victim, and I have before, and say that because of my genetics or my multiple moves and other terrible life experiences, I gained the weight. But then I would have to look at my brother who share the same genetics, and made the same moves with me, and still turned out to be in prime physical shape. (Yes, boys are different but still.) I can only blame myself, and my poor eating and exercising choices. I don't say this because I'm feeling bad for myself, although I definitely have felt bad for myself, I say this as conformation and acceptance that I cannot go back and change the past; I can only change the future.

Gorging on cake, and soda and all the bad things I hate that I love would be much easier, but obviously the easy way is not working for me, and hasn't for awhile. I'm thankful that I've recognized this, and I'm thankful that even though I've stopped, I restarted again with minimal damage. I might not be where I was a month ago, but I'm climbing my way back. Or you know, rising from the ashes.

C-c-c-changes.

I haven't written in a week because work has been incredibly busy, and I have been sick with bronchitis and an ear infection in both my ears. I apologize profusely, and hopefully I will be able to keep a constant stream of posts coming.

Last Saturday, we helped my friend move from her apartment. I was anxious before we went, because she had lived on the third floor, and as you may know; stairs are the bane of my existence. My first ascent up the winding stairs seemed to go okay, and I felt confidence that I would be able to do this. After all, I am 20lbs lighter and in a little bit better shape. After the fourth or fifth time I went up and back down, my knee was calling out for reprieve and I was sweating like a factory worker. I was exhausted and in pain, but not as bad as I would have been almost 2 months ago. Two months ago, I would have complained the entire time about how tired and hot I was, and I would be searching to find the lightest items to take down. My laziness would compete against my want to help my friend, and more than likely, it would have won. Being able to walk up and down stairs multiple times in a row should not be something that I am proud of, but I am proud nonetheless. It's baby steps and baby achievements like these are going to carry me through this.

Marta's birthday was on Thursday, and we had a party for her on Saturday, and from Thursday to Sunday, I ate like it was my last weekend alive and I just wanted to enjoy everything all at once. I couldn't resist birthday cake or birthday pie, so I had 3 or 4 pieces over the course of the weekend. I wanted to celebrate my best friend's birthday, so I drank and partied with everyone. I didn't want healthy food, so I ate pizza. I was too nervous to step on my scale this morning to see the damage, but I can only assume I have gained something back.

When I do finally face my scale fear, and step on, I know I will be disappointed but I won't be distraught. I understand that I need to learn better self control, and that I need to say no more. But I have never met a piece of cake or pie that I didn't like, and how could I say no? It was my best friend's birthday.

I've hit my rock bottom when it comes to my weight, and I am fighting to climb back up. Thankfully, I have my family and my friends to catch me when I fall. I also have them to help me change, and help me grow into a better, healthier version of myself.

Changes have started, and they are still coming. I just need to learn to embrace them.

A small toddler.

After an internal battle of whether or not I wanted to step on the scale today, I finally did. When I looked down, I completely expected another gain rather than a loss and I was pleasantly surprised. I'm officially down 20lbs! I've lost a small toddler! Or a giant cat! Or two sacks of potatoes! Whatever the unit of measurement is that you prefer to represent 20lbs, I've lost it!

When I first started this, I saw the pounds fly off like little birds in the distance and I was full of happiness and I was super braggy. I made sure I told everyone how good I was doing, and how when I get super hot When I reached 10lbs, I felt like a supermodel and I was convinced that I was one. Active imagination aside, I knew that I was feeling good and I would soon start to look good. My progress has been slow, partially due to my camping weekend and partially due to my body slowing its pace. My weight was not put on in a matter of weeks or months, it steadily kept crept up each year, and I would rather my weight be shed slowly.

I haven't been a healthy weight in over a decade, so when I try to imagine what that means I become a little overwhelmed. I try to picture my outside matching my insides, and the way I feel about myself now, and it's almost impossible because I am so used to looking in a mirror and seeing a larger version of myself. I love myself despite the excess weight and minor things I'd like to change about my appearance. (I'm lookin' at you nose and bushy eyebrows.) I've always had good sense of who I am outside of my weight, and despite my need and want to change my weight, I have always been confident in myself. I was born with my confidence and I will carry this confidence with me for the rest of my life.

I keep mentioning how I'm not in this alone, and I truly know that I am not, especially when it comes to my sister Melissa who I want to brag about for just a second. Without her I would have given up a long time ago. She was the one who initially started this whole thing, and went out and bought our groceries. She is continually buying the healthy food, even when I beg and plead for candy, she kindly reminds me that it may not be the wisest choice for me to have. Melissa has lost 25.5lbs and I have never been so proud of her in my entire life. She's transforming before my very eyes, and in all positive ways. Melissa has always been someone I looked up to, and wanted to be like, and now more than ever I feel that way. She is the steady rock in all this, and I'm thankful that I have her. She has been there to commiserate with me when my stomach is an empty pit and no matter what I eat, it will never be full again. She has also been here to rejoice with me in my losses. Together we're gaining so much more, and our bond as sisters is becoming stronger. I love her infinitely, and I am excited to continue this path with her.

I always like to joke than when I do reach my goal weight, I'll be the size of a small child. While that is untrue, I am content enough to know that thus far, I have lost the weight of a small toddler. And by the time I am through, I will have lost enough weight that it equals out to another human. I don't look at my life in days or weeks or months, I look at my life in minutes and hours; and I don't look at my weight in pounds and percentages, I look at my weight in rewards and I see a manicure and pedicure in my very near future.

Motivation.

I don't feel very fabulous today. In fact, I haven't been feeling fabulous the last week. I don't know if it's because I was sad that my brother left, or if it's because I feel as if I was getting sick. For whatever the reasons were, I haven't felt like myself in a week.

Whenever I feel the slow creep of depression cast over me like a cloud, I lose all motivation and interest in everything and everyone I love. I start to doubt all the positives in my life, and slowly turn them into negatives. The fatigue steep in my bones like tea, and I am unable to move for even the most basic needs. Using the bathroom is a task that requires a pep talk, and turning over in my bed makes my bones rattle and scream out. It's not an unusual thing, and I know I'm not the only person in the world to feel this way; but when it's happening to me, I feel like Tom Hanks in Castaway. Very isolated and alone. I know, truly and deeply, that I am not alone, and that I never have been nor do I need to every worry that I will be; but during times like this it's hard to remember that. It's hard to find the motivation to pull myself out of this.

The problem this time isn't unhealthy food. It's my unhealthy habits surrounding food. For the past week, I have either eaten too much or too little of a meal, and drank barely any water. My hydration level was low, and therefore effecting every facet of my daily life. Like I said, the basic tasks are the hardest to find motivation for. Whereas before, I would find reasons to get up and move from my desk, from my couch, from my bed; I found none. Wherever I plopped myself down was where I was until I needed to move.

This week I decided that no matter how unmotivated I feel and how much sadness I feel in my tendons and my sinews, I will do things each day to improve my life. Whether that be writing this blog, drinking more water or excerising, I will do it. Old habits are hard to kill, but I have to start somewhere.

Today I have eaten all my meals and snacks and despite feeling hungry for more, I have not given in, and tried to barter with co-workers for more. I have drank 3 bottles of water, and I have plans to go walking tonight with Melissa and Pulito. I'm attempting to put mountains and miles between my depression and me, and the only way I can do that is if I fight instead of accepting this as fate. Depression is a lonely hell, but I'm not willing to stay there.

Tug and pull.

For almost the entirety of my adult life, my Grandma and Auntie have been trying to convince me to get gastric bypass surgery or something similar. This isn't presented in the form of tenderness and well being, it's presented in the form of them giving me an age that if I don't die by, they would be greatly shocked. I am a stubborn person, and each time I am told that I must immediately call my doctor and schedule my pre-op appointment, I become more firm in my decision to not have the surgery.

I have considered the option of weight loss surgery, and I've made lists detailing all the pros and cons I could think of. I researched online success stories and horror stories. The horror stories stuck with me much more due to my severe hypochondria. I weighed my options (and myself multiple times trying to decide if I really needed it), and I consulted a few friends and asked their advice. I once worked with a woman who had gastric bypass done and she told me she regretted it because of the excess skin she was unable to get rid of. She said medically she felt great, and had never felt better about herself except when it came to the excess skin.

I have always flipped flopped on the idea of surgery. I've already had surgery on my stomach to remove my gall bladder back in January 2012. The doctors weren't sure if I was going to be cut open or I was able to have a laparoscopic procedure. The reason was that I was so big, and they weren't sure which would be safer. In the end they were able to perform the surgery done laparoscopically, and I came out of it with three scars the size of ants. I was so relived that I wouldn't have a giant scar that would prevent me from fulfilling my true destiny: bikini model. Kidding, I'm totally becoming a mermaid. How will I ever find my perfect merman if I have the scar the size of a toddler's arm?

Another reason why I decided against weight loss surgery is because if I have surgery and it's a quick fix with minimal effort (because let's face it, my full name is Sarah I'll Do It Tomorrow With Minimal Effort Tompkins), then what am I accomplishing? Yes, I will have a healthier body; but will I have a healthier mindset? For me personally, I know I wouldn't. I wouldn't be working through my issues with food. As much as I don't want to admit it, I definitely have issues with foods. I frequently feel the tug of what I know I should eat and the pull of what I shouldn't. It's a never ending tug of war, and more often than not the food I shouldn't eat wins.

I'm not saying that weight loss surgery is a negative thing; but for me I need to discover which emotions are attached to food and how I can live my life without relying on food for emotional support. If there comes a time when after eating healthy and working out, I'm still failing; I'll consult my doctor.

One of my main goals this week has been trying to maintain awareness as to which emotions make me want to binge eat. And I try and find healthy distractions to prevent that from happening. It doesn't always work, but I know that eventually I will learn to replace my comfort foods with comfort activities. There will always be a tug and pull and one side will always win out, but as long as the healthy side wins more often than not, I'll be satisfied.