My Constant Battle


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Obviously with weight loss surgery, comes struggles and battles. Battles such as, losing weight in general, learning to love yourself, making the right choices, not going to restaurants etc. Right now, my biggest battle is dealing with that dreadful question that every person asks me. Showing off my weight loss, and broadcasting it for the world to see, I am clearly asking for questions, and remarks etc, but sometimes, that one question just brings me down.

“How many pounds are you down?”. Why does everyone care about the number of pounds? To be honest, the number of pounds lost, is the least important part of the whole journey. We’re trained to think that the number lost is the most important part of a persons weight loss journey.  If you want to ask important questions, and receive positive replies from me, or anyone losing weight for that matter, you can ask questions like: “do you feel good about yourself?” , “are you happy?” , “do you notice a difference?”, other questions and comments about how great I look and how beautiful I am are really appreciated as well. While my weight loss number may not have changed in the last month, my pant size has decreased, and my confidence level has increased. The scale is an evil tool that really only helps in bringing you down. Why should we care about the number? What’s so important about it? If I’m getting on the scale, and notice that I’ve lost two pounds, I’m going to treat myself, because I’ve lost. Had I not known about this little two pound weight loss, I would have continued on my merry little way and not treat myself to any treats. I’ve gone from the morbidly obese category, to just plain obese. That is HUGE! That’s an accomplishment in itself.

I personally feel that whenever someone asks me how many pounds I lost, I get discouraged. In my mind I think, “only xxx pounds lost in 6 months?, that’s terrible, you could have done so much better”. But I know that when I look at pictures, and when I see myself in the mirror, it’s more than just the number. Muscle weighs more than fat, and if I’m going to the gym 4+ times a week, obviously my weight loss will be less than a person who wouldn’t be working out.

Maybe some people don’t know, maybe it doesn’t bother anyone, but personally I think that this “number” is really an unimportant part of the whole process. I am proud to say that I am happy where I am. I am proud with how far I’ve come, and I’m proud to say that I’ve met my goals. I may be taking my time, but at least I can proudly say that I haven’t gained a single pound in six months!

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6 months post op. Side shot.

My Personal Fashion Statement


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My clothing options weren’t always the best choice. I would have two extremes. Either I would dress myself up as a homeless bag lady, or I’d pretend that I weighed 120 pounds and wear booty shorts with a barely there t-shirt. Either way, no matter the outfit, I looked ridiculous. It’s funny though. I would leave my house, thinking I looked absolutely spectacular, and it would take only one strange look for me to feel ridiculous in my outfit of the day. I’ve come to the realization that nobody can make me feel pretty but me. Maybe I like my oversized sweaters. They’re comfy and make me look ten pounds larger than I really am. I like them and I’m comfortable in them, so I will wear them! Maybe I also like to show off my pleasantly plump belly button. I like my belly button. I think it’s nice and perfectly rounded and perfect in general. Why shouldn’t I want to show that bad boy off?

Maybe it’s because I’ve never loved myself up until now, or because I’m learning to love me for me. Who knows. Whatever it is. Maybe someday I will want to wear fancy couture, or I will want to wear less revealing boobie clothes and more revealing bum bum clothes. If I feel good in what I’m wearing, then I will wear it. Let there be reactions from others, I’ll take it as a compliment. I’ll love me, no matter what I wear. I’m more important than what the clothes on my back.

Charlie Hane sent me this little piece yesterday, and I was blown away by it…

 

“I just know that I was tired. I was tired of thinking less of myself because others did. People always ask me, ‘You have so much confidence. Where did that come from?’ It came from me. One day I decided that I was beautiful, and so I carried out my life as if I was a beautiful girl. I wear colors that I really like, I wear makeup that makes me feel pretty, and it really helps. It doesn’t have anything to do with how the world perceives you. What matters is what you see. Your body is your temple, it’s your home, and you must decorate it”- Gabourey Sidibe.

I Could Have Been Honey Moo Moo


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When I was a child, I was the most beautiful thing in the world. I sometimes wonder why my mom didn’t put me in beauty pageants like Honey Boo Boo Child, or just put me in modeling? Maybe I would have stayed thin, if I was a model. People always told her that I was beautiful; not just a pretty face. Mama, why didn’t you listen to nice strangers?

Sometimes I think what life would have been like had I been born skinny and not developed a weight problem. Pretty boring if you ask me. At least now I have a story to tell, and I can laugh at myself without getting depressed about it. I guess being fat was kind of like, my story, and it taught me a lot. It taught me not to eat after nine, it taught me how to stand up to bullies, and it taught me how to love me for me. I guess in a way I appreciate where I came from and how much I’ve accomplished.

Part of me can still wish I would have been in modeling though. I would have loved to dress in expensive clothing and drive around in a convertible all year and live in California. Until then, I will continue on dressing in Wal-Mart brand clothing (not really, but y’noh) and drive around on the metro around the city.

Today Is The Fourth!


One thing I’ve realized, is that you’re not truly ready to do something until you’re ready to do it for yourself. When I started on my diets fifteen years ago, I only did them to make my mom or the rest of my family proud. It makes sense that in the end, all of these diets were sabotaged, and I ended up ballooning instead of shrinking.

From February 4th 2013, I made it my mission, that everything I did, I would do it for myself. If I wasn’t serious about doing it for myself, then it ultimately wouldn’t happen. While I love each and every persons support, and it means so much; I now realize that I’m not doing this to please other people. I am doing this to make myself happy.

I have never been more happy than I have been today. I can finally say that I love myself, that I am happy when I look in the mirror, and that I wouldn’t change a thing about me. If I had to stay where I was today, at 208 pounds, then fine; let it be. I’m healthier than I’ve been in forever, I’m happier, and I have a reason to wake up every morning.

I am tired of trying to please others. I’m happy I took the time to do it for myself, because look who’s smiling now.

I Got A Divorce


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I love chocolate. I love chocolate plain, on bread, on pizza, on popcorn, on chips, on everything. I will eat any kind of chocolate, anywhere, any time. Chocolate is my addiction. Chocolate is the silent killer. Chocolate is the enemy; Helga’s enemy. Wait, chocolate, is not the enemy. Chocolate is the lover that never lets you down, listens to all your problems, but comes back to bite you in the fat ass when you step on to the scale.

Yesterday, while doing my oh-so healthy grocery shopping, I noticed that the unholiest of chocolates were on sale. You know those chocolates? The ones that are shaped like perfect little eggs, with perfect little candy coating, in that perfectly packaged purple wrapping? The ones that only come out around Easter, and then go half price the day after. MINI EGGS. Mini Eggs. MINI EFFING EGGS. I love mini eggs. Mini eggs are killer. If I could, I would probably marry mini eggs, but that would just be weird, because then I’d eat my lover and be single again. Weh. Anyway, so while I’m doing my grocery shopping, I notice this sinful cart of literally 300 bags of mini eggs staring at me in the face. The worst part about this cart, was the fact that there was a ginormous 50% off sale sticker on the front of it. How could I resist? My favorite chocolate, at 50% off. It was like meant to be. (shut up, Helga). Anyway, there was a small bag, and then the bigger bag with 5x the chocolate in it for 50 cents more. I put the bigger bag in my cart and didn’t think twice. As I approach the cash, I look in my cart, I put the eggs away and say goodbye. Two seconds later, the eggs magically appeared in my cart again. This happened a total of four times, until the hideous Bulky Bernard tapped on my shoulder and says to me in his animalistic voice:” either take them or put them back lady”. I was mortified, and put those bad boys down. The mini eggs and I, we’re through. I just signed the divorce papers.

Celeste and Simone are standing around me now, and we are describing the perfectness of a Cadbury Mini Egg. It’s the crunch, the amount of chocolate, the right amount of candy to chocolate ratio. OK, seriously, shut Helga up, she’s getting in the way of my healthy thoughts.

Anyway, I’m strong, and I can walk away from mini eggs. Be strong people! Eat a normal egg!

Another Big Thank You


So, I just stuffed myself, not realizing that I just had my entire stomach removed, and now I feel like I’m going to barf. So before I go ahead and do that, I wanted to say thank you again to everyone that has been so crazy nice to me during this whole thing. My Mommy Ronnie Ginger, I’m sorry I was mean to you at the hospital, you just like to touch me a lot, and when I’m in a lot of pain, I just want to be left alone. Also, I don’t like when you compare me to Grandma Gillian. To Manny Ginger, thank you so much for everything, and spending the day at the hospital to keep Ronnie company. I loved my Teddy Bear, and it was nice to have something fuzzy to sleep with at night while all I heard was coughing and yelling in the hallways. Thank you to Donald Chow for staying until nighttime and coming back at 6:00 am to watch me walk the halls looking for a popsicle. Thank you to Holly Netherwood, Barbara Candyland, Rhoda Clarice Greenberg Adams for checking on me so much and making sure I was ok. Thank you to the nice nurses that medicated me just when I needed it, and of course the nurse that came to burp me when I thought I was near death. Thank you to Auntie Shonda Clementine and Auntie Candy Vagine who came over the same week of my surgery to clean my entire apartment from top to bottom; which I still kept clean by the way. Thank you to my Grandma Gillian for making me chicken soup, and my Papa Zack that calls me everyday just to hear my voice. Thank you Margaret Steinberg and Dale Morganstein who came to visit me in the hospital and witnessed my infectious IV getting taken out. Dale, that was really sweet of you to hold my hand while Donald was gone. Thank you Morris Levenstein who took the time everyday to send me a nice message and cheer me on with my progress. Thank you everyone at work today that made me feel extra popular and cool and came up to talk to me today and kept telling me how great I looked (Keep it coming, by the way). Thanks to everyone who likes all my selfie pics on Instagram on Facebook. I’m cool like that.

A huge thank you goes out to all that have contacted me, it truly means a lot to me… the littlest things have the greatest impact.