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.

Things are looking UP (Down)


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Ok, so I am so happy to share this lovely news. For the first time in like, ever, I woke up this morning and got dressed, and was so happy with the clothing that I put on that I didn’t even change once.

Let me backtrack a little, two months ago, I would make a mess of my closet looking for something that didn’t make me look like a Michelin Man, something that didn’t expose too much fat, or something that wasn’t too tight that made me look like a jolly stuffed sausage. Getting dressed would take at most, ten minutes, I wouldn’t do my hair, because I wouldn’t care, and I used to look like a disgusting slob (Ronnies words). Today, I woke up, I got my hair did and I put on panty hose and a dress. I looked in the mirror, and said “wow, I look good” I HAVE NEVER EVER SAID THOSE WORDS TO MYSELF. I actually look good.

Today I’m getting so many compliments on how lovely and feminine I look. Is this because I dressed like a slob for the last year I’ve been working in the fashion industry? Either way, I feel good… na na na na na na na

Dream, Dream, Dream


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I promised my Mom and Auntie Manny that I would never blog again about making fun of myself. However, this story is a hilarious one. Last night I went to bed at 3:00 am, I had a terrible night and was a grumpy case all night. Anyway, I finally fall asleep, and after watching four too many episodes of RHOBH, and seeing ten thousand commercials for The Keg, I found myself going to bed hungry. I promised myself that the kitchen was the forbidden zone after 8:00 pm. So I stayed in my bed like a proper young lady. Anyway, I had the most INCREDIBLE dream about meat last night. It was like Willy Wonka’s magic land, except with filet mignon, and roast beef, and steak and steak and steak everywhere. It really felt real. So real in fact that I think I started eating my arm by 4:00 am. I wake up this morning at 7:00am to find that I am sleeping in a pool of drool. I have never had a dream that felt so real. It’s sick and funny all at the same time. I’ll chew the meat without swallowing it at this point, I just don’t remember the taste at all.

Someone needs to kick the fat girl out of me. I’m making myself sick!