thnks fr th mmrs

I"ve been pretty bad with my food lately. I don't mean in terms of eating chocolate every night or sitting down in front of the television with a bag of chips and emerging later to find only slightly salty fingers and a few crumbs right in the corners of the silver foil packets.

Randomly, I miss the packets that chips used to come in when I was a kid, the unlined, plain plastic packets that you could shrink in the oven. We used to attach them to our school bags.

No, I mean I've been bad with my food in terms of restriction.

I've been trying to lose weight since mid-May last year. In seven and a half months, I have lost 14 kilos. Except in the last four months, I have only lost about three. This is frustrating. Or, at least, I find it frustrating. Admittedly, I had kind of fallen off the wagon with regards to exercising most days and eating smaller portions before Christmas. But since then.

I have been to the gym / gone for a run / attended an hour of clinical Pilates for a total of at least five sessions a week (often more like 6 or 7), cut my portion sizes in half, and cut junk food out of my diet.

The end result? In a month, I have lost a kilo. And that was at the start of the month. At the moment, I'm wavering between 97.7 and 96.9 - it makes me want to scream.

What it's actually making me do is restrict my food. Tonight, my sister made a lamb salad for dinner. One served me a pretty small portion, but I still thought it was too much, and I tipped three quarters of it into his bowl. I ended up eating two 1 cm cubes of lamb, two tomato quarters, a few spinach leaves, two pieces of carrot and two 1 cm cubes of haloumi. This is not good, and it's not healthy. I've plotted out my daily calorie intake on CK and it's less than 1000 calories.

But I can't bring myself to eat more. I am so sick and tired of being fat, and nothing I am doing at the moment is seeming to have an effect.

This afternoon I had an appointment at the gym - they're writing up a new weights circuit for me, and I started swimming again for cardio on Saturday morning (managed to swim 1 km too, which I was pretty chuffed about). I just don't know why the weight is being stubborn and refusing to shift.

Waiting for Godot

I read this play when I was much much younger (or at least, it feels that way now). I was probably only 23, so it was five years ago now, almost six, but it feels like twenty or more years. 


I didn't understand the point of it back then. I couldn't see why they spent the entire play just hanging around, waiting for this guy to show up. Why didn't they go look for him? Why did they need him so badly?


I think I've figured it out a little now. Sometimes waiting is all you can do. Right now, waiting to see if I get my period or not, waiting to see if I'm actually pregnant this time - it's hard. I don't know if I have the courage to do much more. I know I'm doing everything I can to make sure it happens (c.f. losing weight - even if I beat myself up over my food issues and exercise habits - and seeing a gyno and taking metformin), but the waiting is hard work.


Is this nausea morning sickness? Or am I just vomiting as a bad metformin reaction? (I know they say to stick to a low carb, low fat diet on metformin, which I do, but it has not seemed to make a difference with the GI side effects for me. I will go a week or so with no side-effects, eating whatever  I like, and then bam, as soon as I toughen up my diet again, welcome home, feelings of nausea and intense cramping pain until I run to the bathroom with explosive diarrhea.)


Are my breasts tender because I'm pregnant, or is it just my body warning me my period's about to arrive?


I know I could take a pregnancy test - but I don't have the courage. I don't know if I want my heart to be broken again just yet. Right now, all I have the strength to do is just wait.

Home is where the heart is... or something

It's been an awfully long time coming (and by that I mean, I wasn't the kind of girl who dreamt about her wedding being the most perfect day of her life - instead, I dreamt about houses. I drew floorplans. I thought up decorating schemes. I plotted out the ideal permaculture vegetable garden when I was 12, for heaven's sake). 


Yes. One and I are starting to look for a house to buy. We're in a bit of a complicated situation at the moment, house-sitting for friends who are currently overseas - and looking that they're going to remain that way for a while - so we have a stable place to live for the moment, but we've also inherited their two cats (more on them later).


We've known for a little while that our deposit will be enough to start properly looking come July, and I know it's early, but not being native to Melbourne, we don't really have much of an idea about the areas to look in, much less buy in.


Ideally, we would like to stay on the western side of the city (because that's where all our connections are), and we were thinking we wanted to stay closer in, so we've kind of been looking from Airport West down to Newport - and then today, we went out to Taylor's Lakes for an appointment. Driving through the suburbs, One made a throwaway comment that our money could get us a 3 x 2 out there instead of the poky little 2 x 1  houses that we've been looking at.


And there would definitely be room for a puppy and a veggie patch, both things that I know are part of my dream house (and not just because they were always in my pictures as a kid) (One is not so sold on the puppy, by the way - or the veggie patch - gardening is not really his thing).


So now I suppose we have a difficult decision to make. While on one hand, I would love to buy an older house in need of some renovations, with a little room to extend, at the same time, I would also love to buy a house which doesn't need any work, one we can move into straight away and I can start my veggie garden.


I suppose if everything in life were easy, we'd all get bored very quickly.

Leveling up

I've always been a bit of a geek, but before I met One, it was mostly channeled into books. I loved books. Actually, that's a lie - I still love books (One bought me a Kindle for Christmas and I swear I have read at least 60, if not 70, books since he gave it to me early - yes, I got it in October. Moving on).


But, since I met One, my geekiness has been channeled into pathways matching his. We play video games together (I am playing Skyrim at the moment; he is mostly playing The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword). We buy presents for each other from Think Geek (my favourite is the beaker mug he bought me - not only can I drink tea out of it, which is another post, my love for tea, but it speaks to my science geek side too). Every Tuesday night our friends come over to our place for dinner and a nice rousing game of Dungeons and Dragons. 


So it's not really surprising that when I decided in May to get serious about this getting fit and losing weight thing, I decided to treat it as leveling myself up. Okay, I admit to possibly being somewhat creatively inspired by this xkcd comic. 


And now I can actually treat it as leveling up. Instead of just charting my exercise and weight loss in my spreadsheet (er - one  of my friends at work asked me how I was staying so motivated and I told her about the spreadsheet and then she made a joke about how it's always easy to tell when scientists decide to lose weight), I can track it on a website. Here, in fact.

And they're right. It's addictive. 


Today already, One and I went for our usual run this morning, but this afternoon I went to the gym on my way home, and then, because it was such a beautiful day (and I may or may not be addicted to filling in forms on websites and earning imaginary points), I walked most of the way home. 


Um. At least (so far) it's a positive addiction?

The day I hate the most

Today my period arrived. I had been feeling it threatening for the last few days, but it was already five days late, so I had my fingers and toes crossed, and was steadfastly ignoring the bloating and the ominous cramping (because if you ignore things, they just go away and you don't have to worry about them, right?), but to no avail.


It's both awful - obviously, because it means I have failed once again - and somewhat positive - because it means I am establishing an almost-regular cycle, something I have never ever had.


I know. From the time I got my first period (which my mother announced to all of her family, much to my shame and embarrassment - I guess I was lucky, at least there wasn't a cake or a party...) when I was 13, until I forced them into some semblance of normality by using synthetic hormones, my periods have never been regular.


I've been through it all. No periods for six months. Bleeding for three weeks straight. One period, followed by another less than two weeks later, and another two weeks after that. Looking back on it, I'm amazed I wasn't diagnosed much sooner than I was.


But. For  it to arrive now, five days late (and well, considering I only stopped taking the pill at the end of October and haven't really settled into a cycle yet), is what I'm trying to see as a bright spot.


A little more backstory:


In early 2008, I had a Mirena IUD put in - I was almost 25 and had just been on several "heavy hormone" pills that were supposedly specifically designed to combat the symptoms of PCOS. I found them all rough.


Without exception, they all took away whatever libido I had, made me suicidal, and ridiculously angry. I'd had enough, and after doing my own research about the Mirena, which seemed to indicate that it contained the lowest dose of progesterone available in any form of birth control at the time - and, the fact it was only going to cost me a total of $80 for 5 years of contraception seemed like an added bonus - made up my mind.


Midway through 2008, One and I moved to Melbourne. I wasn't doing anything to manage my PCOS, really. We didn't plan on having kids for what seemed like ages, and let's be honest - I was pretty lazy (plus, and maybe this is the real reason, I hate failing. Of any kind. I hate it so much, I often won't even try something I think I'm going to fail at - why try, when I'm going to fail anyway? Better not to try it at all right? So I'd convince myself I was just going to fail at the losing weight and managing my PCOS game too, and not even bother trying).


Then, in late 2010, my IUD fell out. Literally. I went to the bathroom, thought "hey, I don't remember putting a tampon - oh. That's my IUD."


I found a 24/7 GP who checked me out, reassured me it had come out in one piece, but agreed it was strange for it to just fall out like that, so decided to refer me to a gynecologist.


This is where the biggest stroke of luck ever happened. The gyno he referred me to was an obstetrician as well, and had no appointments free for new gyno patients until March 2011. Seeing as it was October 2010, she agreed this wasn't particularly helpful, but suggested one of her partners, who is purely a gyno. A gyno who specialises in infertility and has a special interest in PCOS, actually.


So off I trotted to the gyno in November 2010. By that stage, One and I were at least talking about kids (I said right then and now; no-one's ever ready; he said no, he wanted us to wait a bit longer. We agreed to reassess in a year's time).


The gyno sent me for another whole panel of blood tests and another trans-vaginal ultrasound. The hormone panel came back with, surprise, surprise, a diagnosis of PCOS. The trans-vaginal ultrasound said I had >19 cysts on my left ovary and >25 cysts on my right ovary. Oh, and a septate uterus.


What.


For confirmation, I had a saline ultrasound (not the most pleasant procedure ever, my uterus was pumped full of saline and then ultra-sounded - I don't think that's a word. Never mind), during which I kept a death grip on One's hand.


The doctor who did the saline ultrasound laughed jovially when he saw my uterus blown up to 100 x life size on the monitor, and assured me it was the least septate uterus he'd seen in 20 years. Also, 10 of the cysts on my left ovary had vanished, and taken at least 15 of their friends from my right ovary. In a month. Right.


The conclusion that One and I came to later was that either a trainee totally misread my original ultrasound films or that they were mixed up with someone else's - because really.


So the gyno prescribed me a year's worth of the pill, and I spent another year wanting to kill myself (seriously, I cannot talk about my depression without trying to make a joke out of it. I think this probably says a lot about me), and watching my libido spiral away to past nothingness.


Finally, in early October this year, I got to go back and say those magic words. "We're trying to start a family."


Now I am taking 1500 mg of Metformin a day, as well as a folate tablet and trying to lose as much weight as sensibly as possibly, trying not to come apart at the seams and praying every day that I do not feel that downward dragging cramping that means my period has arrived.

I've never been very good at beginnings

I'm Two. Or, well, you can call me Two. I'm not really Two. Call it a safe preservation of anonymity or something. I'm not very good at sharing things with people in real life, at times when I actually have to be honest and look them in the eye and all that kind of messy feeling stuff.

It's not because I don't feel. Sometimes I think I feel too much. I get overwhelmed with feeling, and find myself crying at ridiculous things, or biting my lip to stop myself crying in a cinema full of happy families, or watching silly trashy television shows.

The trouble is, I want. I want so much. I want a family of my own.

And it's hard. For eleven years, I've taken precautions to make sure that I didn't start a family. Now it looks like I didn't need to bother.

Backstory (yes, there will be a test later):

When I was 22, I was diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome. I didn't have abnormal numbers of cysts, but I fitted the hormonal profile, the facial hair growth (it's embarassing to admit I have to pluck or shave my chin hairs every second day), the male acne patterns (why, hello there, back acne. You're not even satisfying to squeeze because I can't reach you!), the skin tags in the armpits, and the weight gain. Oh yes, the weight gain.

I've always been on the fat side of plump, for as long as I can remember. The first time I ever remember noticing was when I went to primary school, and my belly stuck out more than the other girls. I don't remember being worried about it, or concerned, it just - was what it was.

When I was ten, I was walking back from church with the rest of my class (don't even get me started on that, please), and one teacher said to another, "Isn't Two growing up, look, she's losing all her baby fat." I'm not sure if I was supposed to overhear that; in fact, I'm almost sure I wasn't supposed to. But it made me aware that I was skinnier now than I had been previously - at least, I was compared to everyone else in my class.

It was about then that I started reading fashion magazines. Aimed at ten to sixteen year olds, they were full of advice on boys, and clothes, and music - and, of course, how you needed to look to attract boys, and wear the right sort of clothes, and listen to the right sort of music. I started being picked on, and food was always there - it didn't let me down, it didn't judge me, or punch me, or ignore my existence. It was comforting.

I wanted to be just like the models I saw in the pages of the magazines. Except I kind of always knew, deep down, that I was too fat. And then my mother decided I needed to lose weight. I was twelve, the first time she told me that I needed to watch what I was eating, and cut down, and do more exercise. In later years, she hastened to add that it wasn't because she was worried about how I looked, no, she was worried about my health.

She's always been the first person to compliment me on any weight loss, or criticise me on any weight gained, real or imaginary. I can't really judge her though. She hasn't let much slip about her own "trials and tribulations" with body image and her weight, but from what she has said, I gather she finds it difficult to keep herself in a state she likes.

And that's my problem. I don't find myself in the least bit attractive, or sexy, or cute. I hate my body. There's a quote in "Real Gorgeous", a book by Kaz Cooke, from a woman in Darwin. She says, "When I was a teenager, I used to wish aliens would beam me up, and roll my fat off my body, like a giant fat suit. And then I could be myself." To a large extent, I've always felt like that. Somewhere, I'm sure, under this stuff, is me, and maybe I could like myself if it wasn't all in the way. (I'm sure some, if not all, of these feelings of self-loathing go back to primary school - but that's a post for later).

Mum and I started going to WeightWatchers when I was sixteen (and then again, a few years later, when I was nineteen). Sure, it worked for a little while - these things often do. But I fell back into the old familar traps of emotional eating and shrinking back in on myself (only not literally - I was putting more and more weight on), and it all came back. And this time, it brought friends. And then I would get more depressed, because clearly I had no self-control, and wasn't I a bad person for not being able to force myself to look like those girls in the magazines?

I don't have a 'real' eating disorder now, per se. I was always too scared of going too far and looking like a skeleton to toy seriously with anorexia, and I couldn't bring myself to wreck my teeth with stomach acid, so no bulimia for me either (why yes, shallow is my middle name). I just - punish myself with food, I suppose. I don't generally eat breakfast. I'll limit what I eat or control it in some other way (bingeing, or choosing certain food, or making myself wait certain lengths of time) if I feel out of control in some other way - often some other way triggered by my weight.

When I was 22, I was finally diagnosed with PCOS, and things started to make a bit more sense. There can be increased insulin insensitivity, so your body craves carbs to 'mop up' the extra insulin, and as a result, more insulin is produced - and so on, in a vicious cycle (are there any not vicious cycles?). The diagnosis was a fun process too - I had three trans-vaginal ultrasounds while they tried to decide.

At the moment? I hate my body. I hate myself. I hate these irritating lumps and bumps and rolls that I've developed, I hate the fact that so many of my clothes don't fit me, or strain and gape at the buttons, or just don't look quite right. Today, I hated the fact that my stomach was getting in the way when I was shaving my legs in the shower.

The problem is not that I love food. Of course I love food! Food keeps us alive, and if we're alive we can breed; we're biologically wired to love food. There's nothing wrong with loving food.

My problem, I think, is that if I lose weight, I suddenly lose my protective shell as well. And I'm not quite sure that I'm ready to do that. I mean, I'll never know unless I give it a try, and "lose weight" is always one of my resolutions, and goals, and whatever else you want to label it, but I just never seem to be able to follow through. It's as though some part of my mind has already measured me up to those images in glossy magazines, and billboards, and on tv, and told me that I'm never ever going to measure up, so why should I bother to even try?

But. (This is embarassing, and it makes me ashamed to write, but maybe it will continue to make me do something about it). On January 1st, last year, I weighed 111 kilos, pretty much exactly. As of this morning, when I got on the scales, I weighed 98.2 kilos.

I guess I have to just keep plugging away.