Read this entry if you keep up with my work witticisms, I backdated the entry so you likely missed that one. Unless I'm the only one on your flist. XD
I tried to put this behind a cut, but apparently that erases all HTML/formatting. So screw that, but the same disclaimer I was going to use as my cut caption applies:
I'm not going to block entries because I think that's childish and defeats the point of an LJ, but I'm warning you: I'd really prefer that chicks only read the rest of this entry. Any mental damage done to guys reading things they shouldn't know about is NOT my responsibility.
I've been meaning to write this post for a really long time. Waiting, for what I'm not sure. This moment, I guess. The moment where the internet has temporarily died, yet I have everything online finished, and at the same time have two and a half hours before I have to be at work.
So. Um. Where to start?
I guess back when I was a kid. I was never thin. I have never been thin at any point of my life. Ever. Period. Mmkay?
Of course nobody cared when I was little. I was a cute, chubby kid. I had my little red curls and giggled and I was incredibly smart (I was reading sentences out of newspapers when I was three, though that's irrelevant to the topic at hand) and so it didn't matter.
I was never very active. My idea of "playing outside" was to wander aimlessly around the patio, ride my trike in the garage, or (the few times Mom let the garage get dirty) grafitti-ing all the flat surfaces with sidewalk chalk. (Oh, yes, my artist roots started VERY young!) I only did active things occasionally, and usually when it was someone else's idea.
It wasn't until after we moved from our house in town out to where we live now (I was barely seven when we moved, I remember having my seventh birthday and knowing that we were leaving the house in a few days) that I became aware of this. I don't remember what was said to me or who said it but in the new house I was made aware of the fact that I was overweight. With all the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old (and up) I firmly denied it whenever the topic came up. And it's still my personal opinion that kids under, like, eleven or twelve, shouldn't be made paranoid about that kind of thing. It's too much to deal with.
But I still knew it, denial or no. I have a very distinct memory of standing in front of the bathroom mirror one day when I was nine, after a shower or changing clothes or something, and studying myself, and saying to myself, "You are a big fat slob."
That's horrible. I was NINE, people! I was still watching "Mister Roger's Neighborhood" for pity's sake! And yet the people in my life were making me think that kind of thing.
It was something that I tried not to think about too much anyway. Occasionally it would be thrown in my face but I would throw a temper tantrum if someone actually hurt my feelings, and then no one would mention it for a long time. They were scared to.
But really. My grandmother was convinced I had thyroid problems, since she and my sister Alicia do, so she actually offered me a hundred dollars to have blood work done--which I am proud to say I never took, despite the fact that at the time I was trying to save $200 for a Sega DreamCast (which I eventually got on my own, thanks very much.)
I started my period when I was eleven--and I so wasn't ready for it. I cried. I didn't want to be growing up, not like that, despite all my protests of wanting to be treated like an adult. (This will be relevant by the end of the post, I assure you.)
When I was fifteen I suffered my first real heartbreak--the kind that I don't laugh about yet, the kind that still stings a little if I dwell on it. My father wasn't very sympathetic to my whining so I quickly learned not to take it to him. But then there was one day that he was yelling at me about the way I eat and when I started to get mad at him, he actually had the GALL to say, "You know, if you ever want boys like [keeping his name private] to like you, you SHOULD think about it."
So I've had this complex for a long time thinking that no guy could ever like me and all that. I don't think I've ever quite forgiven my father for that, even though I know he wasn't right. At least, I tell myself I know that.
But damn. There are just some things that should never, ever be said, under ANY circumstances, no matter how true or false they may be. Dad's probably long forgotten that moment but I will always carry it with me.
Anyway. My periods never regulated themselves. They were totally random in every factor--frequency, heaviness...you get the idea. At one point I was having a continuous period--it wasn't heavy, but it never stopped, for weeks on end. So right before I turned eighteen (Mom thought my insurance ran out on my eighteenth birthday, turned out that it was my nineteenth, just like I told her forty million times) Mom dragged me kicking and screaming, with bribes of expensive ice cream, to the doctor. The doctor was an all-out idiot but he sent me along to a gynecologist.
I was not happy and I hated my mother for a few weeks.
They determined that I have something called PCOS--polycystic ovary syndrome. I don't understand it fully--and if you really want to know, a quick google of "PCOS" will tell you more than I ever could. I don't really care, since it's not life-threatening, and besides that, the doctors are lobbying to get my version--in which I don't have any cysts whatsoever (I had an ultrasound done at one point!! O_o)--renamed anyway. Whatever. It has something to do with insulin (apparently, unchecked, it might have developed into diabetes, especially as that runs in our family) and processing it and--arrrrrgh, I really don't care.
They tried two different medications with me, something called metformin (which I will get to momentarily), and then birth control to force a regular period. It forced a period, all right, but it was anything but regular! When I went to bed one night completely clean and woke up six hours later having soaked a pad, my PJ's, and a spot on my comforter--not once but TWICE in one week--we went back to the doctor, who readily agreed that that was NOT working and completely pulled the birth control.
They made me stay on the metformin, though. (Interestingly this is same drug my sister had to take to get pregnant. XD So apparently its uses are mutiple.)
The side effects: digestive-related. I HAVE to eat a fairly decent amount of food when I take it, and if I don't, then I get stomachaches and diarrhea. (Ew.) When food is not available (like if I go to someone's house and I can't get a full meal at 10 PM) I tend to skip it rather than suffer. It took a three-week adjustment period to get me started on it, they didn't start me at the dose I take now (which is two pills in the morning and three at bedtime.)
I don't understand what the medicine does on a chemical level any more than I understand PCOS itself. On a more noticeble level, I have finally shed a lot of weight. I'm smaller now than I was at age 16. All summer long I've been getting smaller (I attribute that partly to my job, though).
Sometime not too long before my birthday in March I bought myself a new ring for my pinkie since the size nine one I usually wore tended to fall off at least once a day. I bought a size eight and that falls off too, lol.
At the beginning of this year I tried to wear my one pair of size 26 stretch-fabric jeans as often as possible because they were comfortable. When I couldn't, I had to suck my breath in to wear my 24's. By the end of the school year I had to wear that one pair of jeans with a belt or risk exposure, lol. Near the end of July I went clothes shopping for school and I now wear a size 20. I could get the 18's on but not button/zip them. But if I keep going at this rate there's a distinct possibility of the 18's fitting by Christmas, most assuredly by my next birthday.
I found a picture taken around Labor Day of last year, when the whole family was together. The shirt I was wearing in that picture was all snug and not as flattering as it could have been. I tried that same shirt on a few weeks ago and I could grab the loose fabric in HANDFULS.
I mean, really. I was so impressed by this I'm going to post the pictures.
Here's the student ID I had made when I first started school, at the start of the Fall '03 semester: click
And here's the one that was made in late July of this year: click
Now, really, which one would you prefer?
My doctor asked if I could tell a difference in my clothes and I told her I'd had to buy a belt. I finally found one of those ultra-cool belts with the two rows of holes all the way around it that actually fit me. I've been wanting one since I was fifteen and never found one big enough until now--now that I'm smaller.
For the first time in my life (yes, literally) my chest sticks out further than my stomach, assuming I don't totally slouch, lol.
The guys seem to be nicer to me this school year than before, though that's probably wishful thinking on my part--wouldn't be the first time. *coughtimcough*
I'm actually dabbling in makeup. I've been wearing mascara since last semester, and when I had that free facial the lady sold me a little makeup--I use a pencil on my eyebrows EVERY DAY (it's so neat! My eyebrows match my HAIR! They're not BLOND!) and eyeshadow. So far only one person has actually noticed--this lady who comes through the drive-through EVERY DAY, lol.
But still. I like it.
And I'm not shy anymore. I didn't realize it until psychology class. I used to sit in classes where the instructor insisted that everyone introduce themselves and tense up and then not come up with anything. In psychology I found myself giggling at those people and then when it came to my turn didn't blink an eye at blathering on about myself for a moment. (It's one thing I picked up at camp, lol.) And really, if I have a reason to speak to someone, I don't get all butterfly-in-my-stomachy like I used to. (With cute guys, it's still a different story entirely...but hey! Even that's easier than it USED to be.) I used to be terrified of strangers and new situations.
Basically, with the weight loss came this huge burst of confidence. I don't know why, since I never thought that I placed my insecurities with my weight.
As far as I'm concerned, I still have a long way to go. I'd like to get down to, like, a size 12ish or smaller eventually, sometime between now and 25 at the latest. I still refuse to have a mirror in my bedroom--probably always will. And all of this being happy with myself flies out the window whenever I have to take a shower and see myself naked. But I'm not going to complain, because I think I've come a long way the past few years on so many levels.
Really.
I'm losing weight.
I quit biting my nails.
I'm a better writer.
I'm a better animé-artist, with the confidence to at least sketch in pen (though I still make my finished drawings in pencil first).
I'm more computer/Internet savvy.
I've earned my own car and everything with it--insurance, title, gas...
I'm far less inhibited than I was, even with my parents (though that's a rant in and of itself).
You know what I dread now? Having someone come into my life (The One is who comes to my mind, but maybe even a close female friend) once I'm really small, and having to explain that I wasn't always like this. I dread the idea of digging out an old scrapbook and them seeing old family pictures and asking who the fat girl next to Alicia is, you know? But I guess it's one of those things where I'll cross the bridge when I get to it.
So. Um. Yeah. Enough about me. I just kind of had to let that all out. Like I said, this post has been several months in the pondering. I'm done now.
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