Friday, April 23, 2010

Blame Canada

I'm probably in the wrong frame of mind to write an entry, but too much time has elapsed since my last one, so now it is. The main reason that I'm about as upbeat as a Lars Von Trier film right now is not because I ate cold cauliflower for dinner, but because of Canada. 

That's right. Those maple syrup producing, eh saying, French speaking, Olympic hosting, milquetoasty neighbors to our north are the reason I am pissy. (Ordinarily I have no problems with Canucks, as they go peacefully about most things. But this time, a line's been crossed. Allow me to explain, eh?)

Since I'm an overweight female writer who's still unmarried at 33 and lives alone with my cat, I shouldn't have to tell you that I'm on anti-depressants, but for the sake of full disclosure, I will. So. I am. And for some unknown reason, those darling little pills -- which normalize my personality and stop me from saying to a kid who stared at me too long in Wal-Mart that the reason I have a scar on my face* is because a monster crawled out from under my bed and took a bite out of me in the middle of the night -- are mighty expensive. 

* Yes, I was in a totally ridonkulous accident 3 years ago that left a scar on my face. Probably as cosmic payback for taunting small children. 

 (still scares the bejeesus out of me)

And even though I have insurance, I have elected to save as much moolah as possible by ordering my goods from Canada, since it's markedly cheaper. So for well over a year, I've been getting my drugs from this one company. 

Has this company done shit that's gotten on my nerves over that year? Yes. Like requiring my doctor send in a script every time I re-order instead of allowing for normal click-n-ship refills. And like playing a four day long game of phone tag with a devilish French woman named Capucine who just wants to confirm my order, every single fucking time. (How about this. How about, if I see that I've accidentally placed an order for $300 worth of birth control instead of Zoloft, and accidentally given you the delivery address of a convent,  I'll call YOU to straighten it out. Otherwise, just assume that I know how to fucking order online and SEND. MY. SHIT.)

So back in late March, I placed an order with these turds, and -- long story short (lucky you) -- I still haven't received it. Even though my poor beleaguered doctor has faxed that shit to them two or three times -- the Canucks insist they haven't received it.  I mean, either they have a fax machine from the set of Office Space or some prankster on their end simply eats incoming faxes -- who knows. What I do know is that I feel punchy and anxious. And that is not the mindset you want to be in when you're restricting your carbs. That mindset allows you to go get tacos from Taco Bell (henceforth known as Toxic Hell) and then cry while eating them.

Not that I did. I'm just saying. 

And maybe it's tied to my yo-yo with the meds, but my weight loss has totally stalled. Why? I'm not eating one thing I enjoy, so therefore, I should lose weight! Dammit! 

In that vein, a friend of mine once said to me, "Have you ever eaten something and actually enjoyed it?" And after a long pause, my answer was -- and remains -- NO. I haven't. I learned about calories and fat grams and carbs at a young age, and so that information was always in the back of my head whenever I lifted something to my pie hole to take a bite. To me, truly enjoying something would mean eating it guilt-free. And I have no frame of reference for how to go about that. I'm too busy thinking I shouldn't have eaten it at all, I shouldn't have eaten so much, I should've made a smarter choice, gee I wish I could have more of that, gee I wish people weren't with me because I'd eat the whole thing...It's something I can't escape. I don't know how chill the fuck out about food.

Of course, having LapBand surgery a few years ago -- easily one of the biggest mistakes of my life, along with an ex boyfriend of mine who had more body hair than a full grown bear -- does fix the "nom-nom-nom, I'm going to eat the whole bag!" scenario. Because I can't. Most of the time, I have to choke down my food like a baby bird, lest my eyes glaze over and I sprint from the table, into the bathroom, to throw up. If I even look at something the wrong way, it might not go down just right. And yet. 

 (believe me, this was the least disgusting picture I could find)

Having LapBand never caused me to lose weight. It's a means, alright, but not a very effective one. (I'll have to write a blog entry about that another day. It deserves its own story.) Even using it as a tool (which is a very popular term in LapBand vernacular) hasn't helped me lose more than 20lbs or so. In fact, it makes me quite uncomfortable -- thinking about the steps I've taken in my entire life to actually like the way I look. I've gone to ridiculous, yet fruitless, lengths and I'm afraid that regardless of the results, I'll never be happy. 

Anti-depressants say what? And yes, folks, I've talked about all this with a therapist. A lot. Everyone should have a therapist -- they're great fun! Knowing and naming your issues is a big part of the process, yes. Indeedy. But taking actual steps to get right with yourself and make changes is undoubtedly the hardest part. And it's the part I haven't conquered yet. 

I'm sure once I get my meds in me, I'll quit snarling at everyone like a petulant possum, and go right back to being my usual cautiously upbeat yet snarkishly sarcastic soul. Let's hasten her return....I'm looking at you, Canada. 

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