My whole life, I’ve struggled with self-esteem and body issues. My inner critic has always been very vocal and I’ve spent years beating myself up over what I perceive to be my numerous shortcomings. I’m too tall. My shoulders are too broad. I’m too fat. My profile is horrendous. My nose is terrible. Heck, my whole face is horrible. I hunch over like I should be ringing the bell at the Notre Dame Cathedral. Et cetera ad nauseum.

I’m not sure when this negative self-talk began, but I’ve been self-conscious and self-critical since at least the age of eight or nine. What started as a single errant thought, “hey, I’m taller than almost everyone, I guess that’s why I’m always stuck in the back row!” turned into, “I’m too tall. I’m not pretty enough. I’m not thin enough. I’m not good enough. I’m the most horrifying creature on the planet. OMG, stop looking at meeee! I’m so glad that I’m hiding in the back row!”

It’s a vicious cycle, this negativity. I’ve missed out on a lot of joy because of the voice in my head, mocking me. It’s a brutal, exhausting way to live life.

The older I’ve gotten, the more outgoing and friendly I’ve become. I’m making valiant attempts to override the negative thoughts running rampant in my mind and I’m stepping outside of myself more often. I enjoy myself with friends and family and will all but forget the voice in my head until something happens to bring it back to the forefront of my mind. I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, or see an unfortunate photo of myself. The goings-on in my brain are positively appalling when I have to undertake the hateful task of trying on clothes.

Over the past few years, I’ve been dealing with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome and the havoc that it’s been wreaking on my body. I’ve gained weight and feel frumpy and unattractive. People talk about “mom jeans” like they’re a specific brand with a specific frump-cut but the truth is that mom jeans don’t look that way because of a specific design, they just look that way on some people’s bodies. Like mine. I put on my mom jeans and then try to find the longest shirt I can to cover them up. Having these extra pounds on my body has only served to amplify the voice inside my head. It has taken on an “I told you so!” kind of attitude.

Recently, though, I’ve had a bit of an epiphany. It came in the form of a book that I was asked to review, which is based on a website with a beautiful message. As I began to read the book and the stories of the women inside, my chest began to feel full. I felt happy and accepting of myself. I realized that I had been trapped in this emotional negativity for so long that I had stunted myself. Emotionally, in regard to my outward appearance, I was stuck in my adolescence. I realized that I wanted to help spread the message of love and acceptance to other women in the hopes that I could help just one person break free of the same emotions I was feeling. I put a post-it pad and a small purple marker in my purse so I could put random “You’re perfect just the way you are!” messages up in change rooms and bathroom mirrors when I went out. The more I read the book, the better I felt about myself. It’s funny that such a seemingly small, insignificant thing could make such a drastic difference to my outlook, but I’m grateful for it.

I decided to look at some photos of myself from back when I was feeling the most awkward and unattractive. Photos of my profile and my most hated feature: my nose. I tried to look at the photos objectively, as opposed to reacting the way I always have in the past – with embarrassment and disgust. Funnily enough, I looked at those pictures as though I was looking at a different girl and couldn’t find a thing wrong with them.

Frankly, I’m surprised that I didn’t rip this photo up and burn it years ago, because it’s exactly the type of picture that would have had me moaning about all of my many inadequacies, head in hand. The horror!

When this was taken, I was young, thin and in love. Yet, when I saw it, all I saw were bug eyes and a too-pink face (not to mention the nose). Looking at it now, I wonder why I spent so much time and energy beating myself up when I looked perfectly fine…

This is more or less the last time my stomach saw the light of day.

Better cover it up! What if I look FAT?

I found myself being dragged down with my exhausting negative talk even when looking at photos of my wedding! What a time to beat up on one’s self…

Fat! Ugly! Double chin! The nose! Aaah!

Looking back at all of these photos now with my fresh outlook, I don’t see any of the things I was so self-conscious of before. I see big, brown eyes and beautiful cheekbones. I see a kind, caring person. I see someone who should have given herself the benefit of the doubt. If I had it to do over again, armed with the knowledge I have now, I think I would have enjoyed my life a lot more.

I’ve always worked out and tried to eat the right type of foods because I felt that I needed to be thinner to be good enough. And at night, after I had exercised and eaten properly all day, I would sabotage myself by eating chocolate. Not surprisingly, the extra weight stayed on my frame. Over the last little while, I’ve stopped exercising and eating right for all the wrong reasons, and begun doing them because I want to be healthy and treat my body well. In the last week, I’ve dropped 4 pounds because I haven’t felt that weird pull to sabotage my own efforts. I’m thinking of all the positive things that are happening – my back isn’t hurting and I have more energy – and that’s what’s motivating me. I don’t want to know what the number on the scale reads and I don’t have a magical weight that I want to reach. I want to be pain-free and happy. That’s it. It’s much easier for me to get on the treadmill or leave that bag of chocolate chips on the store shelf when I think of it that way. It’s just too bad that it’s taken me 34 years to get to this point!

When I took the time to think about the type of friends I am most drawn to and why, I realized that I don’t become friends with people because they are super-model skinny and gorgeous, with flawless makeup and bodies. I become friends with women because they exude kindness and happiness. I am happy to be around them because of who they are inside, not because of the way they look on the outside. I made the conscious decision that I need to stop putting myself down and start accentuating the positive. I’m not the thinnest or most beautiful woman in the world, but I have family and friends who love and want to be around me anyway. Clearly, I’m the only one obsessed with how many pounds I need to lose or wondering whether or not a nose-job might turn me into the beautiful swan I’ve always wanted to be. Plus, there will always be someone prettier and thinner than me, no matter what I do to change my appearance. I like who I am on the inside and I need to let go of the insecurities of who I am on the outside.

What I need to work on now, today, is accepting myself for who I am. I know that in ten or twenty years when I look back at photos of myself taken in 2010, the imperfections that I feel are so jarringly obvious now won’t look that way any longer. I need to take a step back and see myself as others see me – as a person like any other. How vain must I be if I’m assuming that everyone is looking at me, judging everything about me? They’re not and they never have. I am more than my looks, or my weight, or the width of my shoulders. I am me and obsessing over the things I’d like to change is a waste of my valuable time. Time I could be using to live my life to the fullest. It’s a difficult journey, this self-discovery thing. But, as I’m slowly finding out, it is so worth the trip.

Filed under: Confessions, Happy Happy, Keepin' it Real, Me, PCOS by WWS (Lynn) - 6 Comments →

This weekend has been one of those revelatory weekends wherein I realize that pathetic isn’t even close to describing just how far I’ve let all things relating to myself go. I’m in a deep pit and it’s going to take a long time to claw myself up out of it.

I was watching a Tim Gunn makeover show recently and the recipient of the makeover was a 5’10″ woman. Ordinarily I don’t pay close attention to these shows but because the woman was exactly my height (and thus had the same problems as me in finding clothing to fit her elongated limbs), I settled in to see what types of things she purchased.

My conclusion? Don’t be tall unless you have boatloads of cash and can shop in uber-expensive and exclusive American stores carrying such high-end brand names that most people have never even heard of them before. Because, apparently, stores with non-exorbitant price points have never heard of the term “tall” before. In other words? I be screwed.

Anyway, back to the show. The first thing that Tim Gunn did was to ask the woman being made-over to go to her closet and pick out her top ten “can’t live without” items. And it hit me like a ton of bricks that I don’t have a top ten list of  ”can’t live without”  items. Because I don’t own ten items.

Well, unless you count the clothes that don’t currently fit me due to a combination of my hormones and my tendency toward slothfulness. (And even with those items you can still see the odd tumbleweed roll through my echoey closet)

Here is a list of the clothes that fit me right now:

1. One pair of Gap Long and Lean jeans (the “lean” part is a subjective term)
2. One bra
3. A set of five long-sleeved Old Navy layering tees (in white, black, grey, dark grey and green)
4. A set of four short-sleeved Old Navy layering tees (in white, grey, navy and brown.)
5. Several Old Navy layering tank tops
6. A grey, cable knit sweater
7. A brown, short-sleeved sweater
8. A pair of black dress pants that I haven’t worn since last Christmas and probably don’t even fit me anymore.
9. A bunch of not-pretty underwear
10. Several pairs of socks

So, yeah. I guess if Tim Gunn asked me what my top ten wardrobe essentials are, I’d have to say my whole closet.

I think the universe is trying to tell me something. That something being, “Damn, woman, you need to buy some damn clothes!”

I have decided to make some small changes in my life in order to slowly drag myself out of the hole I’ve created. I started by purchasing another pair of Gap jeans (same style and fit, different wash) off of eBay for a cheap price. (Firstly, because the Gap here doesn’t sell the jeans I’m looking for, and secondly because I can get them online for less than half price and I don’t plan on being big enough to fill out these jeans for long.) They’re marked as “shipped” so hopefully they get here soon. I’m excited, because the wash them, wear them, wash them, wear them cycle I’ve been on with my current jeans is exhausting.

The second thing I did was approach my husband about the prospect of bra shopping on a weekend. I planned ahead and came up with an argument that he just couldn’t refuse. Firstly, I suggested a trip to see Santa at the mall I wanted to go to, which Lucky agreed was a great idea. *

Secondly, I came up with an analogy of sorts to explain my dire need for another bra before he could launch into a tirade about hating shopping on the weekends/shopping before Christmas/shopping for clothes/shopping in general:

Me: Lucky, I need a new bra and before you say anything, let me tell you why.

Lucky: *eye roll* Okay, shoot.

Me:  Right now, at this very moment, my one well-fitting bra is in the wash and I have been forced to wear one that’s too small. Let me tell you how that feels.

Lucky: O-kay…

Me: Imagine for a moment that you are wearing a jock strap. And it’s too small. And, instead of the elastic serving to hold the jock strap in place, it’s instead pinning your tender bits to the inside of your thigh. And, every time you take a step, that elastic shifts around and squishes…

Lucky: *cringe*  *white face*  *full body “protect the junk” pose*  AAAHHH! Okay! Enough! Get a bra. Get a hundred bras! Let’s go right now!

Apparently, judging by the reaction my analogy received, I seriously underestimated the sensitivity of certain parts of the male anatomy. But it served its purpose and I have my new bra so, IGNORANCE WIN!

I still have a long way to go. The clothes I own are baggy and shapeless. I have an immensely hard time finding long enough pants. Not to mention long enough sleeves.  I may, in the future, need to look at what the lone “tall” store in town has to offer. For now, though, I am going to take baby steps.

I am slowly learning that even though I have plans to lose this extra weight, I have to dress the body I have right now in clothes that fit properly. I can’t continue to fall deeper into the pit as I let my life pass me by. I want to get to the point where, if I’m asked for my top ten wardrobe “must-haves”, my first thought isn’t, “I’ll get back to you after I’ve gone shopping.”

Don’t get me wrong: my smaller clothes are looking forward to their chance at a triumphant return. In the meantime, though, they’ll have to share their waiting room with some clothes that fit the body I’m in right now. I think I owe myself that much.

* After seeing Santa, Lily informed us that Santa said, “roight” instead of “right”, which prompted a conversation about how apparently, Santa lived in Jolly Old England before emmigrating to the North Pole.

* Logan seemed pleased that “This Santa was the same one as last year!” which leads me to believe that he’s trying to pull one over on us in terms of his Santa beliefs. Either that, or we were smart enough to have the “Santa can’t be in all the malls at the same time so he sends his helpers along” conversation with him at some point. Fingers crossed!

Filed under: Confessions, Keepin' it Real, Me, Out of the Mouths of Babes, PCOS, Random by WWS (Lynn) - 2 Comments →

This is me. No makeup. Completely un-retouched in Photoshop. No product in my hair. Just me.

I’m fat. I’m cranky. I’m tired, as you can plainly see by the baggy dark smudges under my glassy, red-rimmed eyes. Being awake is hard. Being awake and present is nearly impossible. Part of it has to do with a medical condition. More of it has to do with the way I’ve been treating myself lately.

Going to bed late. Not exercising. Not caring. Feeling tired, lethargic and not at all myself. All of these things have resulted in the above picture as well as the travesty below:

It’s a far cry from the way I want to look. The way I always used to look. I haven’t always been this way. I grew up thin. That inner thin girl is just crying to get back out again. She’s been trapped under these emotional and physical layers for too long. Life needs to continue, but not the way I’ve been living it.

People ask me why I continue to torture myself by staying up late when I’m exhausted. Why I find excuse after excuse not to just drag my butt to the gym. Why, on any given day, I’d rather be napping than doing almost anything else. The answer, in short, is that I just don’t know. It’s self-sabotage but I can’t come up with a clear reason for why I’m doing it. I hide behind the fact that I have PCOS. That I really do have reasons for the weight gain. The fatigue and the erratic moods. But the truth of the matter is that I haven’t been doing a damn thing to change any of it. I want to change, but apparently not enough to actually do anything about it. Well, until now, anyway.

Last week, I saw my endocrinologist for a follow-up on my PCOS. She put me on a fairly substantial dosage of Metformin to help combat the main problems I’ve been having. I started with just half a pill a day and have been slowly upping my dosage, allowing my body to get used to it. It’s been just over a week and one of the things I’ve noticed thus far is that my appetite has decreased. Not only my appetite, but my food cravings as well. This is encouraging. Up until this point, I’ve felt enslaved by my sugar cravings. I think, with the help of this handy little medication, I can start to kick the habit. Baby steps.

Tonight, I dragged myself to the gym to work out for the first time in I don’t even know how long. The only reason I did it is because I have a friend who was counting on me to go with her. After sweating on the elliptical trainer and bike for an hour, I felt better. I was, as I always am after a workout, glad that I went. The lesson here is that you can never underestimate the power of guilt. I’m not above using any means necessary to get results.

So, while I have a long way to go to work through all of these utterly mystifying issues, I am starting to break out of my haze and try. I’m going to make a real effort to get out of my own way and do what I need to do. I am going to attempt to get more sleep at night instead of wasting my life by crashing out in the morning while the kids are at school. I’m going to try to force myself to become more active. And, I’m going to take advantage of the side-effects of my medication to eat a proper diet. It’s not going to be easy, but uphill battles rarely are. I’m just going to keep trucking, even if I stumble and fall a thousand times along the way. Who knows how long it’ll take, but one day, this will no longer be my rear view:

Filed under: Confessions, Keepin' it Real, Me, PCOS by WWS (Lynn) - 3 Comments →

I’m tired. Really tired.

Tired enough that my four year old daughter told me point-blank at lunch today, “Mommy, are you tired? You have HUGE BAGS under your eyes.”

Tired enough that not even a giant mug of coffee each morning is enough to keep my eyelids from drooping automatically to half mast and staying there for the remainder of the day.

Tired enough that I wrote on a friend’s Facebook page, “I’m not good at being awake in general” and meant it.

So tired that even though I have the best of intentions to get off my PCOS-widened behind and join a gym, I can’t seem to clear the cobwebs out of my head quite enough to actually do it.

Tired enough that after eleven plus years of sleeping on a continually deteriorating queen mattress, I’ve started nagging harrassing begging suggesting to my husband that we purchase a new one. A girl needs some quality sleep, you know.

And so, in an attempt to help my tired ass not to be so tired, I made an effort to go to bed early last night (with early being defined as before midnight).

(I’m not completely masochistic. I do make an attempt every now and again to take care of myself. Occasionally.)

About an hour and a half after settling into as comfortable a slumber as I could manage, given the state of my mattress, I woke myself up by screaming like a crazy person. Lucky jumped three feet in the air and landed in front of the bedroom door, equally wild-eyed and sleep-mussed. The poor guy has learned to expect this type of behaviour from me (the antics I pull in my sleep are considerably more entertaining than anything I do while I’m awake), yet it can’t be easy to be stuck sleeping next to a night-screamer night after God-forsaken night. Especially when that night-screamer tends to launch into sleep-talking tirades before, after and sometimes during each screaming fit.

Whoa. Sorry. That was me. I don’t know why I screamed.

Just go back to sleep.

(Moments like these are exactly why I decided to name my husband Lucky on this blog. He’s a lucky, lucky guy to be married to the likes of me.)

We both fell back into an exhausted slumber only to be awoken again in what seemed like only minutes later by a loud thump. Lily fell out of bed and because I’m a mother and felt all responsible for her and crap, I went in there to scoop her back into bed and make sure she was okay. (She was.)

I woke up in the morning feeling like I hadn’t slept a wink.

(Frankly, I think it’s the bed.)

(I’m sure that the screaming has nothing whatever to do with the quality of my sleep.)

The one thing that saved my morning was that the weather was warm enough for me to wear my most favourite shorts ever in the whole entire world:

I bought them at Old Navy a couple of years ago and I love them because they have a drawstring waist kick ass.

Unfortunately, Lucky doesn’t feel the same unbridled passion for the shorts as I do. He, in fact, hates my favourite shorts. Hates them! He thinks that they’re putting me on the fast track to wearing Mom Jeans and otherwise dressing like a complete bum. He’s the guy who actually says things like, “you’re not wearing those, are you?”

What Lucky doesn’t realize is that I’m already there. Almost every tee and tank top in my closet came from Old Navy, and they cost me between $2 and $3 apiece. Thanks to my ever-expanding waistline, I have absolutely no desire to upgrade to something more expensive. Instead, I’m going to wait until I’ve got my PCOS under control before committing to an attractive, non-bargain-basement wardrobe.

Plus? I don’t really care what he thinks about my shorts. I’m tired, they’re comfy, and besides, what exactly am I doing during the day that would require me to wear anything more fancy than this? Picking my kids up from school is hardly a business-suit-and-heels type of occasion.

Plus, anyone who can hang up a shirt like this and think it looks okay clearly has a warped sense of what is acceptable when it comes to clothing:

So, yeah. I’m wearing my shorts until they become so old and worn out that my underwear becomes visible underneath. And, if Lucky has any desire to question me, I’m just going to refer him right back to this:

And then I’m going to request a king-sized bed. Because if I wasn’t so darn tired to begin with, I’d probably be seeing clearly enough to realize that I’ve deteriorated into a slummy-shorts-wearing, cheap-ass-tee-shirt-hoarding, thisclose to Mom Jeans wearing woman with suitcase-sized bags under her eyes.

Oh, and have I mentioned that I’d like a new bed? Because I’m tired.

Filed under: Keepin' it Real, Me, PCOS by WWS (Lynn) - 2 Comments →

The other night, I had a small bowl of strawberries, bananas and blueberries for a snack. When I was finished, I had heartburn and a stomach ache. I had to take Tums before going to bed. Chocolate never does that to me. Clearly, chocolate is better for my body.

______________

Last night, frustrated with PCOS and weight gain, I ate some chips at a Canada Day barbeque. Salty snacks are not my indulgence of choice. I just did it because they were there, and because it doesn’t seem to matter what I eat. This morning after a shower, I weighed myself. I am down 3 pounds. My conclusion? Eating chips = weight loss.

______________

If fruit gives me heartburn and chips make me lose weight, then I’m obviously doing something wrong in this whole “get healthy” endeavour. Maybe I’ll start my own chips-n-chocolate diet. Food for thought!

Filed under: Me, PCOS, Ponderings, Random by WWS (Lynn) - 3 Comments →

After my diagnosis of PCOS in April (and in hopes of beating the sucktastic odds of turning into a rounder, flabbier version of myself), I have made some pretty positive lifestyle changes. First off, I made the commitment to go walking with a good friend 5 nights a week. Generally, we go walking through our neighborhood Sunday-Thursday evenings for an hour. We keep a quick, steady pace. Not speed-walker fast, because even the promise of being svelte and toned isn’t enough to make me want to go out in public looking like this guy:

It’s quick enough to keep us breathing heavily, though.

(Hey, I just thought of a way to make extra cash. I’ll just bring a phone along and let horny, lonely losers listen to me gasping away into the receiver for an hour. Throw in a few, “Oh, my God’s” and I’ll be rich!)

Ahem.

On top of the walking, I’ve tried to be more active in general, spending time outside with the kids going for bike rides, playing catch and kicking the soccer ball around.

And. And! The biggie: I am on day 12 of no chocolate. That’s right. No chocolate. I decided to cut it completely out of my diet for one month because it’s my single biggest temptation. My diet is otherwise very good, so I figured I’d start noticing some big changes right away.

And, boy, let me tell you. I have noticed some changes. When I stepped on the scale yesterday to see how I’ve progressed, I was rewarded with a magnificent five pound weight GAIN. Because my body obviously hates me.

I forgot that I’m dealing with the fat disease. And let me tell you, this thing has jumped in and fucked with my hormones in a huge way. (Pun intended.) Also, extra weight in the midsection is really hard on a back that’s weak to begin with. I’m hobbling around like a 90 year old man. It’s not pretty, folks.

(If you want to read about my feminine woes, start here and continue on here, here, here, here, here, and here. (Or, you can click the fancy PCOS category title on the left sidebar. ) (I’m all about providing options here.)

I can barely look at myself in the mirror. I hate what I see. After I got off the scale yesterday, I was torn between screaming and throwing things and melting down into a flabby puddle of goo on the floor and crying. Because really, body, what the fuck?! I might as well lay on the couch eating cake for all the good my healthy lifestyle has been doing me.

You know it’s bad when you’ve considered bulimia as a possible weight-loss solution…

I’ve had a look at several PCOS websites and the general consensus seems to be, “have fun being fat from now on, chubby!”  I don’t want to accept that. I can’t. My self-esteem is taking a massive beat down. I have clothes in my closet that should still fit me, based on how I live, yet they don’t. At all. I have until October until my next appointment with the endocrinologist. I plan on talking to her about a different solution, since I highly doubt that my once-every-three-months dose of progesterone is going to do me any good. There are still two options (that I know of) left: birth control pills and Metformin. I think I’m going to ask to skip straight to the diabetic medication so I can force my body to bend to my will and obey me. (I have to keep the hope alive somehow!)

In the meantime, I am really struggling not to just give up on all of my efforts. I kind of just want to lay down and take one long, continuous nap. I’m just so very tired.

Filed under: Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, PCOS, Pity Party by WWS (Lynn) - 6 Comments →

A couple of weeks ago, I had the much-anticipated, long-awaited appointment with my endocrinologist. Based on my blood work, she determined that the evil root of all of my problems was Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, or PCOS. Considering that my good pal Google and I had already pre-diagnosed me with that very syndrome months before, I wasn’t surprised. And, in the grand scheme of things, PCOS is not a big deal. Mostly it’s just a pain in the ever-expanding ass. Things could definitely be worse.

My doctor informed me that in order to keep my indoor plumbing healthy and cancer-free, it was a good idea to invite that nasty old bitch, otherwise known as Aunt Flo, over for a visit every three months or so. In order to do this, I need a bit of hormone therapy in the form of progesterone. The plan is to use the progesterone every three months in the hopes that it nudges my body in the right direction and all the things that have gone so very wrong in the past couple of years (like the size of my butt) will start to right themselves. I’m to go back in six months to see how things are coming along, and if needed, I can be put on different hormones or a medication called Metformin, which was actually made initially for diabetics. At this point, though, I’m crossing each bridge as I come to it.

On May first, I faithfully started my first round of progesterone. At first, I didn’t feel any difference. By day three, I could swear that I had more energy. On day five, I felt more alert and awake. By day eight, my idiot husband told me that I was acting just a touch argumentative. On day 10, I came thisclose to ripping my husband’s obnoxious face off. As of right now, day 11, my stupid, haggy old aunt has taken over my body, kicking me repeatedly in the ovaries and causing me to plot ways to off my husband, who for some odd reason, has become almost unbearably irritating. But maybe it’s just me.

Considering that I haven’t had to roll out the welcome mat to dear old crazy Flo in fourteen months, and before that only had to endure sporadic visits, I didn’t think to adequately prepare myself for such a guest. It’s probably been over two years since I’ve had to peruse the feminine hygiene aisle and I’m hoping that I can still navigate my way through. And, since I pretty much never have to stop and take stock of the supplies I have on hand, I didn’t even think about it when I was at the grocery store this morning. This means that not only do I have to go buy tampons for the first time this century, I have to make a specific trip just for that.

I’m thinking it will be a bit awkward, like the guy who really just wants to buy a box of condoms but ends up with a carton of milk, a TV Guide, some coffee filters and a pack of cigarettes, just to make it seem less obvious. I don’t think I can go to the store and just buy a box of feminine hygiene products.

(And yes, I’m well aware of the fact that I’m 32 years old and should really be able to buy condoms, lube and a lone banana, should I so desire, without turning a single shade of pink.)

(If you count my age strictly by the number of periods I’ve had, though, I’d have to say that I top out at about 19 which is clearly still an awkward age to be out buying tampons and nothing else).

(Otherwise, though, being 19 pretty much rules. From now on, I’m only going to refer to myself in menstrual age. I knew there had to be a silver lining to this whole PCOS thing!)

Okay, so what was I saying again?

So, yeah. It’s obvious that I can’t possibly go shopping for a single box of tampons. Because, knowing my luck, I’ll end up with some young guy at the checkout, looking at me with barely disguised horror as he realizes the reason why I’m standing before him. Because, obviously, when a woman needs only that one thing, she must be a menstrual Mount Vesuvius, ready to blow at any moment. Lord help you if you’re in my path of destruction, checkout boy. Hand over the tampons and duck, if you know what’s good for you.

So I’m thinking that, along with my lovely female item, it may be a good time to purchase that family-sized Caramilk bar I’ve had my eye on. And the latest copy of Star magazine. Maybe a gun, too, just to keep the husband in line. If I were a cat person, I’d totally throw a can or two of Fancy Feast into the pile, just for kicks.

All I can say is, I’d better start losing significant amounts of weight, like, yesterday, because this whole being a woman thing is far too much work otherwise.

Filed under: Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, PCOS by WWS (Lynn) - 4 Comments →

A couple of months ago, one of my best girlfriends (you know her best as Chesty LaRue) wrote this note as part of some Facebook meme thingy. I liked it so much that I stole it copied and pasted it to keep for the time when I actually decided to follow her advice:

I really, really, really hate it when people constantly bitch and complain. If you hate your job, get a new one. If you don’t like your body, change it or get a makeover. If you’re miserable, there are drugs for that! I think we’re in charge of our own happiness and once you realize that and take ownership of it, you’ll be happier. If that makes sense. And there’s a difference between having a bad day or week and constantly bitching about everything.

That girl has brains and a great rack. And she’s right – we are in charge of our own happiness. There are some big changes on the horizon for me and I can’t wait!

My appointment with the endocrinologist is coming up on Thursday, and I have a list of questions/concerns to bring along. I’m going to take control of my health and make sure that the things I want to see happen actually happen. (I’m talking to you, ovaries. Your days of making my pelvis ache are numbered.)

My walking buddy and I are committed to walking again for an hour a day starting in May. Along with that, I’m going to consistently make good food choices. (Exercise and eating right + endocrine system overhaul = goodbye apple shape, hello hourglass.)

AND, in an effort to save my mental health, I quit my job. I’ve got two weeks left and then I’m done like dinner. Walking in the evenings will be so much easier when I don’t have to wear a flashlight hat to see where I’m walking when I’m not calling cranky redneck truck drivers until 9:30 every night before I go.

If everything goes according to plan, I will soon go from this:

To this:

Let the transformation begin.

Filed under: Keepin' it Real, Me, PCOS, Uncategorized by WWS (Lynn) - 5 Comments →

Last week as I was dropping Logan off at school, it began to snow. Great, fluffy “it feels like we’re in a snow globe” type flakes. They were so intricate that I knew I needed to try and take some pictures of them. I drove to one of my favourite spots in my neighborhood, parked the car on the side of the road and stepped out to take some snaps by the lake. (I keep a point-and-shoot camera in my purse for those “just gotta take a picture” moments.) I rounded the front of the car, stepped on the grassy boulevard between the road and the sidewalk and took one sure-footed step onto the sidewalk itself, camera in hand. The next thing I knew, I was staring at the sky, having taken a pratfall-quality slip on the icy sidewalk and landed flat on my back.

My first, fleeting thought was, “Holy crap! I fell down!” Immediately following the initial shock came another thought. “Wow, I really don’t want to get up.” And, if it hadn’t been for

1. My daughter waiting in her carseat, and
2. The fact that I was laying on a public sidewalk in the middle of my neighborhood where other people could see

I may very likely have stayed there for awhile.

In that moment, I knew that I would be perfectly capable of closing my eyes against the snow and the cold and falling asleep on that dirty, icy sidewalk. And that very truth is what got me up off the ground, faster even than the thought of my daughter waiting for me or of my neighbors seeing the crazy, sleeping lady on the sidewalk.

I got to my feet, brushed the snow off my clothes, checked my camera to make sure I hadn’t broken it in the fall (I hadn’t), snapped a couple of useless, hasty pictures and rushed the two or three steps back to my car door.

The whole thing took less than a minute but in those few seconds I realized just how bad things had truly gotten.

It’s not normal to be so fatigued that the idea of falling asleep on a sidewalk is more appealing than expending the energy to stand back up again. 

I’ve never been in such a hurry to see the doctor before. I’m counting down the days until my appointment with the endocrinologist (23). I need to start feeling better. I need to lose weight. I need to regain my energy, to stop feeling like I’m living in a bubble and remember what it’s like to feel alert and alive. I need to be able to wash my hair and have it actually feel clean for more than a couple of hours before morphing into an oil slick. I just want to be myself again. The self who would never, in a million years, consider laying on a sidewalk in the middle of a snowstorm instead of merely standing up and continuing on.

________________________

I’ve actually wanted to publish this post for awhile. I had it in my head that it would be funny to joke about my oily hair, so I took pictures and video documenting the transformation from squeaky clean to oily. And, while I now fail to see the humour in my current situation, I can’t possibly let my hard work go to waste, and so I’ve decided to go ahead and include my prepwork for the post that I have no intention of actually writing:

This video was going to be prefaced by words to the effect of “you know your hair is clean when it squeaks like Tupperware.”

Squeaky Clean from Walking With Scissors on Vimeo.

This is my “immediately following a shower” hair. It’s nice and clean and this is, of course, when I feel my very best.

This is my less-than-twenty-four-hours-later hair. Trust me, you don’t want to see it when I’ve reached the 48 hour point. Which is why I rarely ever do.

________________________

And, just in case you’re wondering what in the hell I’m blathering on about, and what in the hell could possibly be wrong with me, the entire backstory can be found here, here, here and here.  I’m considering giving it its own category entitled “my stupid, fucking hormones.” What do you think?

Hopefully after April 23rd, I’ll have some answers. And, honestly, if the answer is something as simple as a $5 pack of birth control pills, I’m all for it. Bring on the solutions and let me fix this thing!

Filed under: Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, PCOS, Pity Party by WWS (Lynn) - 5 Comments →

I went back to the doctor last Monday to follow up on my low progesterone and high testosterone levels. Finally, finally, he’s listening to my concerns and when I asked him if he would put me on some sort of hormone supplement, I was told that he was referring me to an Endocrinologist so that I can be properly taken care of. I believe, “there’s definitely something wrong here,” were his exact words.

I’ve had many different emotional reactions to this revelation, the main ones being:

• Happiness – thank goodness I can’t blame my rounded figure entirely on myself! There’s a reason for the weight gain and subsequent inability to lose it!
• Anticipation - I can’t wait to get on some sort of medication to regulate my hormones. It’ll make everything so much better! (the distinct possibility of regaining my girlish figure topping the list of things I’m eager for)
• Anger – I can’t believe it took nine months and forty pounds to get me to this place. What a waste!
• Fear - what is at the root of this problem, anyway? Why would the hormones go all wonky in the first place?
• Impatience – how long will it take before I get a call about an appointment, anyway? It’s been a week! Did my doctor forget to fax the referral? Should I call? Maybe the specialist didn’t get the memo. Hello? I’m waiting, over here!

I am planning on documenting my journey from average-waisted to apple-waisted and back again. To that end, here are some pictures illustrating my problem.

This is how I looked when my firstborn was about ten or eleven months old. I’m not as thin as I was in high school, but it was good enough. I miss that single chin. The semblance of a waistline. *sigh*

Here’s my little family when my son was a year old. That body, and fitting back into those jeans, are my goal for the future. Again, I’m not going for supermodel skinny, but a trimmer, healthier me.

Here’s me, five years and forty pounds later. My hormones are going bananas inside of me, wreaking havoc both inside and out. It sucks. I hate this me. The one who works out to no avail. Who feels trapped inside an alien body. Who is constantly tired, emotional and sore. I feel weighed down in more ways than just the obvious.

I’m not a hypochondriac. I wasn’t just fabricating excuses for why my life seems to be unravelling around me. I have an explanation. And, hopefully soon (although with this health care system, it’ll likely be six months before I even get an appointment) I’ll have a plan of action. I can’t wait.

Filed under: Happy Happy, Keepin' it Real, Me, PCOS, Random by WWS (Lynn) - 2 Comments →