- Username: GreenEyedGirl24
- Location: McLean, VA, USA
- Member Since: 4/13/2008
- BMI: 57.6
- Hoping to have surgery
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After years of believing that WLS was the devil, I've finally pulled my head out of denial and have started on the slow-boat to Realityville.
I should be ashamed of myself... and, well, I am on January 6, 2009 7:45 pm
I cannot believe I did it. I can't. I'm just sitting here shaking my head at myself. What in the sam hill was I thinking?
What I'm about to divulge might change your opinion of me...it's starting to make me wonder about myself.
Ready? I can't believe I'm going to say this outloud. Here goes:
I joined Facebook.
::ducking::
I KNOW! I KNOW!
I have resisted for so long! Then I felt the sudden urge to stalk someone from high school... did a google search on the skank and looky there...she has a FaceBook page. What? I can't see without being a friend? What does that mean? If I sign up for Facebook, can I see her? Can I see how she's been divorced 9 times and recently got fired from her job as official toilet scrubber of Texas rest stops because she's a jerk?
How in this wide world is someone supposed to be a proper stalker if they cannot properly stalk? Sheesh, people. A little help here?
I thought about it. I have gotten many invitations to join what I previously referred to as "The Devil's Network". I'm a grown woman! I don't need that crap. Do I ? Nooo. Wait. Do I?
With baited breath, I clicked on the "JOIN NOW" button. I felt so dirty! I felt like I had just stuffed those five twinkies in my mouth in the back room at the Weight Watchers meeting and turned around to find the group leader getting a glass of water. (Incidentally, that never really happened. I would never attempt to put FIVE twinkies in my mouth at one time. That would just be silly. Everyone knows you can't taste more than four at at time).
I quickly filled out all the fields it said were required. Never have I typed so fast! It's like the 5 second rule... if it takes me less than a minute to fill everything out, it's certainly not important enough to matter, right? Right!
So there I was. I had a profile. I had uploaded my favorite eyeball. We're all set. Now what?
Well, on Facebook, even as a member, you cannot see most people's information without asking them to be their friend.
Oh, giant crapballs.
As most of you know, I'm not very good with people. In fact, I'm surprised I haven't been completely ostracized yet. I keep checking the mailbox for that letter.
Now I have to ask people to be my friends? I usually just wait for people I know to move away and then just tell everyone we were friends. It saves all parties involved a lot of needless heartache and restraining orders.
At least Facebook makes it easy. They will import all of your contacts from your email program and see if there are members with matching email addresses. Then you just send one mass email and hope against hope that they won't realize it's you that's asking. Or maybe that's just me. At any rate, in a few clicks of the keyboard, I had asked people to be my friends!
Oh, God...what have I done? I have singlehandedly opened myself up for more rejection than the senior Sadie Hawkins dance. What if they refuse? What if they laugh and then refuse? What if they forward a copy of my pathetic request to the aforementioned skank and they have a party celebrating my loserhood? Well...too late now.
::DING::
What? What was that? It appears I have an email...oh wow..it's from Facebook. Unsuspecting Friend has added you to his friend's list.
HOT DIGGITY!!! I have a friend! It's official! It says it in black and white. GreenEyedGirl has 1, count them, er, it...1 friend! Ha. Take that Toilet Scrubbing Skank! I stayed up as long as I dared waiting and watching for any other Unsuspecting Friends. Alas, it was late. I called it a night and went to bed.
Next morning, I was going through my ususal morning routine and checked my email. 9 emails from Facebook. WOAH!! 9 MORE FRIENDS!!! Ha! A grand total of 10 friends! And since that time, I've been lost. Obesessed, even. I hear that email ding and I could be in the middle of receiving the Nobel Peace Prize and I will drop the blasted thing to see if that's one more friend. Pathetic, I know.
The problem now is that I keep looking for people I can ask if they will be my friend. It's like a contest now. I found Skank's profile and while I can't see it, I can see how many friends she has. Until I have more friends than she has, I will message complete strangers and offer to PayPal them some cash if they accept me as their friend. It's no different from 8th grade year, really.
So if you're in the market for a little extra cash, feel free to look me up on Facebook. I promise not to stalk you anymore than usual.
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'Tis the Season! on December 21, 2008 2:52 pm
Jingle Bells, Fa La La, I'm Dreaming of A White Macaroon Cookie...what?
Christmas truly should be my favorite time of year. After all, it's the time when fat people are highly featured and in high demand. Well, one fat guy is anyway. I'll take what I can get. It's also the time when everyone is expected to gain weight. I should win awards for my participation in that holiday event. Oh, and there are usually presents involved. What's not to love?
Well, it's odd, really. I've tried to pinpoint the source of my mixed feelings for years. I think it started when I was in middle school and realized that all the kids in school would go skiing together or hang out over winter break and I didn't really have more than handful of friends that called me over the holiday. Then the "traditions" started when one of the guys in the group I was semi-associated with would always have a party right before Christmas where he would invite a select number of kids and they'd all watch "It's a Wonderful Life" and other such things. I was usually invited but it always stressed me out that I might not be. As we all graduated and we went off to college, I was invited the first few years but my junior year my invitation was mysteriously lost in the mail.
Finals were usually the 2nd week of December for most schools and were definitely over by the 20th of the month. I would wait to see who would phone me when they got home. While I would get several calls, it always seemed like I was missing out on something and each year, fewer and fewer people would pick up the phone. And of course, clearly it was because I was fat. What I didn't realize at the time was that it was more than likely, those ties that bound us all together through middle and high school slowly began to unravel and we had less and less in common as we were all discovering adulthood. Yet, I still associated it with my being overweight. And it made me sad.
But now I'm popular and adored by the masses, right? Why wouldn't I love the holiday season? I don't really know. It's been a while since I've been home for Christmas. Last time I went, it was a dysfunctional family event because of typical drama infused by my sister-in-law. Most family Christmases had one episode of high drama in one way, shape or form. Perhaps that's what's depressing me this time of year?
It could be sheer disappointment stemming from a build up of anticipation of material gain. When I was younger and still under the hypnotic and hopeful illusion of Santa Claus, my parents told us that Santa's elves were the reason that he knew when we were sleeping and he knew when we were awake and he knew when we were slipping dead ants in our brother's Cocoa Pebbles. It all made perfect sense! See, while there was only one Santa Claus, there were zillions and quadrillions of elves. Each house, apartment and pueblo in the world had a mild elf infestation. They hid in walls, in basements and in our case, our attic. They would spy on us in each room of the house. They'd sit and peer through the HVAC vents in the ceiling, which we had in every room. So year after year, starting the day after Thanksgiving, I would behave like a perfect angel throughout each room in the house. I would say my prayers out loud to make sure the elves knew how kind and caring I was...I mean, come on...wouldn't a girl who prayed that her stupid little brother got what he wanted for Christmas deserve the best Christmas gifts of all? I made my bed every morning, all the while talking out loud like a crazy person about how I hoped that Santa enjoyed his time off and wondered what cookies we should put out for him. (In actuality, I should have been more worried about his high blood pressure and risk of Type II diabetes)
It was very apparent to me that I should have reaped the most amazing of all Christmas gifts each year. I would get so excited as Christmas Eve approached. This was the year! This was the year that I would get an in ground swimming pool or get the baby grand piano that I knew I'd never play or what I truly wanted...the magic machine that would make me skinny. Surely this was the year. Finally, on Christmas Eve, the grandmothers would come over and we'd exchange gifts with them. My Nanny Pete always got me the best non-Santa gifts. She never got me stupid socks or underwear...it was always something truly special. Well, even if it wasn't, I remembered it that way because it came from her. :) Then the grandmothers would leave and my poor mother would try to cajole us into bed. I would happily get in bed out loud, but secretly grumble about it...after all, the elves were still on the clock, right? Gotta keep appearances up. I would, at some point, drift to sleep with images of amazing presents dancing in my head. Forget about sugarplums, I wanted extravagance or the cash equivalent.
Inevitably, my little brother would wake me up around 4 am. We would, together, sneak down the hall past my parents' bedroom and peek around the corner to see if our stockings were still flat or if they were full. If they were full, we would wake up the parents. They were always full.
We'd get to go through our stockings first while we waited for my parents to brew coffee and wake up. It was always so baffling why we were so rearing and ready to go and they were always so tired. Our stockings themselves were magical. My mother had made them out of velvet and different appliqués made from sequins. The best part? They were lined with satin. My stocking had Raggedy Ann and a block with my initial on it and various other awesomeness. My stocking was the best one out of the three and I think everyone secretly agreed. I would hold the overstuffed stocking in my lap and imagine it full of jewels and other treasures. I would close my eyes and start at the toe and feel the bulges...I knew what was at the bottom. For some dumb reason, Santa always gave us each an orange and an apple even though we never ate them. He must have gotten a bulk discount or something. But then the bulges got harder and harder to identify. Once I got to the top of the stocking, I would open my eyes and begin to reach in, the cool satin touching my fingertips. I'd get the aforementioned socks and underpants and some small electronic toy or little girl makeup or other such thing. Then I'd come to the bag of M&Ms. Ahhh, the M&Ms.
Each and every year, my brothers and I would get a baggie full of peanut M&Ms. I never quite understood why Santa wouldn't just give us each our own small bag, but would instead take the time to count out the exact same number of M&Ms for all three stockings. It was years later that I truly understood the impact of this gesture by what turned out to be Mrs. Claus and how very important it was to her that we all got the exact same number of M&Ms. While she claims she did it so we wouldn't fight and break the early Christmas morning peace by yelling "He got more orange ones that I did", I know that she wanted to ensure that we all knew we were loved exactly the same as the other one. It took me years to realize that was the best gift of all.
But my stocking never contained the treasures I had hoped for. I would sigh disappointingly until I remembered there were still the gifts under the tree and finally, our Santa gift. Once my folks were somewhat coherent, we would get to start on the REAL gifts under the tree from my parents. They were never labeled with traditional labels like "To Green Eyed Girl From Mom and Dad". They were always addressed to fictitious characters so we wouldn't know whose gift was whose. After all, why would I sneak a peek at the gifts addressed to "FatFat the Water Rat" if I wasn't sure it was for me? My mother was a sneaky one...at least she thought she was until we figured out that if we used an Exact-O knife and the same roll of tape she used, nobody ever knew. But I digress. Ahem.
After all the gifts were opened, I was always disappointed. Sure, I got what I asked for out loud, but what about what I REALLY wanted? It was up to Santa to save the day.
As we got older, the three of us would get one big gift from Santa to share. My favorite had to be the trampoline. There was a long piece of yarn leading outside that we all seemed to have ignored when we first got up. Then one of us noticed it and we followed it outside to the backyard where it was tied unceremoniously to the frame of the brand new trampoline.
Sounds like I was spoiled, doesn't it? In retrospect, I suppose I was. But mid-morning on December 25th, I always felt some unexplained sense of disappointment deep down inside.
Could that be it? Even to this day, there is a sense of anticipation up to the big day and then a deepening sense of sadness quickly thereafter.
No, my friends. While I am a bit of a Material Girl, that's not it. It's taken me 30+ years to realize what the problem has always been. It never should have been about the gifts or who would call me on break or the shattered material dreams of my misspent youth. For Christians like me, it should have been about the birth of Christ and God's gift to us. As a society, we have turned this gift into our gain. I think that's what my disappointment was...a subconscious realization that I was focusing on the wrong things. The gifts and the time with friends were nice, but not what the holiday should have been about. Comfort and joy does not mean a new couch or a new car. It should be the peace inside when we give our hearts to Jesus.
After this monumental realization, it's a lot easier for me to love this time of year and look forward to it even knowing it will soon be over. I ignore the shopping masses and do my shopping online. I try not to put myself in situations where I will get frustrated or irritated. And I try to remember each and every day the reason for this season. That's what I love.
So as the 25th draws near, I wish each of you true comfort and joy...whatever that means to you. Merry Christmas!
Yes, Yes, I know I suck on October 23, 2008 10:51 pm
So there I was...about a month ago, sitting there drinking my diet shake and about to sit down to fill you all in on every aspect of what's going on with me... when...out of the blue....um...I was, er, eaten by a giant python and he just now threw me up? No? OK. Uhhh...I...went into a Suckitude coma from all the sucky diet food I was consuming? OH, COME ON! That one is totally plausible.
Alright, I know I have neglected my civic duty by updating y'all who have been so supportive of me here. My sincerest apologies. ::insert humble grovelling::
In short, my friends, life has stunk on ice lately! I was just soo busy with work (budget season you know) and was truly struggling with the HMR diet. It has, sadly, followed in the predictable footsteps of all other ridic diets that came before it in my sad little optimistic life. I'm sure you know why, but just in case, let me recap:
-I have no will power what. so. ever.
-I succumb easily to suggestion. If I see someone on TV eating something, I want it. They could be eating broccoli with an extra side of brussel sprouts and if it's not on my diet, I want it immediately and lots of it.
-I have teeth for a reason and it's not so that I have some place to rest the straw I'm using to consume my Vanilla flavored Suck, oops, Shake.
-I stress eat
-I emotion eat
-I might even sleep eat
I'm sure you're thinking what any logical human being would be thinking at this point, "GreenEyedGirl, you are a pathetic excuse for a dieter! You tell us all the time how smart and clever you are but you can't even figure out how not to be so fat! Shame on you, GEG! SHAME!!!"
I understand your sentiment. I share it often, but it's not *quite* so bad. I figured out something that might actually work for me.
Ready?
I'm eating like a grownup.
Huh?
You mean I can't have Lucky Charms and Mcgriddles for breakfast every morning? Sadly, that's a negative. In the last two weeks, I've lost about 7 lbs. That sounds good, but I had unfortunately creeped up from my most recent low of 302 lbs. I went to the Dr the other day and nearly started crying when I saw the number. I had undieted myself back up to 330 lbs.
**sigh**
Oh! And my doctor has out-tooled himself. Yep, just when I thought he couldn't be any more of a tool than he already was, he up and surprised me. It went something like this,
"GreeneyedGirl...seriously... you're still fat? I thought I told you to have surgery? What do you mean my monthly documentation of how insanely huge you are wasn't good enough for the insurance company? What do they want from me? Diet and exercise program? That's just ludicrous! Who do they think I am? A nutritionist? Didn't I send you to a nutritionist? That's just stupid. Do they not see how freaking massive you are??"
At this point I think I might have started throwing things at his head or threatening to shove a tongue depressor in very uncomfortable places because he said these exact words,
"I don't think I can help you if you don't have this surgery."
::blink blink::
Guys, I'm not exaggerating or embellishing that last one at all. And I just stood there and blinked at him. I didn't know what to say. Most of you will know what an amazing occurrence that was.
I fought back the tears and just nodded my head. There wasn't much left to say. He gave me the paperwork for a blood test that I have yet to get done and he left the room.
I sat there in my undershirt (they never seem to remember that I need a larger gown, so I just wear a camisole when I go and take my outer shirt off) and tried not to cry. It dawned on me then that my "six month" waiting period was going to be a lot more than 6 months.
And then it all kind of clicked. I can't eat like I was. I'm killing myself. And since I am very Pro-Self, I need to not do that. The funny thing? You won't believe this. I look forward to eating my meals on this diet.
No, it's not a Crack diet. I'm serious. 3.5 lbs per week so far. If I can keep it up, that could be 50-60 lbs in 4 months. That's no RNY result, but it's a lot easier.
And let's face it...Dr. Tool isn't getting me surgery anytime soon!
Anyway, thanks to all of you who have messaged me and asked how I'm doing. I don't check this site very much anymore, so if you want to email me, you can do so at:
GreenEyedGrrl24@gmail.com
Have a great weekend! I'll try to update y'all more often!
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Ahhh, Do Not Be Fooled... on September 13, 2008 10:57 am
It has never been as aparent to me as it is now that the diet industry truly is a business and not a way to help one lose weight.
Whatever do you mean, GreenEyedGirl? I thought they all just wanted us to be healthy and happy. It is not true?
Don't get me wrong... I know it's a business and like all businesses, the desired outcome is to make money. But when I found out that to get started with HMR it was going to cost me $800 upfront just to join the dadgum program, I nearly peed a kitten. Oh, there are also additional monthly costs plus the cost of their food and guess what? They encourage you to eat as much of their food as you want.
What? Yes, friends, it's true. A diet where they have a MINIMUM amount of food you can eat, not a maximum.
*Ahem* The premise is a good one...they'd rather you eat ON the program than OFF the program and their food is very low calorie. And honestly, there are some pretty good options and a decent amount of variety. BUT when you factor in the cost of each "meal", woah nellie, it's freaking expensive!
Their tiny little entrees are about $4 each and their snack bars are $1.25. Their shakes/oatmeal end up costing about $2 each. So let's see how much it cost to keep me honest yesterday: 2 packages of oatmeal ($4), one entree and a snack bar for lunch ($5.25), two entrees, a snack bar and a shake for dinner ($11.25). Total for the day without tax: $20.50. So for me to eat in that general fashion for a week: $144 plus tax.
That's just the food! That doesn't take into consideration the program costs. They apparently think I'm fat and rich.
I am waiting to join the program. I am going to see how I do on just the food for now. I'm doing this mostly because I have a business dinner Tuesday night and we're going on vacation the first week of November and I will be damned if I'm going to be in Chicago and have to find a HMR meeting to go to (oh, yeah...once you join, you can only have a certain number of absences and cannot miss two weeks in a row).
I guess the good news is that I had a fairly rotten day yesterday and I would have normally turned to bad, bad, bad food choices, but instead I stayed on program because I could eat as much as I wanted. $20.50 worth. Oof.
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It's Official on August 28, 2008 9:33 am
 DENIED!
First, I want to thank you ALL for your well wishes. This is one of the best websites and support sources I've ever known. From the bottom of my heart...thank you.
Now, on to business...After the initial denial from my insurance, I called and spoke to my case worker and she started the appeal process. On Monday I got the thick envelope in the mail.
It was a flashback to high school when I was applying for colleges. If I got a thick envelope from the school it usually meant I was accepted. I remember my boogie dance from the mailbox to the house each time I got the mail and I had a thick envelope. I would lock myself in my room and sit Indian-style on my bed and hold the envelope to my chest and say a small prayer before I opened it.
Monday was no different. I was the same hopeful, naive girl. I pulled the think envelope from my mailbox on my way to run errands. I stared at it for a few moments. I stuffed it in my purse with the other letters and such and scurried to my car. I sat with the key in the ignition in the darkened garage and just held it to my chest while I said a prayer.
Actually, it was more like a one-sided barter with God. "God, if you let this happen for me I promise to be a better person. I won't make fun of my cats for being stupid anymore and I will refrain from pointing out character flaws of politicians for at least one week. Also, I'll stop flipping off jerks in traffic." I'm kidding about the politicians, but I was certain God felt the need to strike this deal with me.
I slowly ripped open the envelope. Were my hands shaking? Did I see that right? Perhaps they were. I didn't care. I unfolded the thick set of papers to find:
"Dear GreenEyedGirl,
After further review of all the documentation and many phone calls from your surgeon's office, we agree that you are super fat. No, really. We know. Please stop sending us empty Twinkie wrappers. We get the point.
Sadly, we don't like you and think you suck. We know that you meet 19 out of the 20 criterion we arbitrarily set to approve someone for surgery. We also know you have documentation from your doctor on your weight history, your monthly (sometimes weekly) weigh ins with him as well as all the documentation from both visits from your nutritionist and the diet she put you on.
Though we confirmed with you on the phone TWICE over the last six months that this would suffice, we are taking it back. We were just messin' with you, GreenEyedGirl. We've decided that it's not enough. Too bad, so sad.
SO! If you want for us to reconsider paying for what four doctors have told you is a life-saving procedure for you, you have to undergo a six-month doctor supervised diet.
Please be advised that we will somehow change our criteria again in the next six months without telling you.
Love,
Great West Healthcare
PS. We hate you and think your new hairstyle looks stupid."
What's a fat girl supposed to do? Cry? Sorry, I don't do that. Go into a flying rage and start throwing various items in my house and smashing them so I will only have to replace them later? I thought about it, but no.
This fat girl is going to an HMR orientation on 9/11. You all know how I lovelovelovelovelove me some liquid dieting. This should go well.
All of that said, I am not upset. I truly believe I have a path outlined for me. And though I know HE knows how hard it will be for me to do, I've decided to stop trying to micromanage God. I'm pretty sure He doesn't like that.
Thanks again for your support. I'll keep you updated on how things go with the orientation. For now, I'm off to have some oral surgery. Wish me luck!
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