Cari De La Cruz

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 I never really knew why it rubbed me the wrong way when I'd hear people say "Fake it 'till ya make it." I mean, it's a reasonable enough concept, rooted in the idea of positive thinking, so what's the problem?

Well, to understand this, we have to go back to my school days -- probably about 4th grade. You see, that's when I started having to write book reports and do projects on things like "Japan" or the "Early Settlers." I can remember all of the research that went into these reports: I spent hours writing notes on 3 x 5 cards in the library, I made some wooden shoes, my mom made me a beautiful yellow flowered kimono with an obi, and I wore these dangly little flowers in my hair. I even learned how to use a fan and pour tea. I walked pretty funny in those shoes, but I figured it would inspire me to write a more accurate report on the Japanese people, country and culture.

For another project, I remember dressing up like an early pioneer (complete with an apron and a bonnet). I can't be 100% sure, but somewhere between the dioramas and the pot of wagon wheel chili, I can recall the boys getting to make shotguns for their "research." Anyway, all I know is, I did a whole bunch of peripheral stuff, and went well beyond the scope of the assignment, all so I could write a convincing paper, thinking that, if I didn't believe it, no one else would.

Contrast this (glaringly) with my big brother, who could write pages and pages about any subject and convince you beyond a shadow of a doubt that he knew much more than he was letting on. Trust me, he did not make rifles or wooden shoes or dioramas. Heck, he probably didn't even crack open an encyclopedia, yet he managed to truly make you believe he was an expert in the field of whatever it was he was writing about.

Saskatchewan. Sure, why not?
History of Rutabegas. Definitively.
Early European Baroque Farmers. Yup.

I mean, nothing was out of the realm of his expertise. Or was it? Did he REALLY know the Origins of Chartreuse, or was he just a convincing story teller? One may never know, because if anyone dared question him, he always had an answer (Chartreuse, or "Chian-Tinbo," it turns out, originated in a handwoven welcome mat during the Han Dynasty, somewhere along the Silk Road.) See what I mean?

Anyway, this used to drive me bonkers. I mean, here is this guy who probably didn't really even honestly know a single, solitary piece of legitimate (or weighty) information about the subject he was covering, and yet the inevitable "A+" at the top of the paper would cause anyone to question this fact. In other words, he might have known next-to-nothing, yet could convince anyone he was an expert, while I was an expert who couldn't convince anyone I knew next-to-anything!

So, here I am, at the ripe old age of 44, and I realize that not much has changed: I still need to know way more than necessary before I can write or talk about anything (and we won't talk about my brother.) ;-)

My point is, I am a genuine as the day is long -- which is not to say that my brother is a fake, the two have nothing to do with each other. I just know that I often feel like George Washington (who, legend holds, could not tell a lie, and DID chop down a certain, high-profile cherry tree. As if.)

Never before has this knowledge been more powerful (or crippling) than at this time in my life. That is because, in my professional life (you know, on my day job) I am increasingly called upon to act "as if" I am a certain person, when I am clearly NOT that person. I'm expected to behave, write, talk, and perform "as if" certain things have not happened, but I'm not able to muster enough chutzpah to even fake it.

After all, I have been going to therapy once a week to find my true self; to learn who I really am and what makes me "tick." Talk about a double-edged sword, now that I KNOW and ACCEPT myself, I can't pretend I'm anyone else. I worked too hard in this Bariatric After Life™ to hide my little light under a bushel anymore. I recognize my value and self worth, and can't sell myself to the lowest bidder anymore.

Let me tell you…this is a really hard way to live. Learning that you have a passion, a gift, a calling, a need to do something other than what you have been doing for your whole life can be a scary proposition. But maybe, just maybe, the experiences on my "day job" are preparing me for a NEW day job? One in which I change people's heads by touching their hearts?

Of course, that means that I will remain in the direct line of fire for all sorts of accusations and mischaracterizations, but I think I can handle it. After all, truth always prevails.

Why am I talking about this?

Because now that I truly know (and accept) who I am, I'm not afraid to keep BEING her. Maybe I said that wrong…I've always known who I was, but had trouble accepting it. Since shedding my weight (both the physical AND the emotional pounds), I have stopped hiding behind a facade of someone who doesn't make waves, make a scene, OR really make a difference.

I used to call myself Gastric Bypass Barbie -- not because I was fake or plastic, but because I genuinely believed that Barbie could be anything she wanted to be. Unfortunately, not everyone embraces that definition of her, and actually despise her because she is made of plastic. They think that I think I am perfect (which Barbie clearly isn't, I mean, have you SEEN that figure??? Her hips are hideously disproportionate, and she has a hinged waist!!!) I clearly do not think that; I just like her shoes. Anyway, the bottom line is, many people had a hard time reconciling me with her, simply because they saw her in an entirely different light than I did.

Well, I'm not made of plastic; I am flesh and blood and heart and soul -- things that can be harmed, but also be healed. Just as I wasn't willing to compromise when I was young and wore little wooden Japanese shoes, I can't compromise who I am now (even if I do wear Barbie shoes).

In case you didn't figure it out before, I am me. 100% genuine, honest, open, flawed, energetic, joyful, enthusiastic, opinionated and real. I've never been anything less, and I'm not gonna start now - even if there are people in this world who don't like it. We are not put on this planet to please others, because we know some will never be pleased (especially with themselves). We are put here to know and love ourselves, and through that, know and love others.

I have a funny feeling you already knew that, but stuck around anyway.

Never underestimate the power of a genuine woman; I know I don't.

 This past weekend, I had the incredible opportunity to attend my third Obesity Help Conference this year! For those of you who have never attended one, I would encourage you to make plans for doing so next year (uh, just as soon as the dates and locations are announced, of course ;-), because it's the experience of a lifetime (or at least, the year). I guarantee you'll get pumped up, inspired, motivated and educated – everything you need to go live the most satisfying, healthy and joyful Bariatric After Life™ possible. I'm not kidding!

So, what's it all about (Alfie)? Well, here's how my 4 days in Houston, Texas went.

After traveling all day on Thursday, I finally rolled into the Hilton Post Oak around 8:30 PM and met up with Yvonne McCarthy and Shannon Watts for a lovely dinner in the hotel restaurant. I had the most glorious red snapper, garlic spinach and polenta (that stuff is dense, so I could only take a couple o'bites). It is so wonderful to catch up with my girls (they ground me :-)

 

Me N Yvonne in the Photo Booth

 

 

Me N Shan in the Photo Booth

 

Next, it was off to stuff "goody bags" with the OH team. It's hard not to steal bags of Revival Soy Chips while stuffing the bags, but fortunately, my new friend, Sean Nichols kept me busier than a one-armed paper hanger, so I didn't have TIME to filch any!

After we finished the bags, Connie Stapleton and I decided to go workout. Yes, I KNOW it was 11:30 PM. Yes, I KNOW I am a morning person. But, my body thought it was 9:30. Sorry, that's the best I got. I did an hour with "some other elliptical" (besides Enrique), and managed to burn 650 calories and go 5.5 miles. We stayed up until 2 AM gabbing!

 

Me N Connie in the Photo Booth

 

Friday morning came early (at least 2 hours earlier for this California Girl), and I did my usual puttering (and sputtering) until it was time to meet up with Yvonne, Shannon, Connie Stapleton and Chef Dave at 9AM in the lobby. Then, we were off and running for a private tour of The Davis Clinic! Okay, but NOT before Dave dropped by the "3rd Busiest Starbucks in the World" for his fix. Trust me, it felt more like the "2nd Busiest Starbucks in the World," but we girls entertained ourselves with Shannon's "Robocam" and took pictures of ourselves in the back seat. Let me explain the Robocam: This camera is "so smart," it "recognizes" teeth and smiles. I wish I were kidding, but I'm not. If you're the only one in the picture, it's fine, but if you are trying to coordinate teeth and smiles for three, well….you're gonna end up with about 15 unusable pictures. I think it went something like this:

 

Shannon Watts, Connie Stapleton and Me!

 

Steve (Connie's Husband): "Okay, on the count of 3. 1…[FLASH!] -- Cari Smiled too soon."
All: [Groan}
Steve: "Try it again. On the count of…[FLASH] Cari!"
Me: (with lips closed), "mmm…sorry…."
Steve: "Okay, 1…2…[FLASH] That was Connie…."
All: "Are you [FLASH] serious?"
Steve: "1…2….[FLASH….FLASH….]…3. Again….123! Shannon, your eyes were closed and Cari, you're making a funny face."
Me: "Yeah, but how's my [FLASH] hair?"
Steve: "1…2…"
Me: "We can use [FLASH] my cam…."
All: "Shut up, Cari!!!"
Steve: "Okay. Last try: 123 - [FLASH!] Good enough."
All: "Yea! [FLASH]
Me: "My hair looks funny…"

By this time, Dave had returned with his elixir, and we were off to be confused by Bitching Betty (our GPS with a bad attitude). Did I mention our appointment time was 10 AM? Did I mention that Yvonne made it on time and had to wait for us? Did I mention that the clinic is on this HUGE campus with FIVE parking structures? Did I mention we parked about as far away as you can park? Did I mention my 4-3/4" platform peeptoe suede heels? You need a GPS just to navigate the medical center!

Anyway, we made it (I, with blisters on my toes, and Dave with his Starbucks), and that's what matters.

Dr. Robert showed us around the facility, pointing out all of the amazing services they offer under ONE ROOF to support weight loss patients. They have an ultrasound machine, a way to do upper GI's, a thingie for filling bands, 2 registered dietitians (on staff), a psychologist, a bunch of coordinators, a huge classroom (that can fit 100 people!), and a bunch of other things I forgot because I kind of have a crush on Dr. Robert and I was giggly and flushed. I can't help it; he's the loveliest man. I do remember his photography, framed and proudly displayed all over the clinic (he's not only a talented SURGEON, he's also an accomplished lensman!) and before we knew it, the tour was over. What I can say about the Davis Clinic is: They are completely dedicated to treating obesity inside and out. Their facility caters to people of all sizes and mobility, and they are on the front lines of bariatric education. I like that :-)

With the tour at an end (and hugs given all around), we were off for the long safari back to the car. Good Lord, my feet were toast, but I didn't want to crack under pressure, so I just did my best to keep up. (LOL).

Next, it was off to Pappasito's for "the best steak fajitas on the planet." Since I don't eat meat, I had to take Dave's word for it. I ordered tilapia instead (good choice!) and we all enjoyed our plates! Unfortunately (or fortunately) I can never eat even HALF of what I'm given, so this fish went into a "to-go" box, so I could store it next to the other "fish-in-a-box" in my hotel mini-fridge. No, I didn't go back and eat either fishy leftover, choosing instead to abandon it in the hall outside a room about 3 doors down. Can you imagine the NERVE of some people? They just leave stinky fish right outside their door so room service will pick it up when they leave the paper. I'm sure there was a random fish charge on the bill. My bad.

Anyway, we returned to the hotel in just enough time for me to "poof" my hair and "polish" my face, and head down to the Q&A Panel. I am excited to report that I was actually allowed to sit at the table with such WLS luminaries as: Dr. Connie Stapleton, Chef Dave, Dan Benintendi, A Plastic Surgeon (whose name escapes me, sorry), Yvonne McCarthy, Sean Nichols and Gina Derr Robinson (a regain and reloss expert). Believe me, I felt like a freshman cheerleader riding the bus to the championship game with a bunch of seniors! Fortunately, I blended right in and had a lovely time sharing my thoughts with anyone who would ask. Shannon reports that I made "mean faces" while I wasn't talking. OOOPS. I thought I was cleaning my teeth, but she says otherwise. Pooh. It is hard to look fabulous when you're concentrating (and your feet hurt.)

 

Evidence of my pouty face.

 

After that was over, I got to meet Emily Gomez and her "crew" from Bailor. They are just the loveliest women you'd ever want to know. It is such fun to meet people you "know" on Facebook. Did I mention that Emily is a living doll??? She is a teeny thing with a wicked sense of style. Love the shoes, girl….

 

Me and My Homegirl Emily Gomez

 

My Bailor Crew Girlies

Next, I dashed back to the room to freshen up for the Meet N Greet. Yea! I finally got to wear my vintage dress and REAL pearls!

 

Real Pearls and a 1955 Sheath!

 

The hotel had put together a lovely buffet of chicken…fajitas. More fajitas??? Trust me, the black beans were fab! What little I ate, when I wasn't talking to Terri Black and her hubby Ian, or rubbing elbows with Connie and Rosemary (the twins featured in the WLSFA Documentary "Surviving to Thriving"), or meeting Dr. Alvarez' beautiful (and brilliant wife), Veronica, or just generally meeting (and hugging) about a million people I have seen on Facebook or Youtube. What a wonderful night.

After that, it was time for a little field trip, so me and ShannonWatts (I have to say her name as one word) walked over to the Galleria so we could window shop at Kate Spade and touch the clothes in the Armani store. It was so much fun (even though my feet hurt -- but I was in my cute blingie Bollywood sandals, so it was okay….) Connie and her friend, Sally met us at Kona Grill for dinner at around 9 PM (!!!) and we laughed and scratched like a bunch of drunks. The funny thing is, none of us drink, so we were just high on the conference (LOL). Sally had the sleeve done about 14 months ago and she looks and feels fabulous. Our server was really a cutie, although I'm pretty sure he couldn't figure out why we ordered food that we weren't going to eat! Hey, I worked really hard on my asparagus spears…what can I say?

 

Me, Shan, Sally and Connie

 

Okay, back to the hotel (Steve, Connie's hubby, picked us up). But, not before we ran to the Walgreens for some impulse purchases. I bought one of those totally fun travel pillows (Cheetah print, to match my carry-on, natch), and I don't remember what else. Oh, yes I do: I bought some Sugar Free Strawberry Red Vine Crap. Yes, I opened the bag in the car and, after the first bite, realized that I was chewing artificially flavored plastic wax. Which, as ShannonWatts will tell you, did not stop me from polishing off the entire bag by the end of the weekend. As an addict, I will tell you that there is NO ACCOUNTING FOR TASTE. Ugh.

Saturday morning (the big day!) hit me like a ton of bricks. Why did it feel so early? Why couldn't I find my eyes amidst the puffiness?? Why wasn't there enough coffee in our room to solve the problem? Why wasn't the sun up so I could use the natural light to apply my make-up? Which shoes should I wear? (These are the questions that plague me!)

Eventually, I opted for the giraffe print heels, pulled myself together, and ambled downstairs, just in time to hear Dave (that's Kim's hubby) warm up the room with a rousing "welcome" so we'd be ready to hear Connie speak about how the bariatric after life is a lot like a honeymoon. Okay, there was more than that, but I can't very well pimp her talk now, can I?

At one point, I got the chance to get everyone in the room to do a shout out to our Kiwi Brothers and Sisters in New Zealand, who are having their first ever Meet N Greet (something like our OH Conference, but a tad different) on November 19/20, 2011. We wanted them to know that they are loved and supported -- even from way up here in the northern hemisphere! We made a video which I will be editing and sending to my good new friend (and event organizer) Janine Hallewell! It was the coolest thing EVAH!

After that, I wandered over to the vendor hall so I could see some of my friends: Shannon Watts (Revival Soy booth!), Susan Maria and Michelle Rojo (Journey Bariatric Vitamins), Dr. Alvarez (Endobariatric), Annessa Chumbley (Flourish!) and a bunch of other people who are sort of a blur to me because I was sorta punchy that day.

Next, I wandered over to hear Dr. A. speak. Unfortunately, I ended up in Sean Nichols' room, but it was for "men only." Can you imagine how uncomfortable it felt to be the only woman in a room full of men? Okay, I take that back…they had to drag me out, but still.

 

Me N Dr. Alvarez

 

After I was *unceremoniously* ushered out of the room (pssshhhh…) I jogged over to hear Dr. Alvarez speak about the exciting future of bariatric surgery –– You cannot BELIEVE the stuff they are working on! It is extraordinary to think about how bariatrics will evolve in the next 5 years! I will be watching with wondering eyes, trust me!

After that, I ducked in to hear "Iron-Man-Dan-Benintendi" give an incredibly motivational and inspirational talk about the things we can ALL do after bariatric surgery. He is really the neatest guy you'd ever want to meet and talk to. Wow. It was the first time I got meet him, and I'm looking forward to working alongside him at future OH events :-) He's bomb!

You know, there were many speakers that day (Dr. Garth Davis, Dr. MaryJo Rapini, Anessa Chumbley, Chef Dave), but I'd heard them speak at the other events, and I didn't want to embarrass anyone by mouthing the words along with them like I do when I watch my favorite movies. (Like, When Harry Met Sally.) Okay, I'm kidding. They don't repeat themselves like that -- they keep it totally fresh. But I wanted to go mingle. That's the truth ;-)

Before I knew it, the conference day was drawing to a close, and it would soon be time for the fashion show and dance. We had just enough time to dash off to dinner at Pappas Steak House. Now, if I actually *ate* steak, this would have been thrilling, but since I don't, I really enjoyed my caesar salad! And the company. Let me not forget that the company was divine, and we laughed and scratched our way through the entire thing.

Back to the hotel, and time to put on my Ralph Lauren LBD. I was so excited about this, as I'd purchased it in Cincinnati, but hadn't gotten to wear it until now! Let me tell you, this dress travels like a dream! You can roll it, stuff it, wad it, crush it -- and then hang it, and it will never bely the secret abuse of the suitcase! Anyway, after my friend, Shannon Watts, came to my room for moral support (yes, she did sing "I Feel Pretty' to me…I just love her), I was off to my first ever fashion show. Yes, I was fashionably late (my bad!) but Yvonne McCarthy did a remarkable job of keeping everyone in line (literally) and building the excitement in the room! Before I knew it, I was on the catwalk, strutting my stuff to Black Eyed Peas, "I Gotta Feeling" -- and I DID have a feeling :-) I had a feeling I was gonna fall -- so I just kept moving, smiling and limiting the spins! LOL.

 

Trying to Vogue in my LBD. Epic Fail!

 

If you have NEVER been to one of these events, I must tell you that the fashion show is the highlight! I was surrounded by beaming, happy, confident people who would never have done anything like this in their before lives, and yet, here they were, putting it out there for the entire room to behold. It was magical, exciting, liberating and refreshing. Yes, there were handsome men in the show, and one woman even stripped down to her bathing suit, while another did the SPLITS on stage! The show ended too soon, as I could have stared at the before pictures for hours while I tried to reconcile the "after" proudly strutting on stage. This surgery is a miracle. That's all I can say.

Anyway, by this time, (4 pair of sky-high-heels later), my feet and I were DONE. I couldn't take another step (in or out of rhythm), so I staggered up to my room where I crashed and burned until morning.

The event was over too soon for me (although my feet have a different attitude about it ;-) I cannot believe I got to attend ALL THREE OH CONFERENCES this year. I am so blessed by the wonderful people I've met, and the changes in my life. My deepest hope is that all of you reading this will find a way to attend a conference in your area next year. It WILL change your life, and it WILL inspire you to do great things in your own Bariatric After Life™.

 

(Because I want you to meet Traci!)

 

The pictures don't do it justice. The memories will last a lifetime.

Thanks for reading, and see ya next year for OH 2011!!!

 What you believe is more important than what you know, so it's best to know what you believe.

Right now, I'm staring at a bunch of sequins that are sprinkled across the shag carpeting in my bedroom. They came from my wedding dress, which Juan found in the garage (to my utter surprise and glee). He also found 3, big garbage bags, filled with my most cherished clothes. Virtually all of them were handmade by either my mom or my grandma, and they represent what I've long considered to be my "fashion highpoint" (prior to now, anyway). I wore them when I was about 15-to-16-years old, during my sophomore and junior years of high school. That was a pivotal time in my life when I actually began to believe I was pretty. Almost.

Back then, I was 5' 6-1/2". My boyfriend was 5' 7"…which meant that I did a lot of Barbara Feldman-style slouching. (Look it up. She played Agent 99 to Maxwell Smart's Agent 86. He was short; she was tall; the rest is history.) Anyway, I wore a size 11-13 and, because my waist was so tiny, most of my clothes were custom-made for me. I think my measurements were something like 34-26-42. I used to say I had an hourglass figure…but all the sand had run to the bottom.

Unfortunately, even with those killer curves, I had a fat head, and I believed that I had to cover everything up. I thought I'd found the perfect way to highlight my assets, while minimizing my flaws, but in reality, I just found a way to hide beneath yards and yards of pretty fabric.

Not to discount the amazing clothes, I mean, I had two gorgeous prairie skirts. One was navy blue and featured a white eyelet petticoat that was attached to the ruffled hem so it would "demurely peak out the bottom." The other was wine colored and had a separate ivory lace petticoat that also peaked out the bottom. I would pair these with long sleeved, high-necked, ruffled and cuffed blouses, then top the whole ensemble off with wide belts that were so popular in those days. One was red patent leather, and the other was brown (I think). Naturally, because my boyfriend was undertall, I wore flats, instead of heels. Those outfits must have weighed 10 pounds each.

And now, they are back in my life again…returned to me like a sacrificial offering from an 80's Fashion Fairy. I am eager to try everything on again, just to see how big it is on me now. After all, I've shed 160 pounds. I am more fit than I've ever been. I have never (in my adult life) worn a size 6. I am tiny!

I begin with the blue skirt. Wow! This thing is HEAVY! I slide it on and proceed to zip the zipper. Wait a minute…what's this? I am having a really hard time closing the clasp at the top. I don't understand. I am thinner than I ever was. Why doesn't this fit?

But…let me try on some of the tops. Wow! There is a TON of fabric in these things…and…they button…all…the….way…to…the…chin. Gosh, apparently, I was diametrically opposed to cleavage when I was 15. That's funny…why is it pulling across the bust? Uh-oh: Another realization: I am not a 34C anymore…I'm a (modified, rebuilt, rehung) 34D or 36C.

That kinda makes a difference in the silhouette.

Let me try on that Gunne Sax dress that I wore for my 16th Birthday. I loved that dress. Teeny little buttons…dove grey fabric with antiqued lace details and ribbons.

Gosh. That pulls across the bust too -- but…I'm..in…it (Dammit).

Item after item, the clothes fall to the floor…I try on the farm dress (big - from my fat period), the taffeta blouse (small). I step into the white prom dress (can't zip it) and finally…the wedding gown.

Too Big.

Again, miles and miles of fabric. Heavy satin, lace, sequins and pearls. When my dress was made, I was sure to bury myself in fabric so I could hide the embarrassment of my 189-pound frame. Looking in the mirror, I am crushed by what I see. Why had I hated myself so much that I felt the need to hide everything in shame? It is a watershed moment for me…Here I stand, donning a wedding gown that is 5 or 6 sizes too big, realizing that the image I carried of myself all those years was…wrong. It was a lie.

When I was small, I convinced myself that I was fat.
When I was curvy, I convinced myself that I was disgusting.
What a travesty. What a waste.

And now, here I am, staring at a pile of clothes that defined me for several, critical years of my life. What I am witnessing does not match my memories.

What I now know doesn't match what I always believed. I have been believing a lie, and it has colorized more years than I'd care to recount.

And then it hits me.

I do not have a 26 inch waist anymore. I also don't have 42 inch hips or a 34 inch bust. I'm more like 36-28-38, which looks radically different on my body. For the past 3 years, I have mistakenly interpreted straightness to mean thinness. Not to say that I am fat. That's not the point. I'm saying that I wasn't fat when I was curvy, and yet…that was the faulty conclusion I drew everytime I looked in the mirror and saw something different than what all of the other girls saw when THEY looked in the mirror.

I carried this lie into adulthood…all the way to this moment.

I'll admit it: I am sad. I am sorrowful that I wasted so many precious years, believing less about myself than I should have. But, since I can't change the past, I must work on today: Where do I go from here? What do I do with this information? Am I a failure because I'm not as small as I thought I was?

As usual, in my Bariatric After Life, I work hard to find meaning in everything that happens to me. I like to shine a spotlight into those dark corners that I've been afraid to examine, in order to clear those cobwebs away. I work to grow from my experiences so that I can live truthfully, and without fantasy or deceit (because those things are destructive).

Here's how I see it. When I was younger, I didn't look like everyone else. Because of some random number on a clothing label or scale, I decided I was LESS-THAN. I determined that I was unworthy and shameful. I decided that I needed to hide. Evidently, I am so successful at hiding, that I attempt to do it, even now, as I reach back…back…back….to the clothes hanging in the back of the big closet of my life.

Well, trying on these cherished bits of fabric from my past has taught me a valuable lesson: If I don't believe I am beautiful now, when will I ever believe it to be true? I didn't believe it then, but I truly do now. Why? Because I know what it means to live in denial, fear, obscurity, and self-exile. There is no happiness in lies.

By shining a spotlight on who am am – right now – this day – I have learned that I am more than the sum of some old clothes in big trashbags. I am more than an overly-decorated wedding dress. I am more than confused memories of a girl who never really was.

I am a content, healthy, happy, fit, beautiful woman with a past that I have now corrected. I can't protect the little girl or the young woman who went before, doing the best she could with she had, but I sure as hell can be the woman I always believed I would become.

I'm not sure what I'll do with those clothes, but I know I'll keep them. I just won't worship their memory anymore…not when I have so many new memories to make (and clothes to buy!)

 

Incremental Failure

We were having an interesting discussion about the Bariatric After Life at my weekly support group meeting last Thursday, and my bariatric buddy, Mike, shared something that I thought was brilliant (hope you don’t mind, but I’m pimping your philosophy here, Mike!): He said, “Ya know, I don’t always get this bariatric eating thing right. I make mistakes and I try to learn from them; Sometimes, I really fail, but when that happens, I realize that I’m only a failure until my next meal. And, since that is most likely about 2 or 2-1/2 hours away, that means I’m only a failure for 2-1/2 hours MAX. After that, I have a chance to succeed again.”

This was, of course, the essence of his longer message, which revolved around his success through INCREMENTATION. He says it’s really important to plan and increment everything — meals, portions — even FAILURE. Whether you call it “failure” or you call it a “lack of success,” as long as you learn from the experience, it’s never a wasted opportunity.

I like what Mike is saying about incrementalizing (is that even a word? I made it up, so, yes) because, it makes me feel safer. Yeah, I do like to color inside the lines — big deal — I don’t mind limitations and boundaries — if they serve a purpose. I feel safer when I know what I’m supposed to be doing; I hate to guess. Call it the old “measure twice; cut once” idea, but I just like knowing what is expected of me, and what I should expect.

If I take Mike’s advice, from now on, my failures will only bite-sized; They’ll be “incremental” and only last only as long as I have to wait for my next meal.

How about you? How do you measure failures in your bariatric world? Do you throw the entire day (or worse) away if you eat the wrong thing, or eat too much of it — too fast — OR — do you decide that failure will only last until your next meal? If you fall into that latter category, then you’re an “incremental thinker,” and you’ll have a better time of succeeding in your new — healthier — WLS after life

At least that’s what I think. Thanks for the great insight, Mike!

 

Keeping the Faith: The Religion of Bariatric Surgery

I’ve heard the analogy made on various community boards around the web: Those who have bariatric surgery are like converts following a new religion. When you think about it, the similarities are uncanny and post-ops do experience the same things that the newly spiritual do: We have the promise of a glorious new body, an after life, miracles galore, unbelievable joy and heavenly rewards.

You’ve got your churches (hospitals and bariatric centers of excellence) and ministers(surgeons), and they all have slightly different doctrines (programs) for their patients (disciples). Once you’re baptized (have surgery), you become an evangelist, preaching the gospel of healthy living, miraculous weight loss, and an amazing “after life.” You worship at the altar(scale) everyday and pray for continued blessings (weight loss).

In those early days, your faith is strong, and you don’t dare “sin” by giving into the old “temptations.”

Visits to the scale are usually followed by shouts of “Hallelujah!” and you want every obese person you see to “get bariatric religion” so they, too can be healed.

The months pass, and you settle into your spirituality. You have your rituals and you thank the food gods every day because you don’t hunger for forbidden fruits.

But then…something happens. You decide that “maybe” a bite of that cake won’t be so bad. It is, after all just one teeny bite. And then you decide that you can get away with little indiscretions here and there, as long as you follow most of the teachings.

One day, you DUMP…but immediately and fervently repent, promising that you’ll never sin again. From that moment, you begin to make sacrifices at the altar and even start fasting (doing LPTs Liquid Protein Trains to decarb). After all, you are a changed soul. You have seen the light.

From then on, you start to encounter the religious zealots who mean well, but call you a sinner or heretic because you have partaken of an evil carb, eaten a cookie, or drunk a glass of champagne. Soon enough, the church elders are after you because you have fallen from grace.

Sadly, this is the time when many apostles will lose their religion and regain the weight they lost.

But, others will grow in their faith and begin sharing their journey in online forums. Inevitably, these saints will begin to feel the wrath and judgment of others who don’t practice their religion the same way.

Those who don’t want to become martyrs set up their own little houses of worship, and they attract a congregation. All of a sudden, they’re preaching to the choir, and people are singing their praises. Sometimes, they question their faith, so they seek the sacrament of confession, clearing their weighty conscience and recommitting their lives to keeping the faith.

Yes, bariatric surgery is a religion, and it takes a great deal of faith and perseverance to live a “holy” life. Oh, I’ve cast a few stones since my gastric bypass surgery, but all-in-all, I am blessed, and have been redeemed.

Perhaps I am just another pilgrim, sharing the good news with fellow travelers on this journey toward mecca (maintenance.) Whatever the case, I’m keeping the faith; are you?

Can I get an “AMEN!”

 Hey all! I finally launched my Youtube channel GastricBypassBarbie.

Please stop by and view my PILOT episode! 

 

Getting to the Heart of the Matter on my Bingeing

 

“In matters of the the heart, nothing is true except the improbable.” – Madame de Stael

As I’ve posted before, I am a binger. Okay, not a world-class binger or anything, I mean, I don’t purge, and I don’t do it everyday…I just do it enough that it is harmful to my psyche and body. So, eating disorder treatment is one of the reasons I’m going to counseling.

I got to meet with Jim (my therapist) this morning for the first time in about 2 months (his schedule didn’t permit, then mine didn’t, and well…you get the picture). It had been a long time coming, clearly, because I had a lot of junk built up in there. Perhaps that was a good thing, because I was able to identify (what I believe is) a pattern and it brought the source of my binges to the fore.

From what I’ve been able to deduce apparently, I want to binge when:

• I feel that I have been grossly misunderstood
• I feel that I am being accused of not handling a situation well
• I feel that my character is being assassinated
• I feel that I’m not getting credit for doing the “right thing”

I started each thought with “I feel” because that is the crux of it. I FEEL that these things are happening, when in reality, they probably are not (and perception is reality, right?) But, let me explain a little more.

I am pretty intuitive, and as a result, I tend to “pick up” a lot of stuff from people –– stuff that they aren’t even aware of. Now, in my past, this has served me well, because I’ve been able to help people, or diffuse difficult situations. I have generally always considered my ability to emotionally “intuit” as a mostly positive thing, with only a little negative stuff attached.

As an example, if I walk into a large gathering of people — especially a party — I tend to feel like a magnet for people’s insecurities, unhappiness, worries, discomfort, even joy and happiness. It all comes at me like little blow darts, and I feel like a voodoo doll. I used to think I hated parties because I was fat, but now that I am thin, I realize it is because of how I viewed my role at the party. I guess I thought it was up to me to make others feel comfortable, and that is why I would “allow myself” to be the recipient of their emotions, thoughts and feelings.

Ahhhh, but here’s the thing about that plan of attack: I have no way of knowing what others are feeling or thinking. Sometimes, THEY don’t even know what they are thinking or feeling, so how could I?

So, here is what I need to work on:

1. I cannot know what others think or feel.
2. I cannot know others’ motivation or intentions behind actions or words.
3. I cannot allow others’ to judge me.

That last one is tricky sounding, I mean, I judge people all the time, and I know they judge me, so how do I stop them from judging me? The easiest answer is, I don’t. What I mean by that is — and these are Jim’s words that I must internalize: I have to stop assigning malicious attributes to people’s words and actions. My job is to believe that most people have a benevolent (at best) and benign (at most) reason behind what they do and say. Then, even if someone is judging me, I don’t have to accept it as truth, or acknowledge it as any more than a point of fact. In other words, there should be no emotion behind the thought. No judgment.

Here’s how it looks when I ALLOW people’s words to become judgments about me:

Someone can say something to me that I immediately want to interpret as mean. The next thing I typically do is take the comment and run down the road with it:

• Why are they so mean? (I judged them as if I know their motivation behind their words).
• What did I do to make them mad? (I immediately determined that they were mad, and that it was something I had done.)
• I didn’t do anything wrong. (I get defensive and start to find ways to correct their indiscretion.)

All of that happens in the blink of an eye.

Now, if it happens enough times at a particular event, then I can create the most fantastic mountain out of the most innocuous series of mole hills. Each of the shovels of dirt I add to my mountain are “justifiable” and make “perfect sense.” After all, I have to defend my position. I have to stop letting them get to me. I have to look for someone to make me feel better about myself to prove that the other person is wrong.

Anyway, there is much, much more to it than that, but I think you have the heart of the matter.

Moving forward, my job is to stop jumping to conclusions. Stop pretending I am so important that other people live for the sole purpose of making me happy, or making me look or feel bad. We are all selfish creatures, and virtually everything (if not absolutely everything) we do comes from that place of ego; that self. How will it make ME feel? That’s just human nature.

BUT, it’s what you do with it that matters most.

My goal is to begin assigning benign attributions to people’s actions — even if they SEEM blatantly or overtly malicious. That’s my first order of business. Once I do that, then I will move to the next step, which is to stop allowing others’ statements to become judgments that I automatically accept as true — meaning that I “think” I have to defend myself against them. The third thing is to stop looking at myself as if I am a target. I’m not a voodoo doll, and I’m not entering a sniper zone without a bullet proof vest. People in this world are not out to get me (I don’t mean that in a panicky, paranoid sort of way) — they are as wrapped up in their worlds as I am in mine.

So, that’s my therapy for the day. I’m going to work on it this weekend. Maybe I’ll make little flash cards for practice (LOL). I don’t know if anyone else can identify with this, but I’m just working stuff out here…

 

A New Perspective: What I learned From a guy named Chet and a ‘71 Ford truck

A funny thing happened at the plastic surgeon’s office; I got handed a fistful of “before” surgery pictures and wanted to cry. Not tears of happiness. No, I was genuinely mortified by the images staring back at me.

• Why wasn’t I happy to see my amazing transformation?


• Why couldn’t I see how far I’ve come?


• Why didn’t I understand that I don’t even remember those arms or those breasts?

Well, for starters, I look old and haggard (because I didn’t realize my face would be included in the shots, so I wasn’t smiling), I have a turkey waddle under my chin, and worse – my body is skinny, bony and downright ugly. I realize these are harsh words, (especially coming from someone who supposedly has a good self-image of her new body), but those are the words that came to mind.

On the one hand, I was thankful that the droopy, deflated breasts are no longer hanging around, and my wingspan has been replaced with lovely, toned arms – but I just couldn’t erase the picture of the person with the non-existent hips, bony shoulders and boyish frame.

That is, until an enlightening little conversation with a “wise guy” from my Thursday night support group. We couples (he and his wife, and my hubby and I) were taking in a show at the theater downtown. While waiting to take our seats, I happened to mention my eye-opening experience.

Well, Dave (that’s the wise-guy’s name) thought about what I’d said, and offered this sage tale (to see if it might strike a chord):
 
Way back when Dave was a skinny young kid, he had a neighbor named Chet. Now, Chet was a funny guy who loved drinking beer and washing and waxing his beloved 1971 Ford F-150 truck with camper shell every single Saturday. The odd thing is, Chet only ever waxed the hood. (Contrary to what you might have guessed, the beer had nothing to do with this seeming lack of attention to detail.)

According to Chet he just waxed the hood because that was the only part of the truck he ever saw when he was driving it.

It didn’t make sense to him to waste time, effort (and beer) waxing something he couldn’t even see.

Which brings me to my little epiphany: I have been worrying about stuff that I can’t even see – not when I’m walking, not when I’m bathing, not when I’m sitting, not when I’m driving – as a matter of fact, it’s pretty hard to see that stuff at all.

Ironically, the only way I can see it is if I’m in a try-on room with a 360º mirror, or if someone is pointing a camera at my naked self! Trust me, when I’m in the try-on room, I am not looking at my bony back – I’m looking at how fabulous my clothes look on me – and I don’t tend to indiscriminately disrobe in front of random photographers.

Which brings me to part two of my little epiphany: Would I rather look good naked or clothed? Well, since my hubby says he loves me no matter what, and my plastic surgeon doesn’t get a vote, I’m going to say that it’s best to look good clothed.

The moral of the story? Stop worrying about what’s behind me, and start concentrating on everything in front of me – like the future!

No more waxing the whole car; I’m just doing the hood – then hitting the road.