Monica M.

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September has always signalled a new beginning to me, more so than January, or any other time of the year, even my birthday.

I've decided that it will be good for me to set some goals for this month, I need to pull up my socks and get myself to goal. It's so close I can taste it, and yet its sooooooo far away.

1. Run/jog 20 k a week. I'll do at least 10 on the weekend, and two or three runs during the week, adding up to another 10. Ideally, i'll do 5 at a time on those shorter runs.

2. Log my food. I just renewed my gold membership on LIvestrong.com, which allows me more control over the goals and things, and allows me to log my own recipes.

3. Wine only on weekends. It's turned from a "sometimes" thing, to a couple of times a week thing. It has to go back to sometimes. It's empty calories, and they're weighing me down.

4. Finances will get in order. I just recently received a pay raise, and some retro active pay, so I'll need to set a budget that works, where i can help my kids with their school finances, and still save.

5. Find a freaking house!!! Still haven't bought a place, and i'm getting tired of renting!!

There you go. Goals set.

Mon

My last blog was about my descent back into depression. I thought i should come back here and let you know that i'm feeling so much better. I saw my family doc, and she started me on an antidepressant. After a couple of weeks, i really did start seeing a difference.

I smile spontaneously now, my laughs don't feel forced, my friends are calling me crazy again, i'm  not so irritable. I don't cry at the drop of a hat (good thing, cuz there's lots of hats falling around me).

I do have to say that exercising is still not as spontaneously happening as i'd like it to be. I still talk myself out of running too easily, but i'm getting better at talking myself back into it again, which is good.

My eating is a bit uncontrolled right now. I'm involved in a play, and there's always lots of snacks around, and I'm having difficulty with grazing. The late nights are kind of getting to me. The run is almost over, tho, and i'll work hard at getting back into my routine (or some kind of routine) again.

Thank you all, for your support.

Love you ALL!!!!

Mon

Editor's note: Stephanie Gallman, a CNN assignment editor, was diagnosed with depression last year despite being a frequent exerciser, a fairly healthy eater and an avid fan of Hula-Hoops.

(CNN) -- In August, after several months of seeing a therapist and a psychiatrist, I was diagnosed with depression.

The news came as a shock.

"I'm not depressed," I said defiantly, shaking my head when the doctor deduced that must be what was ailing me.

"I hate depressed people."

She laughed at my strange reaction, but I was serious. I don't want to be in that category of people. Everything they take in and spew out just breathes negativity, and they are difficult to be around. I despise these people.

But as she went down a list of symptoms, they were all there -- loss of appetite, trouble sleeping, waves of irrational anxiety, crying for no reason, loss of interest in work and hobbies, isolation and seclusion. I had nearly every one of them.

We went over my personal history, which included severe bouts with anxiety as a child, teenager, college student and young adult. I told her I assumed all kids were scared of dying, all teenage girls struggled with weight and eating issues, all college students struggled leaving the nest and everyone had a quarter-life crisis. My severe highs and lows that spanned a long period of time were all red flags.

When I told her my family history of mental illness that included at least one suicide, she threw her pen down on the floor as if this years-long mystery had finally been solved.

"It sounds to me like your body just doesn't produce enough serotonin," she said, matter-of-factly.

Her diagnosis sounded quite clinical. We'd only talked for an hour, but she seemed certain, based on our conversation and the briefing she'd had with my therapist, that my body's chemistry was simply off, causing me to feel down. She threw in slight OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder) for good measure, to which I scoffed, thinking of the clothes strewn about my house.

"Your OCD is in your thoughts -- you think about things to the point of obsessing about them." 

Well, that's just awesome.

I agreed with her that I had been going through a slump but wondered if her diagnosis was a bit dramatic. I've always been a firm believer that happiness is a choice. I'm an optimist, so if I'm not happy, there has to be a reason for it. Could these feelings be the result of job stress? The on-again/off-again relationship I'd been fighting to make work for almost a year?

She nodded as I posed these questions and then said, "Sure, it's possible that all of these things could've contributed to how you're feeling. But it's also possible, and quite likely for you, that none of them did."  

She advised me, as a frequent exerciser and fairly healthy eater, to continue those activities before she said what I'd feared the most.

"I think an antidepressant might help stabilize some of the chemicals in your brain."

I continued to challenge her, wanting to know how long I'd have to be medicated. She could tell I was anxious and looking for a solution to this problem that didn't involve drugs. But she was already writing a prescription and scheduling our next visit.

"For some people," she explained, "happiness isn't a choice. You wanting to be happy and expecting it to just happen is the equivalent of someone with brown eyes wanting blue eyes and expecting that to just happen."   

I wasn't thrilled with the diagnosis, but her explanation made sense to me and made me feel better.

Still, I refused to let myself completely off the hook, and as I left her office, I set forth on a path of self-discovery to identify how my actions might've contributed to how I felt -- a path that quickly brought up the ever-confusing chicken and egg game.

Did I isolate myself from my friends because I was depressed? Or did I become depressed because I isolated myself from my friends?

I was more hesitant than usual to keep what was going on to myself, telling only my family and those closest to me at the time what the doctor had said. Soon it became clear that I needed the support of more than a select few if I was going to get through this. Plus, it's not like me not to share what's going on in my life. And isolating myself, I suspected, was partly to blame for being in this situation in the first place. So, at the inappropriate places and the most inopportune times I could find, I began dropping the "D-bomb."

That's usually how I'd open the conversation, "Um, I have to tell you something. It might feel like a bomb, but I'm OK and everything is fine." As I started to open up about it -- I started to feel more like myself -- the Stephanie who isn't embarrassed by life's setbacks, who tackles difficult situations with humor and honesty.

No surprise, the wonderful people in my life have all been very kind and sympathetic, offering words of comfort and support, but reaction and willingness to talk openly about the disease has varied.

I was raised in a "pick-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps," kind of a family, so while hurtful that some people immediately discounted that I was actually sick, it was those people who don't believe depression is a real thing that I identified (and still identify) with the most.

The sadness that comes from depression is not rooted in anything real. I'm not sad because of anyone or anything. I don't know why I am sad. I just am. I don't know why I worry about things that are so far out of my control. I just do.  And I so wish that I didn't.

Most people who don't believe in depression also don't believe in being medicated for it. Their warnings to me ranged from mindful caution to downright fear that I'd become addicted to pills and turn into a zombie.  

Instead of drugs, they'd say, why don't you "do more of the things that you enjoy?" 

"Tend to your garden."

"Find a project, something to focus your attention on."

"Read, 'The Secret.' "

Bite me.

These patronizing ("The Secret"? Are you serious?) prescriptions infuriated me, as if the reason I wasn't happy is because I hadn't tried hard enough.

A lot of the people reacted to the D-bomb the same way I did -- "You're depressed?! You?  Stephanie Gallman? But you're one of the happiest people that I know! You Hula-Hoop in Walmart!" (I really do Hula-Hoop in Walmart -- every time I go.)

These are the people I wanted to reach out and hug; they made me feel like I hadn't turned into Debbie Downer.

It's true, to the outside world, I do appear happy. And I realize this is hard to grasp, even for me, but I am happy most of the time. I am fully aware of how blessed my life is and express gratitude for it daily. I have worked hard not to let what's going on with me on the inside affect the way I present myself on the outside.

I guess you could say, I've become a Hula-Hoop in Walmart on the outside, want-to-crawl-into-bed-on-the-inside kind of gal; depression, until now, was my dirty little secret. 

My happy-go-lucky cheerful attitude is the element of my personality that I am most proud of. This other part -- that obsessively thinks about things I cannot control, is self-loathing and uncertain -- is also a part of who I am; unfortunately, it's the part that has been screaming the loudest lately. 

The third, and perhaps the most popular reaction to my dropping the "D-bomb," has been the barrage of friends divulging their personal connections to mental illnesses.

"My mom has bipolar. ... My uncle has been clinically depressed for years."  

I was dumbfounded. I wanted to scream like Adam Sandler in "The Wedding Singer": "Gee, you know that information ... really would've been more useful to me yesterday!" Why isn't anyone talking about these illnesses that affect our most important body part -- our brain? 

Last summer, I bought a poster that said, "Everything is OK. Maybe not today, but eventually." I framed it and hung it near my bed where I wake up every day and see it.

On my best day, I believe that quote to be absolutely true. I am attacking this diagnosis with every bit of energy and every resource that I have.

On my worst day, I feel like a different person -- tired and unfocused and desperate to feel like the real, fun, positive Stephanie I know is somewhere trapped inside me. I feel let down by the world but too exhausted to go out and change it.

Admitting I suffer from depression and anxiety has, at times, made me feel weak -- like I'm admitting defeat. I am hard on myself for no reason. I'm pissed that despite having every reason to be happy, sometimes I'm not. 

My relationships have suffered -- some ruined completely -- because of this disease; some are of my own doing, not trusting those dearest to me and asking for help when I needed it. Others bowed out, not interested in riding this difficult and often unpredictable journey. I can't blame anyone for making that decision, but I'd like to think that even at my worst, I'm worthy of honesty, compassion and understanding.

Anyone who would judge me for this weakness that I've identified and am treating probably isn't someone I would want to work for or date anyway.

I am someone who struggles with her brain the way that others struggle with their heart. 

I love deeply and laugh loudly.

I work hard; I play harder. And I always Hula-Hoop at Walmart.

As you may know, if you're a regular follower of my blog, prior to my surgery, I'd been on antidepressants for a while. Last summer, I talked to my GP about stopping the medication, and did so under her supervision. She cautioned me that I might need to go back on them over the winter, but I appeared to have made it through without needing to.

This past few weeks, tho, my mood has been spiralling the wrong way. Even with that bout of sunny weather, I was just getting sadder and sadder. Sleeping poorly. Irritable. Anxious. There were a couple of times when I had too much to drink, and, although it was fun at the time, the resulting depressed mood and anxiety were almost unbearable, for about a week after.

I've been avoiding social situations. I purposely go the other way when I see someone I know, at the mall or whatever, so I don't have to take that energy to talk to them. A friend of mine is moving to BC soon. He left a voice mail for me, sent me an email, and i haven't returned either, just because I don't want to dig in to those emotions and deal with that. The other night, hubby and I were out at a friends, but I just couldn't do it any more. I faked some nausea and left the party.

I've been doing what I need to, just to get by, at work. My heart isn't in it. My GP offered to put me off work for a bit, but I don't know if that's the right solution or not. She said I didnt have to make up my mind about that today, just to let her know if I do or not.

My kids were home this past weekend (they live and go to school in Toronto). It was so nice having them around, but now that they're gone, i just miss them so badly.

I've got anxiety about finances, although hubby and I are both working, my budgeting skills are crap, and I feel like we're broke all the time.

So, my GP (who's a wonderful, caring woman, i just love her) has prescribed me an antidepressant. I haven't yet taken that first dose. But I will. I want to feel better. She's referred me for counselling as well.

I don't really want to tell my husband about this, but I probably should. I need to be more open with him, but I hate "exposing my weaknesses".

So, that's where I am today.

On March 2, 2012, it will have been one year since my surgery. I was referred almost 2 years ago, at the end of March 2010. It doesn't seem like that long. It seems like just yesterday I was successful in obtaining a referral from a colleague of my family doctor. My own family doctor would not refer me, even tho I had asked numerous times. Since that time, I've been reassigned to another doctor within the same practice.

I read about people's anxieties now, about being declined for surgery, about being the "only one WLS won't work for", the anxieties over how you're going to survive optifast, or how you're going to endure the dietary restrictions post surgery. I had all of those. I still have the "this surgery won't be successful for me in the long term" anxiety. I still have the "I'm going to regain all the weight lost and more" anxiety. I think we need to keep those anxieties, to keep us on the path to health.

I do not regret this surgery. It has given me my life back. It has given me a sense of pride and accomplishment. I have learned so much from those who have gone before me.

I've learned that weight loss is first about what goes on inside my head, second about what i put in my mouth. Your brain can be your biggest enemy, or your biggest ally. You choose which one its going to be. I've also learned that exercise is the only true way to get away, and stay away from obesity. Without regular exercise, you'll slowly (or not so slowly) return to having the same difficulties you did before.

I have been thinking, for some time, about what i'd put in this blog post. Other people have been so eloquent about the emotional journey they've been on, when they make their surgiversary posting. Some of those blogs have near brought me to tears. Now that its my turn, I'm not sure what to say. I've met so many incredible people. So many people with the same history, the same struggles, the same issues, that its made us close in ways i couldn't have imagined. There are so many people (and a few, in particular) who I call my friends, who I know I can count on for supportive words, or a virtual slap upside the head when i need it.

My daughters made an interesting comment the other day. Rachel said that, when she looks at me, she sees her mom, not necessarily what size i happen to be. But the two of them were looking at older pictures on facebook a little while ago, and were amazed at the change. I, too, am amazed at how this surgery has changed me. Physically, mostly, but emotionally too.

This blog post is being written after finding out about the death of an OH member. Someone who I came to know in real life, as we happened to work in the same place. She was a wonderful, supportive, beautiful woman. I mourn for her. I am so sad for her son, her partner and all her family members. Penny died of a necrotic bowel. I don't know what symptoms she was having prior to her death, I don't know if she had been following all the rules, I don't know anything, really. What I do know is that her death was tragic, and I wish that things had been different for her. I'm going to learn from this, I'm going to educate myself, and those around me. I need to learn from her, we all do. We all need to be advocates for ourselves, and for each other.

I was just now talking with a friend of mine, who had gastric bypass about 10 years ago.

She's been a huge source of support for me, in terms of keeping me motivated to fight with my doctor to get the referral in the first place, and now, to keep motivated to eat properly, and take my vitamins and supplements.

She's a very sweet girl, she really is, but some of the ways she motivates me is from her 'bad' examples.

She lost 140 lbs, initially, and had a bunch of plastic surgery to get rid of excess skin (and other more vanity motivated procedures, breast implants, nose job, etc).

She's "pushed the limits" over the years, and can eat "normally" now. She eats chocolate, drinks alcohol (quite a lot, it seems from her facebook), and doesnt take her vitamins and supplements regularly at all.

She got divorced, just after she lost all her weight, then had the plastics. By her own admission she turned into "kind of a slut" for a while, all the compliments from all the men went straight to her head. Although her marriage wasnt the strongest in the first place, she recognizes her self esteem issues had a lot to do with the divorce. She's now settled down, she just got married "to the man of her dreams".

She's got joint pain issues that make it very difficult for her to exercise (related to not taking calcium? malabsorption?), so is finding it very difficult to maintain or lose weight.


Anyway.. i'm not sure what my point is. I guess that we can't ever drop our vigilance, about the demons that caused our weight gain.

Yesterday, it was such a stressful day at work,  I was involved in legal hearings all day, that didn't go as i had planned, and they ran late and i had to do wayyyyyyyyyyy too much thinking. Seems i used up all my brain power on that, rather than sticking to the program.

I thought i started off well, i did 25 minutes on the elliptical, it had been too cold over the weekend to go out and run, and i was out of town.

I ate a small bran muffin before the workout (i had made them the day before, a bit higher protein, because i substituted greek yogurt for half the milk)

Once i got to work, an egg, scrambled in the microwave, and a bran muffin (bit bigger than the one earlier, but from the same recipe)

Snack i had a bit late ( i usually have break at 10, but the morning hearing went long, so i didnt get it till about 1045). I had planned on half a banana and a piece of low fat cheese, but ended up with the whole banana, and the cheese.

Lunch was 2 oz of salmon that i had mixed with mayo, on rice crackers. I was eating at my desk, i was stressed, and i felt ravenous. There are 7 crackers in a serving, and i didnt count how many i ate. I think i ate about 9 of them.  I wasnt paying enough attention to figure out if i was really hungry or just head hungry.

The afternoon hearing started late, and went long. At the latter part of the hearing (about 315)  i was starting to lose focus, i started feeling nauseous and i was afraid of getting hypoglycemic or something. There were muffins in the meeting room, so i ate about 3/4 of the muffin. Felt like crap (not physically, emotionally). I had a piece of cheese right after the hearing.

I got home (finally) about 430, i knew i had to be in town by 5pm, but wanted to prepare something to eat for later (i'd have a break about 6), so i cooked up some meatballs (and enough for tomorrow), and put them in a container. I also made a piece of whole grain toast with peanut butter for snack.

My husband was stressing about his goddam phone, and "needed" to use my phone to call the support people to figure it out. At 450, i'm telling him that i need to be in town in 10 minutes, and i need my phone. He gets stressed at the slightest thing, so of course that tossed him over the edge, and now he's grumbling at me.

At the break, (between hand bell practice and choir practice) the other girls decided to go to Timmies, because they hadn't prepared anything. I, being the "joiner" that i am, ate my meatballs on the way to Timmies (and also had to drop off my car at the shop) and had a tea biscuit with cheese with the girls. And a decaf.

Once at choir practice, I ate the piece of toast at the break. Had a half a glass of wine after choir. Oh,and i forgot, a handful of chips once i got home, because they were there.

This raises so many issues for me.
1. Carb addiction
2. Stress eating
3. "joining in" behaviour
4. not being able to stick to my plan
5. feeling like i'm not being honest with myself, or my supports


I'd appreciate feedback.

Work - black suit, with skirt and pants
             white blouse
             grey pants
             patterned dress
            

Casual - dark wash jeans
                  Khaki pants
                  white tshirts
                  comfy hoody
                 

Exercise - yoga pants - 2


I'll edit this list as i think of things.
                  

We're all forced to be in the malls right now, going shopping for our loved ones. I've been having some thoughts about the need to be careful.

Everything i try on, these days, looks good. THere's no more of that "oh yeah, it covers up the flab ok, i may as well take it". It's more like "omg its a size (fill in the blank for your happy size)!! I'm buying it!!!!!"" I tried on a pair of size 14 jeans the other day, that fit like a glove. omg it made me so happy. But i put them back on the shelf. Why? because i'm not at goal, and they were full price, and it would have been wasting my money, in the long run.

The available choices can be overwhelming.

The desire to make ourselves feel good is definitely there.

It is scientifically proven that shopping gives people a "high".

We need to be aware of what we need vs what we want.

We need to have control over that area of our lives too, especially those of us who aren't at goal yet.

It's so incredibly tempting to buy things because they fit and look good, but we'd be so much better served by having a specific plan in place to shop by. (but of course, leaving room for ultra cute things, or some impulse buys, i'm not saying never give in, but judiciously give in)


I'm gonna make a shopping/wardrobe plan. That will take place here on my blog, i'll make a list of things that are wardrobe staples, and once i get to goal weight, i'll do my best to stick to that plan.

I have made a pact, as of right now, with myself, and with all of you, that i will NOT buy anything more until i am at my goal weight.

I will accept free donations of clothes from friends, but will not purchase anything for me.

If i fall away from this pact, and purchase an item of clothing, I will make a donation of a similar amount of money to a local charity.

This is my plan.



 

I managed to get up early, and attended the yoga that i had planned to, 7am, before work. It's gentle yoga, lots of stretching and gentle poses. It was my second yoga session ever in my life (i don't know if you can count Wii yoga), and wow, what an amazing way to start the day.I felt energized and invigorated, and had a sense of accomplishment, for actually following through on my plan to go to the pre-work yoga. I told a friend at work that i was going to go, and that gave me a need to be accountable, and follow through. I've discovered that's a technique that works for me. In my former life, I wouldn't share these goals with anyone, so I was the only one who knew i was copping out. It's a good motivator for me.

The day at work was long and uneventful, but all throughout the day, i had a real sense of pride and accomplishment.

In the evening, I attended my second to last session of the "learn to run" group at the Running Room. Last week, we did 8 minutes, and I was really leery about going to 10 minutes this week. "Really? 10 minutes? Shouldn't we only go up to 9?? Let's not go crazy, here." We run for a total of 20 minutes, so we would do 10 minutes running, one walking, 10 running. Extremely apprehensive. I didn't want to fail, this far out.

I did it.


I freaking did it.

During the first 10 minutes, I felt so good. I wasn't shuffling, like i was, even at the end of the 8 minutes last week. My feet were coming completely off the ground. I was actually running, not half assed running. I felt the same in the second 10 minutes. Again, feet coming completely off the ground. Arms and hands relaxed. I wish i could have seen myself run, i wonder if i looked as good as i felt?

The instructor came back to me near the end of the second 10 minutes, and ran with me for a bit. I talked with her as we ran, a little breathlessly, but i was able to talk. I wasn't gasping for breath, and i didn't feel like i was going to die. She told me how impressed she was, with my progress, and how she hoped that i would keep this up. I told her how impressed i was with myself.

I remember, when i was severely obese, looking at people running, and wishing, hoping, dreaming, that i could one day be like them. Runners always looked free to me, like they could do anything they set their mind to.  I'm one of them now. I can do whatever i choose to do! I am a runner. I am free.

After the run, and after the stretching, i went back into the store to pick up my keys and glasses (i can't run with glasses on, they keep falling down and its annoying. I can see fuzzy blobs and stay out of their way well enough lol). It hit me, as i was walking through the store, that i didn't feel out of place. I didn't feel like people were mentally pointing fingers at me and asking "what the hell is SHE doing here".
 
I'm a runner like the rest of them.

I belong here.

I belong in the world, and I'm so grateful to my surgeon, my bariatric team, my OH friends and my real life WLS friends, for helping me get here. Right now, too, I'm so grateful to the Running Room, for helping me get to a place that I've been striving for, my entire adult life.