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Scattershot (Six Months, 100#, etc.)

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nimiety

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I crossed the six-month mark nearly two weeks ago, down 92 pounds—I've lost four more since then. I'm staring down the barrel of 100 lost. I know I'm smaller than I've ever been as an adult. My measurement jeans (Gap, size 20, 100% cotton) muffin-top me a little still but they button no problem. In fact, I've added a new pair of measurement pants—Gap, size 16, 1% stretch. Holding them up, they look impossibly tiny, and they're a solid ways from buttoning at all, but even the fact that I can pull them up my thighs seems remarkable to me. Clothes that have held me for years through all of the weight-cycling I've done have started to not fit. Yesterday I wore a beloved Kiyonna wrap dress (a true wrap—one of my favorite techniques for weathering size shift, because it lets you adjust as needed, and in fact I've made this one extra-adjustable by opening up the slit for the belt so that some of the actual dress can pull through it to tighten things up) and it's just a no go at this point. I weigh 236, and it's a plus 2x, and because it's beautifully tailored (which is exactly what makes it great), I've now got drooping shoulder seams and excess fabric hanging through the torso. I think yesterday was the last time for that dress. Which makes me sad. I love my wardrobe, and I am losing it.

The real truth is that despite having a big January (lost 14.4#), this stuff is not at the forefront of my mind right now. The beginning of the Trump administration feels, most days, like one that really threatens to undermine the foundational ideals and institutions of American democracy, to turn us into Russia or Turkey or one of the other democracies-in-name-only, and that feels like a low-grade (or not-so-low-grade, depending!) crisis every day. And my father had a bad fall, resulting in one very, very bad night in the emergency room ("emergency neurosurgery team" is never a phrase you want to hear, but thankfully, he did not actually need emergency brain surgery) and there has been a lot of family medical triage in its wake. I'm still putting one foot in front of the other, but I'm not jazzed up about it as I've been. Been logging my food every day, though, and posting and reading on Instagram, and those things help keep me engaged with the needs of postsurgical life.

I'm also starting to notice the "honeymoon period" waning—it's hard to tell what's honeymoon period and what's just new normal until things start to shift, and things have started to shift. It's not gone or anything, but I've had a few moments of anxiety about feeling like I didn't have the same kind of external autopilot that I've had these last six months—there's fear that comes up when I feel that absence, which is related to my self-doubt and probably also my control-freakery. I definitely have a bigger sleeve than some (my surgeon performs a lot of two-part DS procedures, and besides which is the chief of a research unit that has found no meaningful advantage to a smaller sleeve in their outcomes), and in general I feel good about that, but some part of me also goes "what if?" I know that the further out I get, the more I'll need to focus on mental/behavioral stuff to make sure that I'm not lapsing into counterproductive old patterns. Luckily, I have very good professional support around that sort of thing, and I've already put it on the agenda with my therapist. I also saw a wonderful eating-disorders nutritionist—truly the best I've ever found—for many years, and while she no longer officially sees individual patients, I emailed her before surgery to ask if she could see me once or twice at some point and she said she would. She has a ton of experience with bariatrics, and I think a tune-up with her would go a long way as I start to settle into the long haul. I want to make the best use of those sessions, though, so I'm holding off a couple months yet.

People have started to comment. Which is hard for me. I'm not one of the people who likes that, who thrives on it, who wants commentary. I want people not to treat me differently, not to comment on my body, and to generally leave me the hell alone about this. My ex-boyfriend waited until the very end of a nice, chatty catch-up to tell me that I look great, but I could see the way he was looking at me all night, could see it lurking there. One of my favorite cousins lost his ever-loving mind at a family event a couple weeks ago, and spent much of the night returning to the theme of how I've never looked better. It made me uncomfortable, and I did not really know how to ask him to slow his roll other than being vague and dismissive. I feel like people comment when you cross a categorical boundary, and I am crossing one now, from invisible-fat to normal-fat. 

Oh, and it's petty and I'm just sort of randomly yapping now, but: my arms drive me bananas. They're significantly bigger than my torso, so there's stuff I can't wear even though it would fit me better in the body. There's a Lucky Brand dress I'm itching to get into—it's a 2x, but it still. won't. go. over. my. arms. I'm a broke-@*# graduate student, but I swear to all that's holy, I will be having brachioplasty at the end of this. 

This is a random run-down, but I do actually want to post a little more often. For now, though: have to go deal with a medical thing with/for my dad. In a blizzard. The world does not stop when we have surgery, that's for damn sure.


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