"or if there was / A time when it was not. "

Oh, this is getting tricky. If I lived alone, I'd cover all the mirrors (both of them) in sheets and let the chips fall where they may in doing my hair blind. I'd buy a whole new wardrobe, because it hurts less to put on new clothes than it does to wear old ones and have to cope with the fact the neckline's in an entirely different place, the cuts are wrong, and whatever balance my figure had is gone now.

And it'll be back in three months or so. I'll have to choose the size of my new boobs and I, of course, feel like I'll want them gigantic, but when push comes to shove, I'll probably opt for something less obstreperous. (though I don't know how someone decides this).

I know I was a healthy fat person. I didn't have to go to the doctor often, I got a couple colds a year, I had decent stamina and flexibility, I was lifting more and more at the gym, my bloodwork always came back mostly normal. I'm on a lot of drugs, but they were mostly psychiatric and who wouldn't be depressed while deciding whether or not to Cut Her Breasts Off. (which is a little disingenuous, the list of reasons why I'm on psychiatric medication/therapy is long and checkered.)

And I know I'm healing. Just because the drains are out and the surgical glue is flaking off (TMI: it is really hard not to pick scabs on numb parts of my body), just because I can gingerly cuddle doesn't mean I'm all better. Doing a load of dishes doesn't exhaust me because I'm fat and out of shape, it exhausts me because I had surgery a month ago (tomorrow will be one month since I broke up with my boobs).

But there's still a voice in my head that can't be shut up, which thinks I join Weight Watchers right now, or go back to the days of eating disorders, or see if starting smoking again would help me lose those twenty pounds I put on when I quit. I don't, but I'm having more and more issues with my appearance daily. I know I'll go back to the gym someday, but it's such a defeating thought, to climb all that way uphill again to just get back to where I was.

Blargh. I'm a giant ball of mope at the moment, I think I'm getting a cold, and I'm still not focusing very well on my reading. I've abandoned the complicated needlework and returned to the simpler stuff, and I'm judging myself even for my leisure activities. I feel like I should be doing things with my time off, reading improving novels, reorganizing my house, teaching my dog to stop barking, but I don't. I whine to livejournal and spend most of my time in a half-awake half-asleep sulk, too restless to settle, too tired and sore to leave the couch. Fucking pain. Emily Dickinson was spot on.

"or if there was / A time when it was not. "

Oh, this is getting tricky. If I lived alone, I'd cover all the mirrors (both of them) in sheets and let the chips fall where they may in doing my hair blind. I'd buy a whole new wardrobe, because it hurts less to put on new clothes than it does to wear old ones and have to cope with the fact the neckline's in an entirely different place, the cuts are wrong, and whatever balance my figure had is gone now.

And it'll be back in three months or so. I'll have to choose the size of my new boobs and I, of course, feel like I'll want them gigantic, but when push comes to shove, I'll probably opt for something less obstreperous. (though I don't know how someone decides this).

I know I was a healthy fat person. I didn't have to go to the doctor often, I got a couple colds a year, I had decent stamina and flexibility, I was lifting more and more at the gym, my bloodwork always came back mostly normal. I'm on a lot of drugs, but they were mostly psychiatric and who wouldn't be depressed while deciding whether or not to Cut Her Breasts Off. (which is a little disingenuous, the list of reasons why I'm on psychiatric medication/therapy is long and checkered.)

And I know I'm healing. Just because the drains are out and the surgical glue is flaking off (TMI: it is really hard not to pick scabs on numb parts of my body), just because I can gingerly cuddle doesn't mean I'm all better. Doing a load of dishes doesn't exhaust me because I'm fat and out of shape, it exhausts me because I had surgery a month ago (tomorrow will be one month since I broke up with my boobs).

But there's still a voice in my head that can't be shut up, which thinks I join Weight Watchers right now, or go back to the days of eating disorders, or see if starting smoking again would help me lose those twenty pounds I put on when I quit. I don't, but I'm having more and more issues with my appearance daily. I know I'll go back to the gym someday, but it's such a defeating thought, to climb all that way uphill again to just get back to where I was.

Blargh. I'm a giant ball of mope at the moment, I think I'm getting a cold, and I'm still not focusing very well on my reading. I've abandoned the complicated needlework and returned to the simpler stuff, and I'm judging myself even for my leisure activities. I feel like I should be doing things with my time off, reading improving novels, reorganizing my house, teaching my dog to stop barking, but I don't. I whine to livejournal and spend most of my time in a half-awake half-asleep sulk, too restless to settle, too tired and sore to leave the couch. Fucking pain. Emily Dickinson was spot on.