I guess i shouldn’t do anything when I am in gloomsville.  I managed to fuck up my wordpress update last night.  Now I had to reinvent my categories and things in the back end look odd and crappy.  Bloody shite.  Oh well.  I never know how to keep up with the bloody updates that wordpress and Joomla releases all the frigging time.  Fucking annoying.

I chatted to a friend last night even though the mood was blue and the black clouds were low  Funnily enough, by the end of the conversation, my mood had lifted a bit.  My shoulder responded to the pills this time and a bit more of the acid burning deep ‘I’m gonna burn your skin off’ heat spray also worked somewhat.  I still have the pain, but it’s certainly less than yesterday.  I’m at work today, for an hour I sat watching the squirrels play under the bark, darting in and out of the green litter bin.  I didn’t realise they weren’t that fussy in what they ate.  They came really close, nervous little furry rats.  I like them though, they make me smile.  I caught some on my blacksmerrrrry ferry and I may well put them up at some time, never!  I am off to find myself a new blackberry theme.  I survived for one more day!

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That’s where I am right now. In a cage made of fat! I am in pain, I have this nasty weird feeling in my left shoulder, I don’t even remember when it arrived. It’s just there and it makes me feel scared and uncomfortable. My bones are weaker now, the more fat goes on, it seems the weaker they get. Like ivy crawling over a trees bark, eating into it until the wood is left hollow. I am drowning… After all this time, I am killing myself. I know it.

I have not much left to live for when I feel this bad. This is the first time that a large bowl of someting someting hasn’t taken my thoughts away from the way I feel. That pain in my stomach didn’t make me focus on it this time. This time I am thinking of death. It feels as though my body is dying. I am killing me softly…

Every time I breath i can feel my rib cage hit my huge stomach which somehow knocks against that pain inside my shoulder. It’s like a stitch inside my arm, aching. Nothing works to take that pain away. I took ibuprofen and sprayed Deep Heat, which only seemed to take off the first layer of skin with it’s burn and stench. I weighed myself after I ate - I never do that any more either. I am now 24 stones and a few pounds. I can’t even make a joke about it today. I am so far away from normal it is easier to keep killing myself. I have no idea how I shall ever be pulled back. There seems to be little option that works for my twisted brain. My way of thinking is changing, increasingly dark and deeply deeply unhappy. I have been here once before, when all seemed lost when there was nothing to keep me here. Then, I felt the brush of air against my cheek. Like a wisp of something and then it was gone. I can’t imagine there is anything there this time, waiting to keep me from the dark.

I cry more than laugh, I tire more than I feel energised. I am beginning to see the world through real shades of grey. There is no colour left inside me. I have to see the CBT therapist on Wednesday, I have very little to say. Two weeks on and I’m supposed to feel what? She wants me to keep writing things down. I’ve been writing in books for most of my life, telling myself stories on how I feel and what I want, how big my dreams were and now…Now- what difference does it make if I write the rules of why I eat this way? What good does it do me to concentrate on how much am eating each day for her to take a look over it in a second and pick out the most emotive words she can find in amongst the scrawl of anger?

I don’t quite see the point. The pain just grows along with my size - I have increased in weight since this hospital shite - just like I did years ago when I joined an over eaters group. The rolls of fat increase tenfold and the darkening of the skin as it runs against itself continues to discolour. Pain increases, I feel more low and isolated and then what? For years all I have seen is fat in that writing. In every picture I own, in any video’s that may have survived, FAT. It breathes. I hate everything. I don’t want to go back to work any more. I want to be free.

And all I have to do is jump. The more I think about how I would land if I fell from the window, is becoming increasingly intriguing. I sometimes imagine myself twisted in a pile below, blood oozing around me, hair matted, eyes open wide - no sign of life s I journey somewhere unknown. Sometimes I am naked, sometimes I am clothed and sometimes, sometimes I am covered in so much blood I can’t even see if it’s me. This is my worst self pitying moment in years. I am crying all the time and I want to run away from myself. The only problem is, I have no where to run to because fat always comes too. This pain in my shoulder just reminds me that I’m still alive. And that, that isn’t such a good thing right now.

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I of course wouldn’t actually say no today to a food parcel. I bought some fresh bread from Porto’s this morning from a very stern bird behind the counter. She only ever greets the very posh in that place, to everyone else she cackles and frowns. I like the coffee, I like the bread, so apart from adding her to my shooting wall, there is little I can do. I don’t even feel like writing this morning. I’m at work, but not at work, if you know what I mean. I won’t be adding my time to the sign in sheet until 11am, because I’m good like that *rolls eyes*. I’m bored and waiting for other workers to come in, goats fed, gates unhinged and so am I…. My belly is rumbling which is a very odd thing for me as it doesn’t really happen that often, I don’t allow it to. I do want something to eat though, and not oats. I will be happy when this week is over and I can do what I want over the weekend. More than not, that means nothing!

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Well, today was the second visit to the shrink. Denise is a pale, slim, quietly spoken woman who speaks with a faint accent of which I can’t place. She is sweet and professional and laughs at my very poor attempt at humour, which covers up my shame I guess in having to even speak with someone in order for them to sort out why I eat the way I do and why I have compulsive behaviour. She has a kind face, I kind of like her. Her eyes are big and pupils wide and she listens because she may well have to, but also because I think being the way I am and for her to have to suss out why, intrigues her. It bally well should, it’s her job!

The deal is this; That I concentrate on the rules I have made for myself around food which came from childhood. There are many, of course. But then why would someone who hates towing the line, create or carry so many rules forward from childhood? I haven’t a clue. Safety net? Who knows. I know if I write my top ten rules, number at one will be Food Waste, and not to have any. use my body like a trash can and eat whatever it is rather than throw it away. As a past raw mentor once told me, by doing this, I am treating my body worse than I do the bin. Well, lets see what happens.

I wanted to record the session, but couldn’t. I don’t think my impressive new Blackberry curve allows that, and if it does I have found it as yet. I forgot to take the digital recorder. I arrived there at 10 past 8 so fiddled with the internet for a while on the BB and before I knew it she was walking towards me, an image in green!

We discussed what I need to focus on to change the behaviour I have around food. So I rambled on, confusing myself even more about why I am like this and why at 44 I can’t change this myself without the help of the woman in green. She laughed at my jokes and listened and read the food diary I had done the week before. I don’t know if it made sense to her, as my writing was mostly in anger of the situation I found myself in for that week at work. My eating was largely major over eating an once did I binge the way I have been in the last few months. More than not, that is pre planned and happens at a weekend, when no one can hear my belly scream. I sometimes think of the image of that fat person ‘Gluttony’ in the film ‘Se7en’ where the killer forced that fat bloke to eat himself to death. Force feeding him until his stomach popped. Maybe I the feeling I get when I over eat or binge is that very feeling the killer forced the fat bloke to feel, and then he popped. Maybe I need to pop too!

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She can be part of the army. Warrior puppet breaks loose in London Town!!!

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I woke up after trying to climb up a little hill made of mud. It was a path at first and I had just come out of a large department store after having complained about the rudeness of every single worker behind the tills. I walked up a path with a chinese bloke who happened to be one of the people who was rude to me, and the solid bricked path was between puddles which turned into a river on each side. The man went first and climbed what wasn’t really even a hill, until of course my feet started climbing it in my new white trainers. I realised that the mud had started to get softer and that suddenly i was sinking a lot more. There was no where to run, I tried to go backwards and eneded up being swallowed into a landslide into the river. I woke before my head went under the mud.

It made me sad, i cried. I cried because that’s me being swallowed by fat. My life seems to have already int he last couple of weeks be focused on just how much i have damaged my body and now, it’s fighting back. I went to the doctors again yesterday. The sugar in my blood was 7.4 and it has to be below that, below 7. The nurse is ditzy (she claims herself) yet she is helpful and at least tries to listen. She also slipped into the conversation that I needed a liver scan. I asked why? She told me it was because the blood test had shown it to be ’slightly’ adnormal’ and that ‘this was normal with diabetes patients’. I somehow didn’t believe her. I said, why would they need to scan my liver then? She said, it’s just to make sure there isn’t anything else there. It is my worse nightmare to have to keep going to the doctors and to hospitals. I am tired of it already.

My books arrived from Amazon, you know, the ones I cancelled… That means I shall have two lots counting the ones from play.com. The books looks informative, GI index, How to reverse Diabetes and two others on Glycemic load. I wonder if it is possible for me to reverse it. I know others have, but I am sure that takes some serious control. I have to leave soon to go to Chelsea and westminister hospital to see the general surgeon. Not looking forward to this at all. In my heart I know having the stomach thing done is still a cop out. I will see, won’t I?

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And so it seems I have created the being which I really somewhere deep down inside never wanted to appear. I was, after a second blood test diagnosed with Diabetes. My Glucose level was 7.0 on the second reading 7.5 and there was I hoping that the sugar high over Christmas had something to do with it.

But, it seems that is wishful thinking, just as it was wishful thinking to think I could carry on being the way I was, feeling the way I do, having seen my Mum go through it, and then somehow fly under the radar. Anyway, now it seems I have to just get on with it and rely on my GP’s surgery to monitor and guide me through this so as not to make me go down hill. But my fear is justified seeing as my GP happily prescribes diet drugs which have only been out on the market for a year and which have a known side effect of suicide!!! Yeah, I really trust my doctor now.

I will write more later on this. I am now on Metformin and blood pressure pills, which by the sounds of what noises the nurse was making this is for good. I asked if it could be reversed, she said no. But then what about the documentary I watched stating that it was possible via food and exercise route. She claimed it could help it not make it go away.

[Two days later or something like that]

I came home early, very tired but then this is how i’ve been feeling. I think more the weight dragging me down than this new thing I have to deal with inside of me. I don’t like the pills, they make me feel bloated and I have headaches constantly. I walked home part the way with debs, and I heard two sets of school girls snigger. I must look pretty odd, struggling to get down the road to the peace of home. Who knows. I pretend like I didn’t hear them, today I have no eneregy to fight verbally with skinny pre teens with bad dress sense and even worse hair.

I don’t believe all the trashy tv progs are doing any good with the constant battle of the bulge against skinny chicks. The Skinny Vs shows haven’t been watched as yet by me, but no doubt will catch one of them on the many internet sites I frequent when I fancy a documentary. If you can call those any thing close to a doc.

I wish I was off tomorrow, but with all the stuff we have to do on the commissioning bid for work, I am off to one of their workshop things to discuss the application process with Brainy Rachel in tow for looks, style and finance. My head aches with it all and I can’t wait until its all over. No wonder people dream of winning the lottery. I want something else for my life than worry.

Friday is my day now and I feel cheated out of a day. Life goes on…

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Today, my cat Lilly died. Lillian Abixaboo was her full pedigree name, she was a stubborn, stroppy Burmese, chocolate brown in colour. Over the last month she had become quite listless and I knew her time was coming. Her behaviour became strange over the past year and her cries were that of a cat who forgot faster than the 2 second goldfish rule. So after us being together since she was a baby and since i was 21… You can imagine already that the call of the death angels was bound to arrive swiftly. Time for the cat angels to pick up her soul on their way to the fish and chip shop in cat heaven. She still lies on my bed, wrapped in my jumper, her head popping out because I have a fear she may not be dead. But there is no movement, no heart beat, no breath and before she died she had what looked like a fit.

Lilly was the oldest cat I knew, I had no idea that she would have lived this long. Giving herself at least a couple more months on planet earth she would have been 24 years old in November. Maybe a bit more, but I have to find her birth certificate to find that one out. I don’t know where that is right now. My eyes are stinging from the tears and my chest feels tight. I wasn’t a brilliant mum to her and she wasn’t a brilliant cat to me. Living in a world of strops and striking out at friends who popped in just because she didn’t take to them being in her space. She was always loveable to me, and I guess that’s all that mattered. I will tell people tomorrow. Tracy said I can bury her in her garden as i don’t really want her at Hornimans. I’m glad she was with me, I’m glad she wasn’t put to sleep. She died because she was old and couldn’t go on much further. but it will be odd, I know it. I know what the smell of death is now. I smelt it on Mummy, but thought it was just me, but Lilly had the same odour too. Not that my mum smelt like a cat, but there was something strikingly familiar about the smell.

I put passion fruit oil on her before wrapping her, so now she smells like a big ole fruit that she most certainly was. How odd it will be not to hear her scream when I walk int he door. Or hear her whine on and bitch to me in her lingo. It got on my nerves some days, but now its gone, what will replace it?

I am tired, but can’t sleep. She’s on my bed. There’s no where else she can be. I need to know she won’t wake up before she goes into the ground at Tracy’s. I dread her being alive and I just don’t know. So I looked up on theinternet and most of what people write is not what she went through. But maybe its my own fears of death underground that prevent me from wrapping her completely.

We shall see. from this day on passion fruit will remind me of this day.

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I posted this on the yahoo group but I had to censor it and not write in my normal bitch fuck way because I didn’t want to offend the other members of the raw group. You know me, all fisher wife and no knickers….

I had an awful evening at work on Tuesday night as some of you may well have read if you can be arsed to read through this drivel and stormed home in a strop to find that I was still in control of my eating *shock horror*. What I mean by that in fat bitch language is, I didn’t order a takeaway or go to the chip shop on the way home. Normally when angry I reach for whatever I can get my hands on and stuff it down my throat without thinking or feeling and whilst either watching a film, reading emails or lost inside my anger. But I didn’t, and I was really happy I didn’t. I had peanut butter on pitta bread with banana. That was rather ice, I stopped at two pitas and not the whole pack so that’s a start right there then.

I followed the menu plan *well that’s not strictly true* I didn’t have a smoothie because I couldn’t be arsed to unpack my blender. But still, I was happy that I didn’t feel the need to binge. I still woke up feeling quite sad on Wednesday, well… quite is not really the word for it. I was fucking sad, I sobbed for a few minutes then watched big brother. I decided to take the day off work and stay home away from what had made me angry in the first place and you all know what that was? Fucking cunting work and the people there - I also didn’t have the energy to continue feeling so furious. I felt a rush of energy mid morning (probably the thrill of taking the day off) which is odd for me and was a bit of a shock to be honest. It was enough to tidy some of my kitchen cupboards and then pamper myself for the rest of the day.

I felt relaxed all day and happy to have taken time off to have my own head space and to give myself some time. Most of the day I found that I was hunting for food (on the prowl as per normal) without realizing how I had even ended up at the fridge. I’m a grazer and like to nibble throughout the day, so I’m happy to say that every time I opened the fridge to graze, I stopped myself because i wasn’t hungry. I ate a late lunch consisting of cucumber, tomatoes, fresh basil and olives. I watched the F word, with ole Gordon and I didn’t want anything else until much later in the day when I finally made a favourite dish of mine, couscous salad. So being able to stop and think throughout the day and ask myself, ‘am I hungry’ and my answer being a ‘no’ was a good feeling for someone who most days feels so out of control with their eating. In fact, it was a frigging odd feeling to recognise that there was no hunger s why eat? I was focused on how I felt inside, and if I needed the food…for the first time in a very very long time. It was a break through and if I can keep finding that voice inside my head I shall be ok, because it makes me answerable to me. I also have a sty coming up on my eye which is bugging the life out of me. But hey fucking ho. Oh I now have a buddy - but I can’t speak of that in detail on here.

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Today, i woke up very tearful. I had a crap day at work yesterday. Weezy made some reference to a late night in the summer and pretty much thought she could question my authority of why it was on the programme and that it would eat into her social life. I really don’t give a flying fuck to be honest! Basically, what i say goes. End of. In a staff meeting where it was being discussed she ‘zoned out’ so who’s problem is that then? Not mine. If you don’t listen and say what you feel at the time at least have the decency to bring it up when the kids aren’t around. Today I hate every one of them.

Not one of them gives a flying fuck about the job, none of them had to work hard to get it, or wonder whether someone else would be chosen over them. Wait until they have to get out there into the big fucking world. I wanna be a fly on the wall for that one. . They say they do. I only wish someone had believed in me that much to offer jobs out on a plate bvased on whats right for the kids at the centre rather than whether or not they can get through a fucking interview. If they all would have been scored on interview technique, they all would have failed and not got the job. They were given something, someone believed int hem, but they just can’t fucking see it. So staying till midnight once in a whole fucking 6 weeks causes a big hoohah!

Fuck the lot of them. I am sick of spineless idiots who think they are working to max when really they know damn well they are working to the minimum they can give. Faggoty just hovers chatting to Mon all day long, empties a few bins and thinks that’s his job done. I am sick of them all and they can all go to fucking hell. I am not going in today, maybe I won’t bother going back. Fucking freaks. You give people things on a plate and they have to eat your fucking arm too. I am tired, really drop dead tired and i don’t have the energy for that shite.

Yesterday I spoke with Karen on the phone and in the matter of fifteen minutes, two people knocked on the fucking window of the office. i was so pissed off. Anyway, I would like to think that I am going to really try for this to change myself. She was very kind and is down to earth enough. But i do believe that maybe, as much as she allows for most things, I get the feeling I am still supposed to be all up and jumping about for joy after two days. Well its not going to happen now is it? I made smoothies which were great, I had a light dinner with roast beef slices only. It was nice. I haven’t cut back too much ont he tea drinking but it fills me up. I don’t really know what I will do all day. I guess I could try to clean out the kitchen. I feel like staying in bed. i got dressed to put the bin out and when I came backup, i just cried.

I don’t like my life at the moment. I am feeling so low and confused and I wish I had the money to actually run away. trouble is, once again, i’d have to take me with me. Then there isn’t much point is there?

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