Saner than an emu on acid

cross-posted to DW

Preface: https://melissa2u.livejournal.com/…

And now for the hard part. The hardest. But anyone who reads this is my friend; I will keep that in mind. Because this is the most shameful, even though my therapist, care coordinator, Amanda, and the special medical office have all told me otherwise. Which, given that my face is hot with embarrassment just typing right now, makes me fear that I may not pass the psychological exam. But that's getting ahead of myself.

So having made progress on all other fronts, most especially in mental health, I finally felt strong enough to tackle the elephant in the room: my weight.

I have been overweight my entire life. This not an exaggeration. I was nine pounds, eleven ounces when I was born. I've never been a "normal" weight.

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Enough background. Weight issues my whole life that have gotten worse as I got older. I can pinpoint when the downward spiral accelerated. When I was laid off. Depression kicked in hard. My job search was a trial. Every rejection eroded what little confidence I had, self-loathing at an all time high, didn't deserve friends because I was so ashamed to admit that I was such a terrible loser, etc. Depression leads to less physical activity which leads to weight gain which increases hip pain which leads to less physical activity which leads to weight gain which leads to increased pain and on and on and on. Finally telling my friends, aka, everyone with access to these posts, about my restricted mobility was incredibly difficult. And yet, I did not friends over it. My fears were baseless. So let's go a step further.

Ripping off the band-aid.

Once my disability kicked in back in March, I applied to the university's bariatric program. Then COVID came and non-emergencies were on hold and I had more time to try to think about how I could tell people about it. Because I already feel the need to share, to celebrate minor victories, to seek a bit of support (which now that I say that, it makes me worry that I'm a leech but the worst that can happen is polite indifference because I know no one's going to be mean to me about it), and to be open about this potentially life changing event. (I only say potentially as there is a still a chance I'll be turned down.)

So anyway, a lot of damn words to get to the point. End of last month, the appointments began. Dietician. First medical screening. First appointment in the office with the intake doctor for initial exams. So many blood tests. EKG. And second dietician appointment. More tests and such are scheduled, all to make sure I'm healthy enough physically for surgery and in a good place mentally for it.

I do still feel like a failure, like a subhuman, for going the weight loss surgery route, even though I don't think the same of other people who get the surgeries. It's a uniquely me thing. I keep hearing old voices, tsk'ing over someone who "let themselves go" and worse things. I've not been able to silence all the negative I've heard in my life, but I can, mostly, ignore them. And I'm not letting the fears hold me back.

I quit smoking; I can do this.

(cross-posted to DW)

Note: I wrote this two weeks ago. Finally sharing in the hopes I get the wherewithal to finish. Cause I do need to unload and then, then it'll be easier to talk. I think.

I'm two years and eight months into my self-improvement plan. Which makes it sound like a slog but to be fair, sometimes it has been. Looking back, I can forgive myself for long delays between steps. It's okay. I've made it this far. And I've a long way yet to go. But I'm on that last big thing. (No pun intended.) (Well, maybe a little.) But before I get to that...

Jan 2, 2018 - I almost died of pneumonia. I'm not wording it that way to be dramatic, for a change. It's just the truth. I was very close to dying. Blue extremities and lips and dangerously low oxygen levels. Difficulty controlling my bladder convinced me I was not, in fact, getting better, like I'd been telling myself for weeks. The kids were worried for me. Urgent cares closed on New Year's Eve and New Year's Day made me wait a few more days after I knew my "flu" wasn't going away. I had no insurance and knew I couldn't afford to go to the emergency room. Urgent care gave me two breathing treatments, and my oxygen nudged into the low eighties. Ambulance. Paramedics, unaware of the two treatments, started me on another on the way to the hospital, sending my blood pressure sky high. The emergency room had me on watch for a heart attack. So yes, almost died. If my self-neglect had continued, if I'd put off seeking medical help for a few more days, I'd have died. While I can forgive myself for this, I will never let myself forget. So when I say I almost died, it's to remind myself.

My week long stay gave me a lot of time to think. Breathing was good, breathing was great. No more smoking ever again. Enough of the quit, just one cigarette, maybe a few, no more than five to ten a day, or a pack, just no more. Every time I thought of smoking again, I remembered not being able to breathe. I've not had a cigarette since December of 2017, when I couldn't inhale without choking due to my cold. By the time I was discharged from the hospital, I had no mental desire to pick it up again. So thanks to pneumonia, I quit smoking. Ten years of trying and failing finally ended. And thus, the first step was taken.

Four months later, finally applied for Medicaid. In the rush of disbelief and relief following approval, I scheduled a doctor appointment. Earliest was three months in the future but the die was cast.

LMV accompanied me to the first appointment. She didn't trust me to speak up for myself. She was correct. I felt embarrassed, but grateful for her advocacy. We went into the appointment with a list, the major things wrong with me. Depression, arthritis, breathing, huge bump on the side of my neck that I'd had for almost two years and was afraid was cancerous.

Compressing.
Painful x-rays = arthritis in both hips, not just one
Ultrasound, CAT scan = the lump was a cyst
Various lung function tests = almost normal for asthma but something a bit odd, probably nothing to worry about

Two months after first appointment, doctor admitted she doesn't know much about treating depression, suggested seeing specialist.

Almost exactly 30 years since I last attempted therapy (one appointment at 19 and it was so bad I never went back), finally sought mental healthcare for myself. Therapist weekly, psychiatrist monthly.

Life savings frighteningly low. Fear of losing TK, of being unable to care for this angel, outweighed my fear of rejection and scorn. I applied for help with the county, embarking on a six month saga for SNAP (food) assistance. Modest child support for TK was shockingly easier in comparison, even though I had to provide info on his deadbeat parents and see people downtown.

Sleep study. Severe apnea.
Surgery to remove tennis ball size cyst from my neck.
Physical therapy, as suggested by my doctor, for hip pain. Didn't help much, but I liked the social interaction.

Finally acknowledged that I was overwhelmed with life, too much to deal with, and I was so tired fighting. The county was determined to make getting help as difficult as possible. I was defaulting on some debts. Took LMV back to school, afraid the car would breakdown (baseless fear but I was convinced it was possible), and worked out a back up plan of how to deal with a breakdown. Suicide. Very detailed. Even took TK into account with how to do it while keeping him safe and unable to see what I'd done. Admitted all this and more to A, my therapist. One of her suggestions was a case manager, someone whose job is to hold my hand and help me navigate assistance and paperwork and resources. I had to think about it.

One week later, I agreed. Thank God for Terri.

My "team" was complete.

March of last year, SNAP was finally approved. My savings was almost gone.

Five months after Terri first suggested it, I applied for disability. My mobility and physical pain were worse. Stress was crushing. Mental health... still often felt like it'd be better for all if I didn't exist anymore. Except for TK. I was all he had, as far as responsible adults go, and he would not be better with strangers. Anyway. Applied. Hoping they wouldn't deny me, feeling like garbage for being such a lazy drain on society.

CPAP! Finally sleeping more than 30-45 minutes at a time without waking up. It was wonderful. Still is. What a difference decent sleep makes. Still felt like a waste of oxygen but a better rested one.

I'm tempted to say I was in a holding pattern for months, but that's not really accurate. While nothing much was happening for physical improvement from May of 2019 on, I was making progress on the mental front. Slow and steady wins the sanity. At some point in the summer, my psychiatrist and I finally found the right mix of meds for me. And then November, and disability approved.

It takes months, once approved, to actually start receiving disability. There's SSI (the kind people receive when they're disabled and have never worked) which isn't very much even though I qualified for the max amount. Grateful for every penny of that $783 though. With child support and Bjr paying me rent, we made it through Christmas and until the disability based off my work record kicked in. That was surprising but was such that, coupled with the child support, we can actually get by. Back pay was for car repairs, bills, and needs that had been put off. I don't mind; I'm grateful. Terri, Alyssa, my friend Amanda, they all say I earned it. Logically, yes, I did pay into it. I'm still struggling over it, though.

So March 3, 2020. My stress and anxiety over finances went poof. My mental health, which had already been improving in fits and starts, cleared up even more. There really was hope for the future. Things could work out after all. There was just one more thing to do to make my goal of functional adult more achievable. I just had to make a phone call to get it started. I'd been thinking about it for months, over a year and a half, really. I knew what I needed to do. I'd done the research. And now that I didn't have the pressure of avoiding homelessness, I could make the commitment. Just had to make that call.

After my birthday. I'd wait until after my birthday, then do it. Deep breath, it's scary but I know it's right.

And then COVID hit and it was really not a good time for medical centers.