Two nights ago I was talking to A about my mental state of being. Namely, that I hate the majority of my life. Oh, I'm grateful for everything I have, but it still sucks that I'm not doing what I love and that I'm not in a physical or mental place where I'm content and can just be. It was admittedly a depressing conversation. But it brought about an interesting dream.
I was in the hold of a large ship. Everything had the look and feel of a Pirates of the Caribbean movie, including the character that was "me" in the dream. There was a huge storm outside and the ship was the only means of escape. The hold was filled with all of my family's worldly possessions--furniture, food, valuables--but it was all covered in water that had risen up to my shoulders.
My dream-me's father was an old man who looked on the verge of death already, and he kept trying to hold his breath long enough to get into the submerged jewelry chests to rescue my most valuable gemstones so that we would have money to buy food once the storm was over and everyone was able to get back onto dry land. He dove under water and managed to come back with a handful of jewelry that I've made (for real) over the years. Then, in the way of dreams, he disappeared.
So did the water. The hold was dry and I was now sharing the space with a pirate. (He was a nice pirate, and yes he looked like Johnny Depp.) The furniture was gone and there were tables everywhere, each one piled high with lovely cakes of all flavors and colors. The pirate and I searched around the tables for the missing jewels that would secure my future once I was able to leave the ship, but we couldn't find them anywhere. Finally, hungry, the pirate cut a piece of one of the pretty cakes and his knife hit one of the pieces of missing jewelry. He then figured out that all of the jewelry had been hidden inside the cakes.
Before I could tear through them, the pirate warned me that we couldn't cut into the cakes before we were ready to eat them because they would spoil quickly once cut. Those cakes were the only food we had until we were able to leave the ship, so we had to be patient. Over time, we could cut and eat the cakes and extract the jewelry inside each one. Once the storm was over and I was able to leave the ship, I would then be able to sell the jewels and live happily ever after.
Dreams are funny. Those who know me well understand how important dreams are to me. This was an ordinary dream (not a D-dream) but it still told me a lot. I don't know if it was telling me my future, or just warning me to be patient, but either way it made me feel calmer and more in control of my life. It gave me a little hope.
I hope your dreams mean something to you, too.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 16, 2010
Things Change
More than a month ago, I wrote my last post bemoaning my life. I really am a drama queen.
Except, that time, it was for real. Life sucked. SUCKED. In big, bold, all caps. In order to fix my body, I had to limit what I gave it. No more "this," no more "that." Fine. But then my body began to give out. Wear out. Wear thin. Along with it, my patience, my tolerance for life, my energy and my will to do anything other than breathe in and out (and barely that). I had no idea how I was supposed to live like that. I kept asking myself did it make sense to make my body healthy at the expense of the ability to enjoy my life?
So back to the doctor I went. I actually had to go back because I was still bleeding. (That's the subplot to the bigger story. I haven't stopped bleeding, daily, for more than a month now.) He examined me, took more blood, and asked how I was doing. I was honest and told him everything. Plus, he could see I looked like shit. I'm paraphrasing here, but you get the point. Something had to change.
So he changed it. He said we were going to start over, that we'd toss out the No-No List of Food. Everything was back on the table, pun intended. But I had five months. Five months to get my tail in gear and do the right thing and lose as much weight--safely, sanely--as I possibly could. Because it's a backwards domino effect: lose the weight, reverse the diabetes; reverse the diabetes, insulin stops flooding my body; stop the insulin, chill out the PCOS; chill the PCOS, get off the meds, keep my uterus and maybe even be able to get pregnant.
And here we are. In a much better place than before, and a place where I hope to stay. I feel awake again, and no longer have the urge to stay in bed and never, ever move. I can breathe, in and out, and even manage more than that. I'm grateful.
In the spirit of that gratitude, I've vowed to do everything I can to make this work this time. No more excuses, no more bullshit. I've joined Weight Watchers (for the weekly accountability) and purchased the BodyBugg (to track exactly how many calories I'm burning every day). I've compiled a list of recipes that taste good and are reasonably healthy. I say reasonably because I can't live on dry oats and lettuce, so an occasional slice of pizza is necessary to ensure that the rubber band of my willpower grows instead of stretches. Stretching, you see, just means it'll snap back into its former shape. Growth means change.
My good news: Dr. Weinstein called me last Thursday to tell me that my hemoglobin was down from 6.3 to 6.1 (under 6 means no diabetes); my triglycerides are down from 149 to 127 (proof that I've really cut my carb intake) and, best of all, my cholesterol is down from 240 to 185 (under 200 is very good).
Boo-ya, baby. I'm back on track.
Except, that time, it was for real. Life sucked. SUCKED. In big, bold, all caps. In order to fix my body, I had to limit what I gave it. No more "this," no more "that." Fine. But then my body began to give out. Wear out. Wear thin. Along with it, my patience, my tolerance for life, my energy and my will to do anything other than breathe in and out (and barely that). I had no idea how I was supposed to live like that. I kept asking myself did it make sense to make my body healthy at the expense of the ability to enjoy my life?
So back to the doctor I went. I actually had to go back because I was still bleeding. (That's the subplot to the bigger story. I haven't stopped bleeding, daily, for more than a month now.) He examined me, took more blood, and asked how I was doing. I was honest and told him everything. Plus, he could see I looked like shit. I'm paraphrasing here, but you get the point. Something had to change.
So he changed it. He said we were going to start over, that we'd toss out the No-No List of Food. Everything was back on the table, pun intended. But I had five months. Five months to get my tail in gear and do the right thing and lose as much weight--safely, sanely--as I possibly could. Because it's a backwards domino effect: lose the weight, reverse the diabetes; reverse the diabetes, insulin stops flooding my body; stop the insulin, chill out the PCOS; chill the PCOS, get off the meds, keep my uterus and maybe even be able to get pregnant.
And here we are. In a much better place than before, and a place where I hope to stay. I feel awake again, and no longer have the urge to stay in bed and never, ever move. I can breathe, in and out, and even manage more than that. I'm grateful.
In the spirit of that gratitude, I've vowed to do everything I can to make this work this time. No more excuses, no more bullshit. I've joined Weight Watchers (for the weekly accountability) and purchased the BodyBugg (to track exactly how many calories I'm burning every day). I've compiled a list of recipes that taste good and are reasonably healthy. I say reasonably because I can't live on dry oats and lettuce, so an occasional slice of pizza is necessary to ensure that the rubber band of my willpower grows instead of stretches. Stretching, you see, just means it'll snap back into its former shape. Growth means change.
My good news: Dr. Weinstein called me last Thursday to tell me that my hemoglobin was down from 6.3 to 6.1 (under 6 means no diabetes); my triglycerides are down from 149 to 127 (proof that I've really cut my carb intake) and, best of all, my cholesterol is down from 240 to 185 (under 200 is very good).
Boo-ya, baby. I'm back on track.
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