Hate. Kill. Destroy.
So. . . things are going pretty well š
The vegies are having a noticeable effect on my ability to get up in the morning – it’s much easier than usual while dieting, and I’ve barely blacked out at all.
It’s difficult to stay awake, and even more difficult to stay civil. I drop a pen – I want to bash my head against the wall. Someone in front of me drives 2 kilometres below the speed limit – I want to smash my passenger-side window (people who’ve known me long enough will know that I accidentally did smash that window once – I still have a scar on my wrist).
I’m trying not to think about the fact that, in reality, I’ll probably need to keep being good for at least the first week of March. But I have a few tricks up my sleeve – my rule is that, if the scales read “76.5” at any point, I’ve made it. And if, at the beginning of April, they read “76.5” or less, then I’ve maintained the weight (even if I go up and down during the month). I’m also trying not to think about the reality that if I want to stay in the healthy weight range, I simply can’t chocolate-binge on a regular basis. Hopefully I can get addicted to fresh fruit or something instead (if something is brightly coloured and expensive, chances are it’ll at least partially alleviate my cravings – a lot of my bingeing is a benevolent form of self-harm, so buying expensive stuff satisfies that part).
Today’s recipe is corn thins and avocado.
The ingredients are corn thins and avocado (and possibly cheese). Nuff said.
I swam a kilometre again today (pretty sure swimming works better than the exercise bike), so I’m confident I’ve done well today.
So. . . the big question. . . what did I weigh this morning?
78.6 kilos.
In theory, that means I’ve lost only .4 of a kilo (which is respectable in a normal person, but not in me – not in the first week, which is always the most impressive). In reality I lost up to three times that amount. It’s close enough to 78 that I can probably reach 78 by the one-week mark (so long as I continue weighing myself naked and standing on one leg. . . yes internet, that image is for you). Conclusion: I am inspired to continue being good.
Since I’m an idiot, I’ll probably weigh myself every day from now on. Because the body naturally fluctuates (which is why any weight-loss centre will beg you to limit yourself to one weigh-in a week), there’s sure to be one or two days of horrified anger coming soon.
Our finances are RIGHT on the edge at present – I think we’ll have $2 left on Sunday, although a couple of bits of money are soon coming our way – so I was devastated when my partner had an $18 work lunch on Wednesday. And it was yum cha, too. Still angry at the whole world. Yesterday and today I’ve had random unpleasant memories of various people pop into my head, with instant and angry reactions from yours truly. Fortunately none of them were close by at the time.
One of the parents of a girl I tutor took one look at me and asked what was wrong. (It’s always good to look horrible when one feels horrible.)
No headache today, even though I’m right at the point where they usually start. If I can relax a bit on the weekend, I might get through without chowing down on too many Panadol.
I’ve had dinner with friends (and no husband) twice this week, which made me feel fairly good while I was with them (ah, social convention. How strangely effective you are) and less guilty about crying and getting massages when I was at home.
Moderation: hah!
Warning: Contains mention of the menstruation cycle. (Terrifying, I know.)
I have two basic goals for this year ā to get in the healthy weight range (and stay there for twelve months), and to manage money better. The money thing is going pretty well, and the weight thing isnāt (probably partly because Iām still nauseous and crampy from getting food poisoning in Indonesia six weeks ago). One problem with losing weight is that I canāt lose weight before my period (bloating), during my period (pain increases if Iām hungry, especially when Iām hungry for chocolate ā and exercise is sometimes impossible), or after my period (when the slightest stress ā such as a lack of chocolate ā causes a five-day headache). That leaves me about a week a month. Hmm.
So a few days ago I decided, screw it, I want results. So from yesterday I cut out all chocolate and lollies until the end of this month. My period began yesterday (it begins slowly, so the maximum pain will happen on Wednesday and Thursday).
So far Iāve had mild headaches, two bad cramps (ābadā is defined as āunable to move or speak while the cramp is happeningā) and have swallowed vomit lots of times (I also swam a kilometre, and I sometimes have that reaction to chlorine). In the next day or so I expect more cramps, diarrhoea, extreme hunger, and to black out whenever I stand up. And to experience a deep hatred for all humanity, accompanied by violent urges toward myself and others. (This last bit is probably standard for dieters everywhere.)
To combat the pain, hunger and misery, Iām eating better meals and more vegetables (especially green vegetables). Iāll buy some corn thins (for something to snack on), yummy fruit, and diet coke for caffeine and illusory sugar. And Iāll spend as much time away from my partner as possible, because Iāll be very bad company (and then Iāll feel guilty, and then Iām more likely to fail).
So far, the idea of scraping into the healthy weight range by March 1 has enormous appeal. Plus Iām excited about my diet treats. So, one a half days in, all is well.
I weigh about 79 kilos (as of last Wednesday ā I weighed more on Thursday and Friday, but I choose to assume that was just bloating), and need to be about 76.5 (the BMI calculators vary, so Iāll be taking the kindest one).
Iāll be whining a lot here, plus posting recipes.
Sandwich of deliciousness (inspired by the Questacon cafƩ, who serve it on Turkish bread with avocado and lettuce):
Helgas bread (today Iām having the pumpkin and five seeds variety), with real butter, slices of Brie, semi-dried tomatoes, and cold ham.
Haz Booze
I got a pirate ship.
Last night I had a birthday party (you can see some of the results on today’s twittertales.wordpress.com blog). I was afraid that, since it was an occasion at which I was socially required to be happy, I’d freak out. Instead, I enjoyed myself. In part, this was because of one crucial act on my part: I invited the extraverts.
Normally when I feel like seeing some humans, I invite over my nerdy introverted friends – they’re “safe” people (few people are – some of them, actually, are so shy I don’t dare see them one on one) and my house is a safe place. And, to be perfectly honest, they generally leave early.
There were three basic social groups:
The introverts (who I invited lots in advance so they’d turn out in force), Bible Study (aka “the arguing group” as it’s more accurately known), and people from ballroom dancing. And my parents. The extraverts brought an infusion of energy that intraverts just don’t. No-one got drunk, and no-one was excessively loud or innappropriate (. . . excessively innappropriate, I mean – my Bible Study group is deeply sick). I picked extraverts who are interesting (one of them refers to herself as “Black Bob” in the third person) and who radiate (for want of a less wanky term) positive energy. The mix was about two-thirds intraverts and one-third extraverts.
The night was full of cocktails, mocktails and smoothies and I’d bought a vast amount of liquor, mixers and fruit. The best cocktail was butterscotch schnapps and fake Baileys (it just can’t be beaten); the best mocktail was a mint dulep (with freshly-squeezed lemon and orange juice, and fresh mint leaves); and the best smoothie was either chocolate blueberry or a mix of pineapple, mango, banana and strawberry.
I learnt that: Triple sec is poor man’s cointreau, and pomegranite doesn’t play well with others.
And I was given huge amounts of chocolate and lollies and books, more brightly-coloured alcohol, and a plush dromedary for my cats to kill horribly. And a pirate ship to joinĀ (and lead) my growing fleet. The wheel and winch actually turn, and the cannons actually fire tiny cannonballs.
This is the most party-like party I’ve had (or attended) in years, and I enjoyed myself from beginning to end (deeply unusual). I was so pleased (and presumably tipsy) that when my partner and I had our God time, I prayed aloud for the first time in over six months. (Praying aloud is hard, because prayer is so personal; because prayer sounds so silly; and because I was so angry for so much of last year. I’ve only recently been able to read out chapters of the Bible without crying.)
For the moment, I LIKE people.
Pregnant Pause
No, I’m not.
Eating (relatively) healthily has made me think about my future children a lot more – mainly because they’re an inspiring reason for me to practise being healthy. (If I’m not healthy, what chance do they have?)
One thing I like about marriage is that I’ve literally given my life to one person. All my big decisions are his big decisions too. All the good and bad things that happen to me happen to him (and vice versa). It bothers me that so much of my happiness hangs on him (is there anything less reliable than a human being?)Ā Then again,Ā I’ve always liked risk-taking. And I suspect I’d find my happiness again eventually if he suddenly vanished.
I love the idea of becoming a mother – is there anything more frightening, more important, or more overwhelming? As a storyteller, how could I resist? As a human heart, how could I turn away from the opportunity to pour everything I have into someone who is me-and-my-partner-but-also-different?
The cynical part of me thinks the urge to procreate is biological – nothing else. The opposite side of me thinks the urge to have children comes from an unfulfilled capacity to love more deeply. I’m pretty sure both are true.
There are a lot of frightening aspects – how will we cope financially? Will I be a horrible mum (being mentally ill can’t help)? What about all the pain in the world? What if something goes horribly wrong? What about the pain for me when they’re rejected or injured or unhappy?
I treasure the newlywed status of having no children. But I also treasure the sense of anticipation my partner and I share. What will I look like pregnant? How will this change the way we see the world? What will he or she smell like the first time I see my own child? What will they be like when they grow up?
Each month we celebrate our anniversary by doing something special – going out to dinner, having a picnic, seeing a movie, etc. This month we’re borrowing my 4-year old nephew and taking him to Questacon.
We need all the practice we can get.
Had a great title, but forgot it
One of the things that has changed since I married is that I’ll almost definitely have kids one day. (When I had a two-month engagement, a lot of people thought I’d be having kids about 6 months after the wedding, which both amusedĀ and disturbed me – like so much in life.)
Watching “Torchwood” (written by seriously depressed types with an urge to convince the world how depressing it truly is), and the various horrible things that could, perhaps, happen to my kids some day (except, probably, for the alien bits) made me realise that I DON’T want to keep my kids safe. Not as a first priority, anyway. I want to teach them that they can handle anything. Absolutely anything. Death, murder, assault, broken hearts, debt, mental illness,Ā their own worst failuresĀ – anything.
Of course, I’ll probably panic and lock them in a padded room from birth.
But the sentiment is there.
Cloudy with a chance of mental illness
On Sunday I had a religious experience.Ā It was very strange and happiness-inducing and rather awkward to fit into the middle of life’s usual mundanity. It’s frightening how much God means to me, while also being reassuring (partly because God is the only possible constant in life, and partly because much of my self-identity is tied to Him).
It’s creepy because. . . because I felt (and still feel) so darn happy. I’ve got nowhere much to go but down. (So you see my sunny optimism lasted the experience.) I’m also aware the happiness is a side effect of seeing God (however briefly – fear is another common side effect, but that’s a topic for another day). It’s not the main effect. So am I really completely changed? Or is this as real as a change in meds? And am I going to crash and burn? How badly?
I spent two years searching for God at about the same time as I hit puberty (my family is Christian, but I realised quite clearly that if I was going to be Christian, I needed to meet God for myself). Those were by far the worst two years of my life, even though I was pretty sure I’d eventually find Him. Searching for GodĀ really highlights how horrible life is without at least the occasional glimpse of him. It’s much worse than unrequited love, and much worse than being mentally ill.
But when I was twelve, suddenly He was there, andĀ He was obvious, and He’d been there all along. He was so OBVIOUS, and a lot of the time He still is (even if I hate his guts).
Those two years of pain are precious to me, because if God gets silent for long periods, I now know it’s not forever. But I still think of that age (I found Him at about twelve) as when I was at my spiritual best. I wanted to become a full-time aid worker to Indonesia, and nothing – really nothing; I thought boys were a foolish distraction from what really mattered – meant anything to me if it didn’t have anything to do with major world-changing God stuff.
For the last six months, I’ve been unable to read the Bible aloud or pray aloud or go to church, because I’ve been too angry at God. I’d just cry with rage every time. It was sort of okay; I knew it was an emotional place, not a real one, and that when I was able to see clearly God would be there and the relief would be exquisite.
I haven’t fundamentally changed since my days as a God-obsessed twelve-year old. While being concerned about not becoming one of those deeply irritating “Christian” types (you know exactly what I mean), I’m so pleased that God is still everything to me. Maybe that was the main point of Sunday’s experience. All the badness of the last few years happened without making a dent in who I am.
If I could internalise the concept that I’m everything to Him – then I’d REALLY be getting somewhere.
Wedding Belle
My partner and I married a year ago today.
We’ve lasted a year, which seems like a good start – although mostly it seems like not very long at all. I certainly don’t have the hang of it yet. (Maybe this time NEXT year. . .)
Overwhelmingly, marriage is easier than I expected. The first couple of months were scary, it’s true, but overall my partner has proved (again) that he is good at everything. His worst fault is his forgetfulness, the flip side of his very valuable calm. (He has ADD, and I have an anxiety disorder –Ā which actually works pretty well in combination.)
Probably the things that will always need careful negotiation (one partner constantly giving in is bad) are how to deal with living together (where do you live? who cleans? how clean? where does stuff go? what happens with buying and preparing food?) and how to deal with finances. For me, the most important thing was that the house has to be tidy all the time (it helps me remember things, and lets me feel safe), and my partner had to do a reasonable amount of regular cleaning without being told (a mother-child relationship is never attractive). He’s got a LOT tidier over the last year, and I’m starting to get a bit messier (which is good). Our money isn’t great, but we do have savings now, which is pretty good considering I can only earn around $15,000 a year. He buys less stuff than he used to, and when he wants something enough to mention it I pretty much always agree that our budget can handle it – even if my spending habits pre-marriage were dedicated to survival (rent and bills, then petrol, then social obligations and minimal writing expenses, then food – nothing else).
Our home is a safe place for me, and I’ve never felt the panicky urge to get out (as in so many other share houses). Surprisingly, sharing a room has been quite easy – mostly because we are extremely respectful of each other (and he has his own extra room next door for all his messy/useless/old crap, which was a genius move on our part).
Before we married, I lived in a tiny flat that had fungus issues, poisonous water, and a leaking toilet. I was no longer able to support myself (with or without government benefits), because my mental illness robbed me of my self-control. In Jane Austen’s day, a woman needed to marry to gain her independence. That has been true for me as well.
I hate being financially dependent, and I struggle daily with my lack of novel publication, but marriage has given me a physical and metaphorical safe place where I can recover from the years that came before this, and growĀ back into beingĀ a reasonable sort of human. The worst part of our marriage is my mental illness, which blocks my positive emotions, limits my movements, and basically makes me selfish and inflexible (and also violent, it turns out. Since we now live together, he doesn’t get to miss seeing my worst moments, either). Fortunately my partner never questions me when I say I can’t do something, and is always gracious about instantly helping me in any way I ask.
Violence is never acceptable in any relationship, and (although I never hurt or intimidated him) if it happens again I’ll continue switching medication until it stops for good. He doesn’t think it’s serious, but I do. That’s a line I never thought I’d cross, and I will never accept in my marriage or anyone else’s. For any reason. But I *think* it’s over now I’ve switched contraceptive meds.
I was discussing fairy tales with a student the other day, and realised that there really is a little bit of truth in the idea of having a wedding at the end, followed by “happily ever after”.
Once you’re married, that’s it. Your old life is over, and a new one has begun. Whether it’s happy or not depends largely on who you are and how smart you are about communicating your heartfelt needs, and on finding happiness outside of your partner (who can never meet all your needs). But I think we’re biologically designed to devote our life and body to one person, and it takes a special person to be happily single.
I don’t see our marriage as permanent, though. Divorce isn’t an option (unlessĀ someone cheats or turns abusive), but this relationship is a gift. Our lives and marriage could change drastically or end at any moment. Next year might be just like this year, or it could be completely different. Nothing bad has happened to us yet, so I hope we can still treat each other well and support each other when something goes wrong. For now, though, “happily ever after” is quite a good description of married life.
I can’t imagine myself being able to survive marriage with anyone else.
PS a highly appropriate quote from the sleep talkin’ man: “Yeah, falling in love is WONDERFUL. Especially when it’s with me.”
Remaining China Photos
Here at last, is the chair skating photo:
If you visit Tianenmen Square, you’ll probably walk through the Forbidden City on the same day (which is called a city with good reason). Behind the Forbidden City is “The Mound” – an artificial hill in an otherwise flat landscape. I didn’t go that day, but apparently it’s the best place to stand to see Beijing. This is the view back over the Forbidden City:
Paranoia Girl with supersonic hearing?
I had friends over today. It was excellent. WeĀ ate aĀ pork roast (crusted with hazelnut and apricot), a potato bake (with extra bacon and cream, and home-grown tomatoes), and chocolate fondue – and we played Settlers of Katan.
On two separate occasions, while making light conversation, I paused suddenly and then excused myself even more apruptly with a mumbled excuse. Shortly afterward, I reappeared looking furtive,Ā then continued to socialise as if nothing had happened. My reason? Food poisoning.
But I like to think it was a *little* like being an on-call superhero.
In other (arguably related) news, the whole idea ofĀ living asĀ a hero and inspiring other heroes through my books (and throughĀ my epic failure to get quickly published) is definitely still ringing true for me. This is important, because it makes life worth living – ratherĀ than something I endure as a grudging favour to loved ones.Ā
Yesterday I made it to my local church for the first time in about six months – I had stopped going because I was so angry at God I always ended up crying in the car (then spending the afternoon in a metaphorical and/or literal fetal position). Although I noticed myself being tetchier than usual, it was okay. Okay is a vast improvement.
I’mĀ notĀ BFFs with God like I used to be – but, to be fair, that’s probably a rational thing. Friends do everything in their power to help you to not be in pain, and God just doesn’t work like that. I feel more intrigued than angry now – God is the author, and I’m the character. What fascinating (and probably unpleasant, but oh well) thing is going to happen next?
(The answer is: more waiting. Two of my best-chance publishers are late to reply to two full-length books, which means either could call me with an offer any day. But they’ll probably wait about three months, then email me to say they’re not making an offer. My life story is a repetetive one, thus far.)
Pain is always easier when it means something. Mine means I end up with a better story. What more could I want?
My Body is a Horror Show
My fingers are still red and over-sensitive from the howling Siberian winds (China). I sustained a private person injury which is ongoing (alsoĀ because ofĀ China). My gut hasn’t rested for a week (Indonesia), and I have a cold (a mucus burger with mucus sauce and a serve of mucus on the side) from Mount Bromo’s constant rain. My ear is ringing from an airport-noise-plus-mobile-phone moment last Wednesday (Indonesia). And the flag of the red baron is flying (Australia).
In the last half hour I had a nightmare that my partner and I flew back to Jakarta because we’d forgotten to go see something.
NOOOOooooooOOOOooo!!!
On the up side. . . it’s definitely the wrong time to start dieting.
Felicity Banks 