No Negro’s, Irish or fat birds please….

Today I had to go to a place in London where people with eating disorder pretend to get help.  I wasn’t in the mood for it, having spent 20 on shopping and treat for Dominic, I had 20 quid left and I knew that wasn’t enough to get me there and back in a cab.  So I looked everywhere at home and thank goodness, finally found some cash (15 quid of it) strewn in the bottom of my gym bag.   *gym?  Did you say gym?*  I actually thanked God and thought; maybe this will be a good day after all. Like fucking hell!  I had booked my cab for a quarter past 8am to make sure it was there in time.  He said ok, no problem.  Having thought I called my usual cab firm and not the ‘B’ labelled cab used for desperate needs in the phone address book.

The cab arrived at 8.15.  A silver Mercedes, brand new with an old man with an ear peace in the front seat, I saw him staring at me and he was fast to react as he rolled down the window, the car still moving.  He made some excuse that he wasn’t the cab for my address.  At that point, I thought, ‘odd’ but I let it go, and in the back of my mind I already knew what had just taken place.  I called the cab controller who then told me a silver mercy should be pulling up..right..About…I interjected (just because I could and because I like the word)…’He was already here, and he already left saying he wasn’t the cab.. .’

The controller then disappeared and then came back with a few too many lies which followed the line of ‘Oh he’s just by the bins’…ummmmm ‘He will be there in a minute, a silver merc’.  I stated that I already knew that the car that went past was my cab, on time but for ’some’ reason not wanting to have a big bird screw with his suspension.  The controller said to wait.  By this time the time was witling away and getting nearer to the time of my appointment.  The anger in me was becoming more and more apparent and began to curse - loudly.  I called several times, and this time the controller didn’t even bother picking up the phone.

So I began to walk to the bus stop having rung my proper cab firm who didn’t have any for another half hour.  I rang and rang and by the time I hit the bus stop, and started looking for a black cab, the time was pretty much hitting 8.45am.  I was going to be late.


*Ring fucking ring*
‘your cab's outside’
‘too late, I have gone’ *insert all forms of expletive, letting them know they were a shite cab firm and that I’d be popping in later to see them face to face*
‘very sorry’
*disconnect*
******************************

***************************
[Their conversation]
‘why didn’t you pick up that fare?’
‘Too fat, she’ll ruin my suspension’
‘its work’
‘But who will pay when my suspension dies?’
‘Ok, Ok, I’ll lie for you this time’
************************************************************

‘CUNTS!’

Having then waited for another black cab, the first having turned me down and drove past I managed to get a cabby who was not only polite and chatty but who also had a very similar point of view on the way this country is going down the fucking drain.  From people who have no ethics, to liars and cheats and people who judge others how they wish never to be treated themselves…  I am tired, really tired.  Neither paranoid nor schizophrenic I am sick of the attitude in this country - so why not just join forces with the rest of the fuckers.

I arrive at the appointment ten minutes late to face an African woman at the entrance of the eating disorder clinic, of no small size herself standing staring at me as though I were an alien that just landed in a pair of lime green hot pants.  She watched me walk up the stairs scowling at me.  I looked at her, smiled and said ‘I have an appointment’ I didn’t look rough and ready to go, I don’t look like a drug addict and I certainly don’t stink of alcohol, so what’s with the glare you stupid ugly freaky bad weaved trollop?

‘What? ‘She said in disgust ‘You’re here for appointment, in this clinic?’
As my ears sifted through her mumbling, I wondered how she dealt with the majority of women in the clinic who are anorexic, suffer from bulimia and also the same eating disorder as I do… Granted, she could stop and be shocked, but hide it on your hard nosed ugly cunting face as it’s not the first thing of a morning I choose to see.  At least know what service the place provides you obviously work at, you ignorant excuse of a hairdressers dream.

So I went in, saw a skinny arse, tall creepy looking guy who looked as though he had just crawled through a TV screen escaping from South Park. I just couldn’t be bothered now; already a shite day and I can imagine what else was yet to come.  But full of interesting things to say about how the ‘programme’ will work.  Nothing like how Denise runs her sessions, and I knew she didn’t know what the hell she was doing.  There is no format to her sessions. AND it seems that she shouldn’t have even allowed me to go on any form of diet during the process. They can only check my behaviour as it stands by monitoring me as I am now.  Too late, I’ve paid for weight watchers and I am hardly likely to stop now.

Do I like him? No.  I don’t.  But then I don’t have to like him really do I?
I just have to make sure I have more than 40 quid for cab fare each week to
get me there and back.  I left knowing his therapy sessions would probably be the kind of to make a difference and as I walked away (because of course a clinic like that doesn’t have a cab firm to call for patients – ‘cause no one ever leaves there alive) I realised just how fed up I am of my life, of this country and the people in it. All the things I see and deal with daily. Today, I know for a fact if I had a gun, I would have killed.  I know it. 

I have spent the morning thinking how I can get back at the cunt of a cab firm. They cost me 7 quid in additional fares instead of 13 today and so I shall waste their time too.

You see, I see it this way - now all my life I have pretty much done things the way THE MAN tells you to. You know, straight up, tried to be as honest as I could, tried to stay on the straight and narrow and not shit on people.  In all of my 44 years I know it doesn’t work.  It’s a no win situation.  If you fuck up, if you go to prison, if you’re a bad kid labelled with behavioural issues, if you fuck with people, beat people, rip people off, if you’re long term unemployed, if you’re scamming the system,  ripping off the housing by subletting and owning your own property, claiming whilst working, buying property whilst claiming housing benefit – YOU WIN.

That’s the truth, YOU WIN.  Straight up-no lie try it. I SEE IT DAILY, I HEAR ABOUT IT, I READ ABOUT, I KNOW ABOUT IT IN THE COMMUNITY I WORK IN. I don’t believe I treat those I don’t know disrespectfully for any apparent reason.  I attack when attacked and more than not I will keep out of trouble – in fact I have never been in trouble, not with the authorities.  I have a big mouth and a bad attitude but I use it with caution.  No conflict, no drama = no grief.  So why, when you’re going about your very own business, does this crap continue to happen?

I thought it would be a normal day today and instead, I feel tears well up in my eyes on the (had to get public transport) bus back to work.  I held back and again as I scrunched myself up as small as I could get into the seat so no one would moan that I was taking up too much space – it’s a fat girl trick.

On the way off the bus, an old woman sat across from me just staring.  So I
smiled, because again, rather than be arrested for attacking an elderly bird because of paranoia more than cause, I would rather that her thoughts were dispersed by warmth than anger.

But it was obvious from her look what she was thinking and it’s getting more and more apparent these days. The bigger I got the more I realised I am being judged on how I look. Yes, we all get judged and those that say they don’t judge are probably liars. As fat as I was in the past, I have never experienced this level of fat and so can now see the difference in the way I was treated when in the public eye. I guess I am hating the haters today.  So much for this rant.

It’s doing crap things to me; it makes me feel lost and really very sad.  There’s little I can do but do what I am doing to try to sort it out.  Mr South Park can squeal at me in the tones of a councillor who blatantly starves himself, really I am getting more from the book I bought for 7 quid and it’s turned out to be worth more, so far than anyone of these ‘trained’ people I’ve seen.  I have been taken out of my comfort zone and no, I don’t like it at all.  But I don’t deserve the latest bashing; I can do bashing on me quite well without the rest of the world joining in. Am I angry?  Yes I’m fucking furious at where I put myself in my life and how others judge me because of my fucking fat! 

And before any self righteous twats claim this to be a racist rant, I’m mixed race, part Swiss & part Jamaican, so stick that in your liberal pipe and piss off.

And I Would Walk 500 Miles…

I just signed up to weight watchers again. I did once, well, the last time was 2005 and look, four years + later I’m well and above what I was then. I don’t even know what good it will do. Defeatist? yes, but then after practically 34 years of thinking about weight and not feeling ‘normal’ I guess some how you get to that place. The shrink last week had said to me that she feels I always have some excuse that something isn’t working. Yes, that’s possibly true, but then again it doesn’t say that much for her either really. Seeing as I am coming to her because of an eating disorder and that I believe *generalisation coming up close your eyes* fat people some fat people are pretty damn devious.  Or should I say, those which have eating disorders of any kind can be fucking devious.  So much so, I felt her snippy comment was out of place.  She is there to give me tools, I can’t be the first difficult bird she’s dealt with and since when did anything happen to go her way, straight from the get go?

Any way it has made me quite peeved and normally I would go in and share it with her, or at least be open and honest and after her comment, it left me thinking why the fuck was I honest in the first place?  It makes me quite pissed off.  She asked whether I was angry at her last week and that I could be if I wanted to be.  Anyone who knows me will tell you, if I want to be angry I don’t frigging well need permission.  I don’t know who she deals with under this CBT thing, but I may well be a fat fuck with no real control over my eating, but I’m not a shy retiring type of fat fuck.

So she told me to follow a ‘plan’ before eating I MUST write it all down.  Now in my head that turns into some huge big complex thing which prevents me from moving.  I try to work it all out in my head and yet, it gets to be such a huge issue, I don’t bother t even think about it.  So I began to attempt to plan, whatever that means..I felt like someone had just pulled me back into school revision years and having just screamed ‘revise’ at me, without telling me just how one is supposed to do that. 

So when the call came from V. eating disorder clinic, the people who assessed me and who supposedly have an understanding of my disorder, I was a little happier.  Then I listened to the bloke on the phone and he sounded just like a male version of my shrink at the other place.  I think, somewhere, someone must be breeding these very sensitive people who speak with their heads cocked to one side and speak in nice people tongue.  They don’t know how to be firm, and as Cameron my nephew says,

    ‘Get a spine man, get a spine…’

So, I shall see who gets over the wining line first, Denise, the mac daddy at V clinic. Or Weight Watcher core plan.  Meanwhile I have to stop the growth of my gut.  I am American massive, that fatness which everyone knows is creeping into the UK more and more and we are becoming the super obese, the people whjo you only ever saw on documentaries from the states.  I am now pretty much on the outter circle of becoming one of those people.  I am a slip away.  It needs to stop now. Just how far will I walk to be who  am inside?

Darkness falls

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!

Killing Me Softly

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.

Red Cross Food Parcels

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 .

Shrink or Swell?

Well, today was the second visit to the shrink.

D 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!

Drowning in mud!

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 ended 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’ abnormal’ 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 C and W 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?

dit Time of Death: 2.25am - The fountain of youth ran dry for Lillian Abixaboo!

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 stropping and lashing out at friends who popped in just because she didn’t take to them being in her space was the norm. 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.

Dooms Day

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…