The Update on my Butt; or, the Butt-date, if you will

So it occurred to me that I never updated most of you on my butt. Not that you'd ask "Hey, how's your butt?" in proper conversation, but let's be honest, nobody likes being proper. So go ahead, ask me.

How's my butt, do you ask? Fabulous, thank you.

My surgery, back in February, went so smoothly that it surprised me. I was so worried about the bad side effects of anaesthesia that I almost backed out. Even though the anaesthesiologist was about as comforting as a rat, I still went through with it. In the operating room, the last thing that I remember is that everybody was going about their business and not talking to me much. Then I woke up when they tried sticking a cannula in my nose for oxygen. It tickled my nose so much and I kept pulling it out. Also, my face itched sooooo much. I don't know what that was all about.

Anyhoo, then I spent two sleepy days in the hospital. My parents spent what time they could with me, watching movies. We should have brought games, that would have been fun, too. My cousin Sunny brought some beautiful flowers with the best card.

Recovery was actually fine. I had 3 weeks off of work, which I loved. People say they get bored being at home all the time, and I was happy as a clam. (As a side note, I just googled images of happy clams. Apparently there are a few restaurants called The Happy Clam. I'm sure their clams don't appreciate that expectation.)

The worst part about the whole experience was the painkillers. I only took the heavy-duty ones for about 4 or 5 days. Being on the painkillers was fine, it was getting off them that was terrible. I was nauseated and got huge headaches. I spent a day with my head on my mom's lap. I stopped taking those as soon as I could, and took ibuprofen every once in a while when I needed it.

I spent a couple weeks on crutches, too. That was a first. I didn't even mind it.

The first few weeks after the surgery, I felt like I should've been in one of those Dick and Jane books:

See Erin. See Erin sleep. Now see Erin. She is sitting up. Good job, Erin! Soon Erin can walk. Go, Erin, go! See Erin take painkillers. Oh, oh! Erin is funny. Funny, funny Erin.

No really, there were a lot of small victories for me. Sitting down instead of laying down was a big deal, especially when I could sit on Lefty (Lefty being my left butt cheek, in case you didn't catch that). Taking a real shower after like a week of spit baths. Going on a walk down the street.

Since then, I've been happily Pearl Wilson- free. I can't say I'm totally symmetrical, which was really my hope, but hey, I'm not complaining.

The reason I was thinking about this is because about a week and a half ago I got another MRI to see if Pearl was anywhere to be seen, and thankfully, it wasn't. I do have some minimal pain, but I think maybe that's from the scar tissue? Or maybe because the glutes on that side are messed up? I don't know. But it's nothing to worry about, since Pearl is gone. All that's left is a pretty monster size scar and a story about about a monster size tumor that I love to freak people out with.

So there ya go, you've all been updated on my bootay. Aren't you glad you asked?

Therapy Week 1: The Elephant Game

The first week of therapy was great. I liked my therapist right off the bat. His name is Darren. He seems honest and non-judgemental; nice, but not someone that sugar-coats everything. 

 It's weird opening up to a stranger. At the same time, it's also easy, because there's no history between you and no expectation of how you should or shouldn't act or feel.

Due to my cheese-for-brains memory, I don't remember everything that we talked about that first session. Mostly just get-to-know-you stuff. The thing we did that stands out the most is the Elephant Game. He offered me $20 if I could get him to say the word "elephant" in two minutes. I felt pretty silly at the get-go, mostly because I knew I wouldn't win, and that he had a point to the game that I was going to have to learn the hard way. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Okay, what's the name of the largest land animal?
Darren: What's the largest land animal?
Me: You know, big, grey, long trunk, giant ears, ivory tusks?
Darren: A pachyderm.
Me: No, the other name for it.
Darren: You mean Dumbo?
Me: That's a proper noun. I mean the layman's term for it.
Darren: Are you sure that's the largest animal?
Me: Yeah, pretty sure. What do you call that?
Darren: I think the largest animal is a blue whale.
Me: I said land animal.

And so on and so forth, with a lot of hemming and hawing and not answering the question until the two minutes was up. I was unfortunately just as poor after the game as I had been before it.

                                  This elephant looks happy, and that makes me happy!





Darren said that in all his years as a therapist playing the game, only two people won. I think what he said was that the people that won were much more direct with their requests, asking him, "Will you say the word 'elephant' for me?" They were also willing to give up the money in return for him saying the word. The things that I learned from this game are that you need to know what it is that you really want, and you need to be specific. The object of the game was to get Darren to say the word, not to have $20. So the money was just a distraction. For me, my ultimate goal is to be healthy, which encompasses a lot more than my pants size. Being skinny might be the reward at the end of it all, but if that's my focus, I'll lose sight of what I really want.

Does it make sense what I was trying to say? Let me try it this way. It's important to differentiate between what knowing what you want to happen and knowing what you want not to happen. Darren gave the example of when he goes to the hardware store and the store clerks ask him what he's looking for, he doesn't say, "Well, I don't want a hammer." Well, okay, what DO you want? "Not a screw." He'd be there a long time if the kept up the conversation that way. Same with my situation; if I just say, "I don't want to be fat," then that's going to get me nowhere fast.

At least that's what I got out of the elephant game. Darren could've had a totally different point, but that's what I remember.

I came up with a list of things that, to me, are signs of being healthy, broken down into 3 categories: physical health, emotional health, and financial health.

Physical health

1. People who are healthy don't just exercise, they've found something that they love to do. I admire my younger brother, who is constantly on the move because it makes him happy. Or my cousin's wife, who's found that she loves body building. I even have a friend who just tried out for a pro Ultimate Frisbee team; I didn't even know those existed. The most fun I've had exercising is playing a game called "Bacon" with a bunch of elementary school kids when I was in college. Can I just do that every day?

2. Healthy people stop eating when they're full. I know it doesn't take that much food for my belly to feel full. I want that to be enough for me to stop eating, rather than trying to fill the void I feel with food.

3. Healthy people have a normal sleep schedule. Of course I'm writing this at 3 AM, so I'm not doing so well with this goal as of right now.


Emotional health

1. Healthy people stay in contact with friends and family. It's so easy for me to get lost in my day-to-day life. Wake up, work, eat, nap, work, tv, eat, sleep, wash, repeat. A couple days ago I reconnected with a friend from school and I had so much fun. We had an "S" party: we ate spaghetti and drank smoothies, sat in our sweats on the sofa, and watched Star Wars. It was Spectacular. I learned that she is working on writing a book, and that she goes to writing conferences. Her husband plays the guitar. Being with them has reminded me that those are things that I'd love to do. So doing something healthy (being social) begets other healthy choices (like learning new things and developing hobbies). Anyhoo, I need to do that more often.

2. This just may be my perception, but methinks the less time people spend on screens, like TV, computer, phone, etc., the healthier they are. I know for a fact I spend way too much time with a screen in front of my face.

3. Healthy people have a job they enjoy. Maybe it's because they don't settle for a sucky job, or maybe it's because they have a better attitude at a job that others would consider to be sucky. Either way, I need to make some changes.


Financial health

1. Healthy people work smarter, not harder. Right now I have 2 jobs to pay off my debts from my car, my surgery from February, and life in general. I would love to get down to one job.

2. Healthy people save money. Living paycheck to paycheck is a terrible thing, and even worse when, after paying the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker, there's nothing left.



I'm going to add more to those lists, to be sure. But those things are a start.

Here's another picture of an elephant that makes me happy, just as a reward for you making it to the end of my post.

J.K. Rowling

 I always knew I liked J.K. Rowling. I mean, besides writing magical novels that leave the world spellbound, she seems kind and wise. Maybe a little like Dumbledore. Anyhoo, I've been saving this quote for a long time, and it seems like it would be appropriate to share it now while I'm writing about my weight issues...

 

 “'Fat’ is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her.

I mean, is ‘fat’ really the worst thing a human being can be? Is ‘fat’ worse than ‘vindictive’, ‘jealous’, ‘shallow’, ‘vain’, ‘boring’ or ‘cruel’? Not to me; but then, you might retort, what do I know about the pressure to be skinny? I’m not in the business of being judged on my looks, what with being a writer and earning my living by using my brain…

I went to the British Book Awards that evening. After the award ceremony I bumped into a woman I hadn’t seen for nearly three years. The first thing she said to me? ‘You’ve lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw you!’

‘Well,’ I said, slightly nonplussed, ‘the last time you saw me I’d just had a baby.’

What I felt like saying was, ‘I’ve produced my third child and my sixth novel since I last saw you. Aren’t either of those things more important, more interesting, than my size?’ But no – my waist looked smaller! Forget the kid and the book: finally, something to celebrate!

I’ve got two daughters who will have to make their way in this skinny-obsessed world, and it worries me, because I don’t want them to be empty-headed, self-obsessed, emaciated clones; I’d rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny – a thousand things, before ‘thin’. And frankly, I’d rather they didn’t give a gust of stinking chihuahua flatulence whether the woman standing next to them has fleshier knees than they do. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons.”

~ J.K Rowling

Fatty McFatFat

Alrighty, so a little background. I think I promised everyone more of my secrets, but let's be real, it's no secret that I'm overweight. That's something I've struggled with since I was young, and it's getting worse and worse and worse... I know it's a trial for everyone to be fit and healthy, but unless you've been clinically obese, you don't know what it's like to never be satisfied with what you eat. You can eat until you're perfectly ill and still want more.

For example, a few weeks ago I was craving cheesecake. So I bought the stuff for it, made it when I got home, and ate the whole thing that night. People, this was not some pansy out-of-the-box cheesecake. I'm talking like the really, really rich stuff that people only request "slivers" of; the real Fatty McFatFat stuff. When my plate (or pie tin) was empty, the only thing that I could think of (besides being mad at myself for eating a whole cheesecake) was whether or not the store was open so that I could go buy the stuff to make another one. Although I didn't buy more that night, I did like 2 days later. I'm sad to say that events like Cheesecakefest are all too frequent in my life. The past couple nights it's been Arby'spalooza up in here. Don't judge, okay? Their curly fries are delicious.

Everyone has a theory about why obese people are obese. The answer that makes the most sense to me is that food is an addiction the way that illicit drugs are an addiction: some people overeat to chase a high (because eating feels good while you're doing it), some overeat to numb feelings (because if you're focused on eating, or being sick from eating, you don't have to think about the crappy day you had, or the stack of bills on your desk).

 Food addiction is new in our vocabulary; the obesity epidemic is fairly new to us, too. The reading I've done on food addiction basically says that it's not accepted by everyone, that some people attribute obesity merely to a character flaw, like laziness, or gluttony. However, I doubt those who claim that food addiction is not a thing have ever obsessively thought about food over any other concerns in their life, nor have they spent so much money on food that they wonder if they'll be able to pay their rent. (Yes, I've done that, and I know, I'm cringing, too, just from typing that out; but I promised you secrets, and I promised myself I'd be honest.) I've read the material on food addiction, and it all rings true to me. In fact, reading about it was actually a relief, because it helped me realize that I have a problem that can be solved, rather than an incurable character flaw that causes embarrassment, self-hate, and shame. 

I invite you to read the article that helped me understand more about myself, http://authoritynutrition.com/how-to-overcome-food-addiction/ and to watch the accompanying video, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xn1cI8FNU6M.

Okay, right now you might be asking yourselves why I don't go see like a nutritionist or dietician, or even a personal trainer. Been there, done that. Done special diets. I was even vegan for 9 months last year, which by far was the longest diet change I've ever done in my life, and that, in and of itself, was a huge accomplishment for me. But the fact of the matter is that while they teach me healthy eating habits and good exercise routines, they don't teach me better coping skills for stress, or how to get myself out of a downward spiral of negative behaviors. They don't help me face that stack of bills on the counter, or help me to think positively about myself. In short, they don't get to the root of the problem.

On that note, think about this. When I was on my mission, I lost about 65 pounds. Walking miles and miles every day in high heat and humidity will do that to you. Here are some pictures of me looking pretty awesome:

 

I looked pretty good, huh? The funny thing is that even after all that weight loss, to me, I still looked the same in the mirror. And I felt the same way about myself. And I still ate like crazy whenever I was stressed or tired or being social, which on a mission, is all the time for all three things. So even though I weighed less, I still wasn't where I needed to be emotionally to make it stick. 

You see where I'm coming from? So now I'll try therapy for a while, and hopefully change the way I think, which will change my negative behavior.

Secrets

There's this really catchy song I've heard a few times on the radio lately that I really like: "Secrets" by Mary Lambert. The lyrics are

I've got bi-polar disorder
My shit's not in order
I'm overweight
I'm always late
I've got too many things to say
I rock mom jeans, cat earrings
Extrapolate my feelings
My family is dysfunctional
But we have a good time killing each other

[Pre-Chorus:]
They tell us from the time we're young
To hide the things that we don't like about ourselves
Inside ourselves
I know I'm not the only one who spent so long attempting to be someone else
Well I'm over it

[Chorus:]
I don't care if the world knows what my secrets are (secrets are)
I don't care if the world knows what my secrets are (secrets are) So-o-o-o-o what
So what
So what
So what

I can't think straight, I'm so gay
Sometimes I cry a whole day
I care a lot, use an analog clock
And never know when to stop
And I'm passive, aggressive
I'm scared of the dark and the dentist
I love my butt and won't shut up
And I never really grew up

[Pre-Chorus]

They tell us from the time we're young
To hide the things that we don't like about ourselves
Inside ourselves
I know I'm not the only one who spent so long attempting to be someone else
Well I'm over it



Just so you guys can hear the catchy tune, here's the video:

One thing that I really appreciate is when people are honest about who they really are. We've all got issues. Nobody's life is perfect. We are our own harshest critic and our own worst enemy, and because of that, I feel like people hide who they really are and what's really going on with them. That doesn't benefit anybody. 

One of my heroes is Allie Brosch, author of the blog Hyperbole and a Half (and also the inspiration for the title of my blog). She's open about her quirks, her embarrassing experiences, and her depression. I'm so grateful to her, and I owe her a lot for helping me realize that I'm not the only crazy person on the planet. I also love reading the comments on each blog post, because thousands of others feel the same way that I do about her writing. "Wow. I do the exact same thing." "This right here is my life." "This is me, all the time, every day. It's nice to know I'm not alone! I think we might not be the only ones!" "I really think you are me in a parallel universe, writing about the same things. I KNOW ALL THESE FEELS."

Those are quotes from the comments section after some of her blog posts. Because she is honest, people know that they are not alone, not crazy, and that we're all in this together.

Glennon Doyle Melton is another hero of mine and another truth-teller. Here's a video of her TED talk, which is worth watching over and over. She basically says what I'm trying to say right now, but like 4 zillion times better than me.

Anyway, with all of that said, let me tell you guys something new about me. 

I'm in therapy. 

That's probably anti-climactic. Whatever you were expecting me to say, it's probably disappointing for you to know that my big secret is that I talk to somebody about my problems for an hour a week. However, there's such a stigma attached to therapy that it's hard for me to admit this. When I started going a couple weeks ago, I even felt a little ashamed that I need help. Well, I'm over it. 

I'll get into the whats, whys, and whens later so you guys can know more of my secrets. But I'm going to write all about it, because honesty is cathartic. Writing will help me be accountable for what I learn. And who knows, maybe somebody will benefit a little from my crazy.

It Wouldn't Be Bad

There's a lot of hubbub about the Ordain Women movement/ Kate Kelly excommunication. I want to add my two cents on the matter, even though I kind of feel like this issue has been talked about to death.

Let me start by saying that I have no desire to be ordained to the priesthood. I don't feel like I'm missing out on blessings because I don't hold it. I'm not envious of the men who hold priesthood offices, and truth be told, I'm glad I don't have to do what they do. The idea of it being my responsibility to get up and shovel the church sidewalks on a snowy morning is repellent, let alone the idea of being responsible for the spiritual and physical well-being of a whole congregation, or even multiple congregations.

With that being said, I want to pose a question: what would happen if women did have the priesthood? Would the doctrine of male and female identity and purpose suddenly implode? Would we have men and women crying in the streets saying that they no longer know who they are and what their relationship to God is? What terrible thing would possibly happen if women had the priesthood? I can't imagine.

What I can imagine, however, are situations in which the contribution of women would surely enrich- and dare I say, elevate- the matter at hand. I imagine a Priesthood lesson on Sunday with the flair of a Relief Society teacher (I can't tell you how many times I've heard men complain about going to Priesthood, or how many bishops/ counselors have said they prefer going to Relief Society). I imagine women adding insight and compassion to disciplinary councils. I imagine a husband and a wife being home teachers together, because as a family, they could know how to help and bless another family.

I genuinely don't know if I'm missing something. Am I wrong imagining those things? If I am, feel free to correct me. While I don't argue that women SHOULD have the priesthood, I just wonder if it would really be that bad.

Aliens In My Ears Are Nothing Compared To Surgery

In October 2012, I wrote a blog post about irrational fears from my childhood, which included aliens somehow entering my body through my ears. There's a perfectly legit explanation for this fear, which you can read by clicking on this link. However, in preparing for the surgery on Wednesday, I've run into a few more fears, irrational or not, that I was hoping that I'd never have to face.

Mostly they have to do with anesthesia and recovery. Here's a couple of other stories that terrify me (these are not bedtime stories):

A perfectly normal woman goes into surgery for a hip replacement. She comes out not as a woman, but basically a 70 year old baby, who babbles gibberish, soils her pants, and cries all day.

Another perfectly normal young woman goes into surgery. There's something missing from the anesthesia. She's completely paralyzed, but she's conscious, so she can't move, or open her eyes, or talk, but she can feel the whole surgery.

It's the stuff of nightmares. My nightmares. *Shudder*

I really don't want these things to happen to me. I talked to my aunt and my cousin, who eased me fears a bit. "Thank heaven for modern medicine! You'll feel like you blinked and then you'll go home and sleep and people will pamper you and spoil you rotten." (This isn't verbatim, of course.) But I can't help but be terrified of the risks, because I know they happen.

Comfort me, people.

As a side note, I've realized that I'm very bossy online. Who knew?

The One Where I Talk About My Butt a Lot (I know you're curious to read this now)

Come on, guys, admit it. You've all done it. I've seen you do it out of the corner of your eye. I know you've checked out my butt. Haha, see? Now you're blushing. You can't get anything past me.

No, for real, though, I know a lot of people try to sneak a look or two once they notice things are... not as they should be. I mean, it's not hard to see that one of my sweet cheeks is, shall we say, a lot sweeter than the other. Okay, fine, I'll show you a picture.

                                                        Ooh, CHECK OUT MY BUTT!!!

    

                                              It's hypnotizing, isn't it?

Okay, can you see what I'm talking about? I'm (justifyingly) having a hard time finding picture of me from the back. If you can't see it yet, I'll let you in on the not-so-secret secret: Lefty is a little larger than Righty. 

This issue has caused concern at least since 2002. The size difference wasn't really as noticeable, but boy did it start to hurt! I thought maybe my back injury from my high school weight lifting class from a couple months before messed up some of the nerves from the small of my back on down, causing the pain, and eventually the size difference. Ever since then I'd always meant to get it checked out (and even did, a couple of times, by people who obviously had no idea what they were talking about (not that I knew that at the time)). 

Well, a month or so ago, my sister expressed concern once again over my impressively large derriere. She made a deal with me that if I would get it checked out, she would do something for me that I've wanted her to do for a long time. The details of her side of the deal are unimportant, but it was a deal I couldn't refuse. So off I went to the physical therapist, thinking that maybe, as I said before, my nerves were messed up from a back injury, and if I fixed the back injury, voilà, my fanny would go back to normal size. 

The physical therapist poked and prodded my keester during the appointment, all the while drilling me about the whats, whens, and hows. The conclusion that he came to was that I needed to see someone else.

So that leads us to last Thursday. I had my first, and hopefully last MRI. It was such an uncomfortable experience that I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Would you like to see a picture of one of the scans, though? I know you do. I can see you holding your breath in anticipation. Keep in mind the view is from the behind me, so you're looking at my bottom, this time without pants on. (*Gasp!* I can't believe you!) Also, it's flipped so that right is left and left is right. Also keep in mind that it's a picture of a copy of the printed version of the screenshot, so it's not as high of quality as I wanted to show you, but oh well. Drum roll, please...

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                                 See, I told you that you look at my butt.

Long story short, it's a ginormous tumor. On the left side of the picture (which is the right side of the body, you see my normal (and rather awesome looking) gluteal muscles. And then, on the right side (which is actually the left side), you can see that there is a small-volleyball-size tumor right in the middle of the gluteal muscles, which are trying really hard to act like normal muscles. I imagine they feel quite annoyed, being pushed out of the picture right at their time to shine. [*shakes head*] Poor glutes. If you're still having a hard time picturing how big it is, I found a medicine ball that's comparable to the tumor:

Don't freak out, though, people! I made sure that I knew what was going on with it before I told y'all so that you can sleep tonight knowing that my hiney is going to make it through this difficult time. I imagine you have questions like, "Holy crap, that's big!" and "I can't believe she didn't get it checked out before!" To which the answers would be, "Duh," and "I just told you that I had. The people just didn't know what they were talking about." 

Just kidding, I know you are wondering the same thing that I wondered when I found out it was a tumor last week. I'll save you the wait that I had to endure and just tell you up front that it's not cancer. There's like a 0.5% or less chance that it's malignant. No, they haven't done a biopsy, because on this type of tumor they just have to cut the whole thing out and biopsy the whole thing. So yes, I'll need surgery, which will happen in the next week or two, and yes, you can come visit me at my parent's house while I recover and you can also buy me flowers. I'll need about 2 weeks off of work, so you'll have plenty of time to visit! I don't know the dates of surgery yet, I'm still trying to get things worked out with insurance, but it'll be soon.

Anyhoo, it feels good to tell people this. I'm not the kind of person that keeps secrets (as in my own; don't worry, all of you that are gay and/ or pregnant and not telling people yet, your secret's safe with me (just kidding, I don't know anybody right now that's pregnant (just kidding again, I don't know anybody that's in the closet, either (how many parentheses can fit into other parentheses before it gets ridiculous?))), so it was hard to keep this on the D.L. for a week. 

That's all I know for now about what's going on. I'm so grateful that it is what it is, because it could be so much worse. And I mean SO much worse. Who would've thought that a tumor that size wouldn't cause any problems besides some discomfort when I sat? I mean, I know itty bitty tumors in the wrong spots like the brain, thyroid gland, or pituitary gland, or heart can wreak havoc on people's health; that's not even mentioning the damage that the treatments for cancer can cause. So I'd pick my volleyball tumor any day, no matter how ridiculous my rump looks. 

Oh, and by the way, my family named my tumor. Pearl Wilson is its name. Pearl because like an oyster, I've managed to grow something inside me that doesn't really belong there, and Wilson, because it's the size of a volleyball. Yeah, my family's kinda twisted. That's why I love them.