I hate the weeks that are filled with doctors. They're the worst, and I'm damn lucky to make it through them without hospital. Next week is one of those.
I'm seeing my dietician on Tuesday morning, which I don't mind. I'm paranoid I won't lose more weight, and I need to if I want to be comfortable with a higher intake. I averaged 900 last week, and lost. I'm under this week, but I need to get it up. I wish I knew how much I lost last week, so I'd know how much wiggle room I have. If I lose again, I think I'll weigh myself before my intake goes up. It might be the worst thing I could do at the moment, but I'd want to know what I was before I started maintaining. I'm going to try to get my intake to average out at 900 again, maybe even higher, but I'll see how I go.
Thursday is the GP. The idiot GP. She throws 'Doctor' in front of her first name. 'Oh, hi, I'm Dr Cath'. No. Just no. Anyway, that'll mean blood tests. Which means going back. Probably for more blood tests. Last time I saw her, it was a Monday and I needed bloods, and to come back Wednesday. Wednesday, more bloods, come back Friday. Friday I could barely walk. And I went off to hospital. Hell no. I also need a new Implanon put in. Those cool little birth-control arm implants. My arm is thin enough that it sticks out - you can see the whole thing. So that'll be fun. Picture included - sorry for the shitty lighting.
And Eva is calling at some point. Let me tell you, I've been seeing psychs non-stop since I was 12. Eva is the only one who's ever helped me, and ever cared. She is this tall woman with brilliant hair and a constantly concerned expression and a thick Russian accent. She reminds me a bit of Dr V in Sucker Punch. I just want to break down and cry to her. She cares. She can help. But I don't need it. Mum's going to politely inform her what my GP said to me, making me believe I don't need help. Again, it will be interesting.
Ugh. Kill me now.