I know it's been well over a week since I last posted. I've been trying to write for the last two days, but the words aren't coming. I'm just empty.
Everything just hurts. It feels like I have no skin.
Seeing the dietician on Tuesday was, as usual, the highlight of my week. Just having someone who I can actually talk to face-to-face has been invaluable, and lately she truly has been my rock, my comfort, my lifeline.
We actually spoke a little about weight, in preparation for the upcoming weigh-in. She pulled up my history and I whipped out my phone and we made some comparisons.
Comparing weights from my first weigh-in of 2015, and the last time she weighed me in February, I had weighed 1.2kg and 1.4kg (respectively) heavier on her scales than I did that morning on the Wii Fit.
Doing the math - clothing weights, coffee, allow a variable for BMs - the Wii can't be more than 1kg off, two at the most. I'd expect to weigh at least 1kg more once I'm fully dressed with a belly full of coffee (1kg of clothing max, plus 500g coffee).
I don't want to get specific and try to guess exactly, because I know it'll only end in pain, but for now it's sated my curiosity. I know I'm down a little more than 5kg (11 lbs) this year, although some of that was the weight gained during our 'misunderstanding' last year/early this year.
But I actually looked at her screen for the first time ever, with my weekly weights on full display. Same as weighing on the Wii, I know it's not 100% accurate so it means nothing but stress to me. It's only an indication, a hint. I need to get on the proper scales soon. I'm just scared and keep wanting 'one more kilo's safety net to make sure I'm at a weight so I won't do something regrettable.
I think next Tuesday (15th) I'm going to weigh in three times. First on the Wii, then clothed-and-coffee'd just before I see the dietician, and then on her scales. How much of that 1.2kg gap will be made up during that second weigh-in...?
After I got home from seeing the dietician, my lungs hit the dirt. After a breakdown (that could've been avoided if I kept my mouth shut. It seems whenever I open my mouth, I fuck up -- talking, eating, smoking...), I was completely breathless, unable to walk more than 10 meters without descending into coughing fits. My O2sats hit 86% and my heart rate was pushing 150 (even resting, I'm 120 now).
So I was back to see the GP on Friday. Another two weeks on antibiotics, more painkillers, although it doesn't solve the problem of me struggling to take them, as some fucked up form of self-harm. If I'm stressed at med times, I have a bad habit of pick-and-mixing, taking the psychoactive drugs, leaving the pills that could potentially improve my physical health.
Today is Father's Day.
It's been nearly twenty years since we lost my dad to a brain tumour. February 29th 1996, a month before my third birthday, and a date that stings more every leap-year.
He was in my dreams last night.
I don't want to get all sappy, but seeing my friends post Father's Day tributes on Facebook today hit a nerve, so here's my social media contribution.
Happy Father's Day, dad.
I wonder how things would be different if you were still here...