For the last week I have been living and healing, way too slowly, in Southeastern CT. I am still having more pain than I expected. but have enough meds to cope. I am still trying to work up to the amount of liquids I must ingest, but am getting slightly closer each day. And ten days after surgery, I am still trying to figure out what the hell I've done to my life, and have decided I still have no clue.
Warrior Woman was extremely useful to me while I was hospitalized. I called upon her energy and spirit when I needed to and I am very proud that I was not a patient patient who suffered in victimized silence, nor was I an inconsiderate bitch. I handled the situation fairly well, and am grateful for WW's courage, so available when I needed her.
Now Warrior Woman has hung her axe up over the mantle, folded her robes around her, and settled back into my psyche. I am left feeling stuck in my recliner, and in my new life, without the next image necessary for movement forward. I am not worried. I know a new image or concept will rise from deep inside me, will arrive from somewhere outside me, will emerge from somewhere. These interim times are very trying, however.
I am overwhelmed by the unknown (Have I recently mentioned I struggle with change?). I don't yet know how Rene and I will work out meals. Right now she is quietly making and eating food as inconspicuously as possible, but not secretly. I stomped up one side of her, danced on her head, then stomped down the other side when she told me she'd eaten at MacD's. And I had asked her where she ate. Plus I don't even like their food. Overreaction, perhaps?
Acquaintances called to say they were too busy to drop by, but suggested "doing lunch" soon, and I quietly put them off, then slammed down the phone( after I was sure they had hung up) and screamed what part of loseing 150 lbs did they miss? I won't be "doing lunch" with them again, if they are too busy to support me now, when I need support. Moody, perhaps?
The truth is that I have to change to accommodate the world. Just because I had my stomach made into a pouch the size of my Chihuahua's brain doesn't mean I should expect the world to stop doing food just for me. Rene will eatout without me until I can go along and nibble something. Acquaintances and even close friends will forget and ask me to meals for which I am not yet emotionally prepared. And I will rage and cry and struggle and still put on a smiling face when well meaning people ask how I'm doing. A few real friends get the truth, of course. I'm doing shitty day by day, but okay overall.
My whole world has revolved around an unhealthy relationship with food. It would be a little much to expect to form a newer, more healthy one without trauma and struggle and mourning and self-pity and rage and hopelessness, tempered by no more than a pinch of earnestness, a golf-ball size stomach pouch, and the eternal sipping, sipping, sipping of ice water. But I am working at it.