#because they kept telling me that it was just depression and anxiety exacerbating themselves

[phasesofthelunareclipse]

probably an unpopular opinion but DBT/CBT is not the best treatment for depression.

[puppygirlsounding]

So it's been over a month now.

I'm pre-typing this. Going to drop this in your dms. I don't expect a response, and I'll take the hint and leave it at this if you don't respond.

I bet you still use your Tumblr, no idea if you still follow me because my list has been bugged for the better part of a decade. So If you saw some of my posts I'll be rehashing some things.

Long story short, Forced myself to be alone and completely lock away my emotions. I got so tired of it all I completely shut shop. Normally this would be the part where I'd admit how stupid and/or careless that was towards myself, my mental well-being, etc.

Except that it worked out somehow.

I still can't believe it myself, but it was like being compressed down into a new state of matter. Hitting rock bottom and realizing there was nowhere else to push the feelings, no one else to blame or use as a distraction. It made me finally come face to face with my self. My true, inner self and not the facade I've kept up for my entire life. A life of repression, anxiety and unmitigated hatred.

I spent 20 years basically trying to be anybody but myself because a handful of shitty people made me think it was a crime to exist. All of what I had been for the entire time you known me has been that pared down, sink water version. Too afraid of their own shadow judging them to be themselves.

And this isn't some "I totally re-invented myself nothing is wrong anymore lmao" level brainrot

I was still myself before, just incredibly neutered, and I chose to be that way for so much longer than I should have.

I still take responsibility for every way I acted and anything I've done

I'm finally able to say all this without it being run through a morass of epic irony or depression

I got to see myself for the first time, and show love inward so I can begin to regrow what was lost

So the past month has been crazy because of it, not hating every day you wake up sure does make time pass differently, it's felt like forever since we stopped talking, to the point I did a double take when looking at our dms

On a short list of notables, I came out to my coworkers as trans/bigender/genderfluid

Still.... Figuring that one out.

But my boss and trans friend coworker know, I have a support network for the first time.

I already naired all the hair off my arms once, and started displaying more femininity, as much as I can for now.

And I've stopped having my meltdowns and panic attacks.

I'm still as sensitive as ever, that is one of the things definitely still a part of me, it's just not being exacerbated by a roiling sea of vitriol tucked underneath the surface anymore.

So yeah, I'm not out here saying I'm some "completely new person" or something like that, but I am an incredibly different version of the Hunter you knew.

Which brings us to the topic at hand, and why despite all this positive change I haven't been able to bring myself to talk.

I'm scared

I'm scared I'm scared I'm scared.

Yes I felt the need to say it four times.

After learning to distance myself, resulting in finding myself. I realized a few days ago why I couldn't reach out to you like I had planned. At first I tricked myself into thinking I was mad. Made you out to be the problem in my head, because I didn't want to acknowledge I was being a coward. Because it hurts to look at flaws carved that deep right after coming out into the sun for the first time.

There are a lot of things that were said between us, I said some awful garbage. You said some things I want to believe we're in good faith, you trying look out for my best interests.

The fact of the matter is though, I lost it and lashed out because I was too afraid to address my real feelings and tell you how much you were hurting me unintentionally.

Doesn't excuse me trying to hurt you, but I'd I don't explain it this way I'll never be able to finish so just hang in there with me please.

So after all that, and the self discovery I was feeling great, cloud nine sublime.

But I still couldn't get over how we left off. Despite not being able to address it.

Because I learned the reason why socializing was so easy for me before was the fact that my love starved brain was primed to leap into the arms of anyone that would give it validation.

Now though, with the ability to self-actualize, love, and support my own mind... The thought of reaching out petrified me.

I'm finally learned how to not be a walking pipe bomb of human emotions after 25 years, but now the exact opposite was the issue.

I put distance between myself and everyone around me because the thought of putting myself back out into the world, and risking the little seedbed I had started was too much to handle.

So I'm telling you now, I'm scared. I'm afraid to even send this, and despite having my anxiety under control now, I'm still mortified about sending you this. Because I don't want to relapse, I don't want to go back. I'm starting over completely from scratch with my social skills almost, even the ones I can still use all have to acclimate to my new perspective.

The one where a potential friendship isn't all upsides, where I have to think about protecting myself first.

I still consider you the closest a person has ever come to really understanding me, and that means more than I could ever illustrate with words.

I've spent my whole life looking for it, and I don't want it to be a pipe dream.

I want you to be a part of my life as long as possible. I don't know if you could ever feel the same, but I'd spend an eternity with you if we could get us figured out.

That's it. Enjoy the novella. I'm going to go drown myself in chores now to try and feel better.

[xsoldier]

Neural Repository: Consciousness Stream on Self Pain

You always see the faves of the depressed people who've killed themselves, and they're smiling and happy. That's likely because tendencies of hyperaltruistic behaviour get exacerbated when there's an extreme lack of dopamine. People become disproportionately more likely to take more harm upon themselves than inflict it upon others. But they're not always that way. Some people are just genuinely cheerful and love putting out happiness into the world.

I know I was.

What most of you don't know is that it's the one year anniversary of the first time in my life that I can remember deeply and wholly wanting with my entire being to not exist. To be done & gone. To will myself into nothingness. To disconnect my conscious self, and just let my body be a stand-in until I could return. To freeze myself in stasis and come back to life later. Or just die since none of those other things are actually options. It wasn't for months still that I'd actually experience the helplessness that lead me to knowing exactly how I'd terminate my life, or experience the emotional roulette rollercoaster of not doing so (about 6 separate times now) purely through the luck of circumstance of brain chemistry in the moment.

Suicide is very much a crime of passion against self. Opting out, and unsubscribing from the flow of the every day that you just can't handle anymore. It's harder when you've very carefully thought through everything and still come to the same answer. I wasn't surprised when Dana killed herself. She was about the only human whose absolute desperation and inability to escape the moments of self were like a reflection of my every day. She dealt with depression and I didn't, and I learned a lot from her. I was so annoyed when she died, because it filled me with an imperative purpose that I had to fill, and it meant that that option wasn't available for me. I talked everyone through it that I could, I spoke about her death, and I never even received a farewell or details about why. The reason that I always spoke so definitively despite that is that just about my only skillset is recognizing patterns of human emotion, and it was like staring in a mirror.

I've probably aged a decade in the last year. You can be around people all the time, but that doesn't overcome the pervasive sense of exclusion and loneliness that becomes all-consuming from where we need it most. We work long hours, because taking time off makes things worse, as the only sense of belonging and purpose is the small refreshing breath of being useful when you're drowning in an ocean of complete despair. Drowning people don't LOOK like they're drowning. They don't yell, or splash, or cry out for help. They just struggle a little differently, and then sink.

I don't remember what happiness is. That's not to say that I haven't BEEN happy and had wonderful experiences over the last year, it's just that every moment sense, instead of experiencing bad moments, life has become a series of the good moments merely being momentary distractions from the deep and inextricable sensation of the endless chasm of the complete and utter abyssal void that is what remains of me. The deepest, most delicate, sensitive, and vulnerable part of myself was utterly disintegrated and my happiest and most confident self is obliterated as being less than worthless. The start of my descent was the limb-shattering drop to rock bottom, followed my months of clawing through bedrock with shattered fingernails splitting to the bone. The only constant sensation of being buried in the scalding frozen blackness, slowly suffocating within the claustrophobic emptiness of being absolutely abandoned.

I know people cared about me. I know people care about me. None of that even scratched the surface of this place. They were a glowing distraction that faded, just making every moment more and more desperate. It's like sleep paralysis, where even as soon as you know what's happening, and every moment just gets worse. It doesn't matter that you understand it, or that you know what it is and how it works. It gets worse. Loneliness is the health equivalent to smoking 15 cigarettes A DAY. Our brain experiences the social pain of abandonment the same way that we process the physical pain of being HIT. You want to escape it and what's worse — you don't want help. You don't want pity. That hyperaltruistic trigger means that even causing someone a fraction of the inconvenience that the every day pain causes you actually makes you feel WORSE not better. You are a constant net negative on literally every. single. interaction. for yourself, but it's smaller when you just let it happen. Once you start talking about it, it ends up echoing like a scream that shreds your vocal chords to pieces in seconds and adrenaline and desperation are literally the only things you have in your veins.

Each day, you recognize yourself less. You end up yearning for the worst days you can remember, because it feels like a comforting familiarity. You don't yearn for good times, because you literally can't remember what they feel like. They're a distraction, not root cause analysis. Anything that isn't digging at the core of the issue is extraneous and worthless, and nothing else consumes your thoughts. It latches on to your basic survival instincts for food & shelter, it encompasses the entirety of your need for social inclusion. The idea of self-growth and healthy focus without meeting those other two things first literally doesn't exist, because your brain is CERTAIN that you are moments from death during every agonizingly hour-long second that you experience that state.

As serotonin drops your general harm aversion for others and self drops at the same rate. It doesn't make a dent in the hyperaltruistic behaviour meant to secure you a tribal in-group to help ensure your survival. Eventually you're a net negative on ANY given scenario, and you don't want to try with another group. You enter a state of apathy and learned helplessness. Every response to attempts at improving elicits a dysfunctional response, so there's no telling what actions or behaviours net a known outcome. The momentary improvements are eclipsed by the shattering insecurities and inability to do anything positive. I'd been sleeping with a weighted blanket for months to prevent the crippling anxiety, and my medication hyper expresses my need to take action on things met with an insurmountable apathy as a roadblock to all basic needs. I start to experience panic attacks to positive stimuli because I'm so used to dysfunctional response that I'm ACTUALLY afraid of feeling good, because the drop I experience afterwards is so far down. Every one of the brightest and most positive moments I've felt has been suffocated, and the darkest moments I've felt were the brightest. My friend murdering herself kept me alive, because it gave me a purpose. My friend who I saw 5 days a week for the last 5 years being DEAD was the moment that made me feel the most hopeful about myself in the last year. Knowing that I feel that makes me feel even worse. I've almost murdered myself 6 times this year — I didn't though. That's just circumstantial luck and brain chemistry because I'm existentially horrified of injury, hospitalization, or being in a mental ward. Deep down, I can't do it without a guarantee that I won't be certain that I'm gone and experience as little pain as possible in doing so… and that just hasn't happened yet.

It's part of why I left America and all of the resources I had behind. It's infinitely harder for me to kill myself here. I knew that the moment that suicidal thoughts were replaced with panic about my extant plans for self termination being derailed in my new surroundings. Again — it's a crime of passion against self. It has a lot to override to put you there, but I felt it was necessary to call out that I've spent a year with this as my constant daily "normal" and being very used to overwhelming thoughts of suicide and being well-beyond the most utter insignificance as my day-to-day, and it was necessary to time-stamp those thoughts.

Don't ever feel bad if you did or didn't reach out to a friend you lost to suicide. It's a very weird beast, and there's no telling how it's going to manifest. If we all had an "off" button on our arms, every person would have used it at some point, and the things that hold us back or let us make one vary greatly from person to person. I don't want to be remembered as someone who was happy to combat and offset all this pain and sadness. I just want people to know that I was that kind of person when I WAS actually full of joy and happiness, too. I used to be really great, and I'm still trying my damnedest to make the world a brighter place inspire of myself, and inspire of the fact that you're not in it anymore either. I miss you @acrid Every fuckin' day. Even when I hate myself. I really try to remember the best of both of us, and put it up on display for everyone to see, because maybe somehow I'll find myself again some day, too.

[dermagain]

So after logging in for the first time in- honestly I wanna say a year 😟- I found a private message from someone asking me what has been helping me get better

and like an idiot I immediately accidentally deleted the message. So, sorry person that I can't message you back, but I'm gonna post this and hopefully you'll see it. I've been through a lot of major life changes in the past couple years and haven't really been on tumblr at all (sadly! I've been on a limited data plan too, so I deleted the app). I hope you've all been well in the meantime and are managing ok

This is going to be a very long post, but I'll try to break it up into paragraphs that will make it easier to skim for what you find useful. Quick warning, I'm going to be mentioning eating disorders a few times, but without going into details. First off, I'll go into a couple of the big developments in my life that are derma-relevant. A few months ago I was finally diagnosed with bipolar II, which consists mostly of depressive episodes, but has to be treated differently than unipolar depression, since antidepressants without a mood stabilizer can cause bipolar cycling. I'm now on a mood stabilizer, which is working well, and I'm finding that without bipolar cycling I have less anxiety, leading to less need for self-soothing rituals, which for me leads to less picking. If you might have an underlying condition that's exacerbating your picking, please go see a doctor/psychologist/psychiatrist if you can and haven't already. It took me several of them over several years to be taken seriously, and I'm going to follow up with a separate post with some of the details on how I finally got through to the professionals, in case that's helpful. Another change in my life is that I've relocated, moving out of state after (mostly) living where I come from into my adult years. Being away from all the places and things that pull me back into old traumas and outdated anxieties has helped A LOT. Of course, moving isn't a solution for everyone, and it requires some money and a lot of freedom, and it's stressful... my point is really just that external circumstances play a big role in how we feel and behave and it's worth making whatever positive changes you can. They won't "fix" your derma, but if you can focus on some of your other goals you may find that you're picking less. But of course, change just triggers some people, so it's very important to take what you know about yourself into account on this one. Now, to address the question I deleted, I'm gonna lay out a bunch of the strategies that were working for me before all that: I read a post by someone in the derma community several years ago recommending the book The Four Day Win by Martha Beck, and read it. I wish I remembered who suggested this or where, so I could give credit, but this was probably 5 years back and I have no idea. It's a diet book, but many of the chapters apply to reducing any behavior that you're trying to break out of, and adapt well to skin picking. I had a hard time pushing through the book because I'm extremely anti-diet and firmly believe that advocating dieting is also advocating eating disorders. Several members of my family have struggled with eating disorders, so there were times when I wanted to throw this book across the room, but ultimately I found it helpful. You can probably get a copy from your local library if you want to read it, but I'm also going to give a capsule version here of what I found helpful/adapted from the book for my own use. The premise is that instead of setting ourselves up for failure by trying to do something difficult *indefinitely* (sticking to a diet or not picking, for example), we only commit to four days at a time, and give ourselves a reward when we complete a four day cycle. The rewards, for me, were something small and concrete, usually buying myself something inexpensive that I wanted. When the four days was up, I was allowed to pick all I wanted, but then would start another four days of not picking right after. If four days is too long to manage, you can always use shorter times. I would often do 3 days, but if 2 or even 1 whole day is more realistic for you it's more important to set a very specific time and then reward yourself at the end. You have to be consistent with the reward, not giving yourself the reward anyway if you do pick, and not sacrificing it (to save money or whatever) if you do make your goal. It's like training an animal, except we are the animal we're training. Make sure your rewards aren't anything you pretty much need, since that becomes a system of punishments for not making it, and in order to work this has to be a system of rewards for doing well. It's an entirely positive system. I would sometimes get myself a larger reward if I didn't pick (or barely picked) between 3 or 4 day no-picking periods, but didn't plan ahead for that because you really need to keep your mind on the short term when doing this. If I did pick when I wasn't supposed to, I would sometimes give myself a reduced version of the original reward if I made it to the end of the original 4 days without doing it again. For instance, if I was going to buy a new set of paint brushes, I might scale it back to choosing an individual brush. Or if I felt like it was realistic, I would start another 4 days immediately after lapsing. Being as realistic as possible is important for this one. Another thing I would do is keep a log of where on my body I was picking, when, how many individual spots I was going at, and any particularly pertinent facts like an unusual mood or triggering event. I was putting it in the calendar on my phone so the time was recorded automatically, and I had a system of abbreviations that kept it easy. An entry might read "f4, a2 (blood), s4. Very anxious", which would mean I picked at 4 spots on my face, 2 on my arms to the point of drawing blood, and 4 spots on my shoulders, and that I was experiencing an unusual degree of anxiety. I would differentiate between my arms and shoulders because my shoulders are a particular problem area for me, but I also pick at my scalp sometimes, so I would indicate my scalp with an "h" for head, since "s" was shoulders. If I picked at an area enough that I couldn't say a specific number of spots, I would just say "bad", like "a2, sbad, l3" would mean I picked 2 spots on my arms and 3 on my legs and really took it out on my shoulders. Of course, you would adapt your log to what is most pertinent or useful for you. The log served a few purposes. For one, just having more awareness can be really helpful, also I would actually sometimes hold off on picking just because if I did it, I would have to acknowledge it in writing. I would sometimes stop myself in time to put down a number instead of "bad". It also makes it easier to see when you've been doing pretty well lately, and feel good about it. Prepping to pick helped too, instead of denying that I was going to do it until the very last minute and then going at it impulsively. I would get home at night or in the afternoon and wash my hands with antibacterial soap first thing, then rinse my face and put on a face mask that I could keep on for a couple hours. Its best if you can do that without being in front of a mirror, which could mean using your kitchen sink or covering your bathroom mirror. If you can't do that, try not to even glance at the mirror if you can manage. I got pretty good at keeping my eyes down completely while going through this routine. When I eventually had to rinse off the mask, if I did get sucked into picking at least my hands and face were clean and the skin on my face was in pretty good shape so the damage was minimized and the spots I picked at wouldn't flare up and get infected from getting all the dirt you pick up outside in them (gross, I know). Honey works pretty well in place of commercial face masks, cause it's a physical barrier and great for your skin, but you have to be more committed to avoiding mirrors, since you can still see your skin through honey. Besides face masks/honey, there were other physical barriers that helped. Pretty much everyone comments on this, but it bears repeating. I would wear shirts at home that were tight in the sleeves so getting at my shoulders wasn't convenient, which honestly is something I need to get back in the habit of doing. As you can probably tell from all the past-tense, I'm doing well lately, but my arms and shoulders are what I go for most when I do pick. If there were only a couple visible spots on my face, I would cover them with band-aids, and I would sometimes wear gloves at home. I've also made lists for myself of anything that's helpful, meaning both practical tips and alternatives to picking (even if they sound dumb or obvious), and information that it's helpful for me to remind myself of. I have an old list in front of me right now, and some of the suggestions on it are super simple, but were actually helpful for whatever reason. Some of them actually strike me as kind of self-shaming now, but inspired me at the time. Whatever works, I guess. Here are some of the items from the list (the not-shamey ones): Wait it out. Later is better than now. Drink some water. Have a snack. Take a nap. Put on long sleeves. Consciously remember not to do it. Turn out the lights. Watch a movie. Read a book. Listen to music. This is an outgrown coping mechanism. This is an internalization of being "picked on." I don't want to let people who have treated me unfairly manifest themselves in me. DON'T do "just one" (it's never just one). Relapse is a normal part of recovery, and it doesn't determine the future. Adherence is the goal, but near-adherence is almost as good. If I can't do 100%, I can try for 90%, or 75%. It's still worth maintaining, even if it's not perfect. No comment made by any idiot is my problem. Relax and breathe. Remember to eat, sleep, and play music. I really don't need to touch my face at all except for daily skincare. Even MH "just stopped". I'll explain that last item. It's a reference to Marya Hornbacher's memoir, Wasted. Marya had a severe eating disorder for years, to the point that it almost killed her (you may know this part, it's been a popular title for a while...) Like I said, my family history is peppered with eating disorders, so I've put in my due diligence reading up on them. She reaches the point of almost dying, and then -like some kind of miracle- she "just stops" the behavior that would otherwise have taken her life. The reason I included that as a kind of affirmation isn't because I think my picking will "just stop", but rather because it's such an extreme example of how people sometimes turn a corner in their struggles and start to get better, no matter how bleak their future looked during their darkest times. Anyway, making lists like this are helpful if you can include whatever helps YOU to remember, not what helps someone else, or only things you don't think are obvious. If it's obvious and it helps you, put it on the list. If it's not clear why exactly it's relevant but it helps you, put it on the list. Then keep your list someplace handy, like on your wall or taped to your desk, or in the back of your journal. I hope some of this helps y'all, sorry it's 5 miles long, but I wanted to include everything I could think of. Love you all. Best.

[a-woman-apart]

Effexor Withdrawal (My Experience)

A/N: As I previously stated, this post contains information about medicine, medicine dosages, and side effects. Discuss all your concerns with your primary care physician or psych doctor before you make any changes. Do not discontinue any medication without first consulting with your health care provider.

Trigger warning: Briefly mentioned vomiting

Oh, so you thought the story was over?

It wasn’t.

In one of my previous posts, Advocating for Myself as a Patient, I briefly detailed that abdominal cramping and gastrointestinal symptoms, along with a “tingling” in my head and other parts of my body had accompanied some of my medication changes. I thought that a little rest and taking the probiotics might solve the problem. I also had nausea, and psychiatrist #3 had said that the Hydroxyzine would help with the nausea.

It did, mildly, but my symptoms continued to get worse and be overwhelming. After doing a little digging, I discovered that my cornucopia of symptoms (nausea, diarrhea/loose stools, abdominal pain, sweating, chills, shaking, nervousness, dizziness, weakness, confusion, and paresthesia/tingling) could be attributed to the discontinuation of Effexor/Venlafaxine.

I was on Venlafaxine ER (Extended release) and was still on the starting dose of 37.5 mg. When I asked psychiatrist #3 if it was okay to eliminate that without tapering, she hand-waved it. “Oh yes, it’s just a small dose.” To be fair, though, there is no smaller dose of Venlafaxine ER to help patients with tapering, and you better believe that patients have complained to the drug companies who make it.

Anyway, I continued to be violently sick. It may sound strange, but the paresthesia, and “brain zaps” were one of the most distressing symptoms, and what sought me to do online research in the first place. Sufferers have begun referring to the tingling sensation in the head and parts of the body as “brain zaps” because it can be described as feeling like a small electric jolt or shock. It is disconcerting, because it can coincide with dizziness, weakness, and lack of coordination. Sometimes I would have to lean against other objects for support when a “brain zap” hit me.

I learned that I was not alone. I found out that most people who try to discontinue Effexor—even under doctor supervision— experience even worse side effects than I did. I discovered that like me, most patients are not warned about how powerful this drug is. I was never told that trying to come off even such a small dose would cause such a terrible case of discontinuation syndrome. Discontinuation syndrome is a process of withdrawal that can occur when patients try to come off SSRIs (Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors) or SNRIs (Serotonin and Norepinephrine Reuptake Inhibitors). You can read this Harvard Health Article for more information. More importantly, scroll down and read the comments, where patients detail how antidepressant withdrawal ruined their health and their lives.

I must stress that it is important that this does not mean that you should not take an antidepressant. If your doctor prescribes something, they are usually taking into account that the benefits outweigh the risks. However, some antidepressants like Zoloft and Effexor have a very short half-life, which means they stay in your system for a shorter time than other drugs (such as Paxil). This quick elimination of the drug from your body upon stopping the drug can cause withdrawal. It certainly does not happen to everyone, but it is a risk that patients deserve to be informed about.

To make a long story short, I ended up in the ER for 6 hours on the day that I was supposed to return to work. This was after rushing to urgent care, where I was told that urgent care was not equipped to treat my symptoms. At the emergency room, they did an EKG and took blood samples, including a lithium level (this was just in case the increase in lithium was causing my symptoms). My heart, thyroid, and kidneys turned out to be fine, and the lithium level was perfect. The doctor prescribed two different medications: Bentyl for abdominal cramps and another drug for nausea.

When I go to fill out the prescription, I see that neither drug was covered by my insurance. The Bentyl was $46, but the nausea drug was going to be $85 for 12 pills. Haha, no. So even though I’ve already spent over a hundred dollars on medicine and medicine co-pays this month, I am desperate, so I pay $46 for the Bentyl.

So, in the meanwhile, I can’t go to work the next day either (got a doctor’s note) and I’m taking the Bentyl with meals as prescribed. At this point, I’ve developed food aversions. I can’t drink milk, I can’t eat anything with too much sugar, and I can’t eat certain raw fruits, vegetables, and proteins. I’m weak all day, and so I spend the day trying to relax. I binged the entire Aggretsuko on Netflix. I am worried that the Bentyl is making my nausea worse, so I wish I had that other drug now but, alas. I ended up throwing up after taking all my night meds. My stomach felt better at that point, but I was also worried that I threw up all the good stuff I needed to help with my mood.

I ate some soup—which I was able to keep down— and went to bed.

It finally becomes Wednesday—and time for another group— but I went to my clinic early so that I can see psychiatrist #3 before group time. When I get in to see her, she is harried (it’s quite busy) and visibly annoyed at me for coming in to see her again so soon. I explained my symptoms and that I felt that I was experiencing withdrawal from the Effexor/Venlafaxine removal. I asked her about a remedy that I had seen online, which was to introduce a single dose of Paxil to help with the withdrawal symptoms. Paxil leaves the body slowly, so introducing that single dose can alleviate symptoms and aid in the tapering off process.

She told me, “Your symptoms are caused by anxiety. You need to take the hydroxyzine, and that will help with the nausea (again I saw scant evidence of that). There’s no smaller dose of Venlafaxine for you to take. The only thing we maybe could’ve done was to have you take the medicine every other day, until you came off from it, but you’ve already been off it for over a week.”

She then cautioned me from getting back on the medication, and I assured her that I had no intentions of getting back on it. Finally, she said, “If your symptoms persist see your PCP.”

I was slightly annoyed that with the risk of discontinuation syndrome associated with this medication, that she wouldn’t have encouraged that slower tapering, just to be safe. I had considered doing that every other day thing for myself, too, but when she hand-waved the side effects I just did what she told me to do. Also, the apparent lack of knowledge about the withdrawal was concerning. From what I saw, about 20% of people experience discontinuation syndrome, but with millions of people suffering with depression, those numbers are significant. Doctors need to be much less careless with this, and if they do not know there should be better education provided. So many people get back on their antidepressants just because the “brain zaps” and other physical symptoms of withdrawal become too devastating.

Withdrawal can last anywhere from 1-3 weeks, but symptoms can persist for months and in rarer cases, even years. This is not a matter to be taken lightly. One of the worst things was just not being informed. I rushed from psychiatrist, to PCP, to ER, and back to my psychiatrist because no one could tell me what was wrong with me or fully help. I have missed hours of work time, lost hours of sleep, and will have spent $100s once this is over. More importantly, because hypochondria/health anxiety is part of my anxiety disorder, I have agonized over what might be wrong with me. The emotional and mental distress—especially because I am coming out of mixed mania that may or may not have been exacerbated by the Venlafaxine—have been almost unbearable. Yesterday, I just kept crying because I was so paranoid that I was going to be met with suspicion or disdain when I returned to the workplace, because I had just missed so much time and I am only a part-timer.

Even today, my symptoms are not fully alleviated. I have not been able to walk in the park in days, laundry is piling up because I didn’t make it out there this week, and I still have to be careful with food. I’ve tried soymilk as an alternative to dairy milk, but I still don’t know whether my stomach likes it or not. I think I threw up because of the Bentyl, but I also did have a lot of soymilk that day (I might have to take my chances because I am fiending for a bowl of cereal).

In summary, dealing with a mental illness can be exhausting and your physical health may also be compromised. Doctors often either cannot—or will not— put themselves in the shoes of their patients. You must advocate for yourself. I cannot stress that enough. It can be difficult and costly, especially when your insurance does not cover everything. Your life is worth it, though, and your health comes first.

Finally, for the love of all things holy and true, do not come off antidepressants like Zoloft and Effexor cold turkey. I’ve read nightmare stories about people coming off dosages as high as 225mg and then just trying to stop. Bad, bad, bad idea. If 37.5mg did this to me, then imagine what a higher dose could do. I have even heard of people experiencing terrible symptoms when it was doctor-sanctioned and their dose was cut in half (like going from 150mg to 75mg).

Please be careful, y’alll.

P.S. I am aware that hydroxyzine is an anti-histimine (like Benadry). It’s off-label use is to treat anxiety.

[thedeadshotnetwork]

What We're Thankful For, 2017 Remember how horrible 2016 was, and how thrilled we were to leave it behind? So many people we loved died—Bowie, Ali, Prince, Shandler, Zsa Zsa, George Michael, Gene Wilder, Carrie Fisher, Sharon Jones, Leonard Cohen, Florence Henderson. Harambe . On and on. So many things we loved died too. The truth , for instance. Civility . Trust in institutions, after a long fight, also shuffled off this mortal coil. There were no signs 2017 would be any better. In fact, with the election of Donald J Trump to the land’s highest office, many believed democracy had suddenly found itself on life support. But in such desperate need to turn the page, we placed a bit of hope in the changing of the calendar year anyway. We were so ready to move on, to say “ Fuck 2016! ,” that on January 1, 2017 we woke up to a silly art prank— Hollyweed —and allowed ourselves to believe it somehow meant things were already looking up. How naive we were. It can feel impossible in this waking nightmare to feel there is anything to be hopeful about or thankful for. But unlike the end of ‘16, things actually do appear to be ticking upward. The investigation into Russia’s meddling in the election is closing in . There’s a Reckoning underway for men who abuse their power, and it just might stick . Trump’s approval rating has hit an historic low , and he's largely revealed himself to be a walking disaster who can’t get anything done. Because of him, people are tired . But they're also active . And there is evidence the pendulum may finally have begun to swing the other way. This could again reveal itself to be naiveté. But for the purposes of this post, we’re running with it—welcoming any and all good news, especially during the holidays, which can be especially tough. In that spirit, we once again asked the staff at VICE.com to write a bit about what they’re thankful for in these bad (but getting better!!) times, personal things or people or places they cling to when the world appears to be crumbling. We may not be out of the mire just yet, but the things we’re thankful for help us weather the storm. My Bike For anyone who’s not familiar, New York City’s public transportation is usually a horrorshow . Subways rarely come on time , and when they do, you run the risk of getting stuck underground for hours , having your face peed on by a complete stranger , catching your first glimpse of a dead body , or witnessing the brutality of the animal kingdom in all its glory . So my third summer in New York I decided to buy a bike and I’ve never been more thankful. Not only is it just a better alternative to the shitshow that is the MTA , a great group activity, and something you can (but shouldn’t) do drunk , but I started to grow more connected to a city that often feels like a concrete tourist wasteland. Riding my bike through Brooklyn’s sprawling neighborhoods, to Rockaway Beach, down to Coney Island, over the bridge into Manhattan, and up and down the West Side Highway, taught me more about the city than a random constellation of subway stops ever could. I got my head above ground and out into the place I now call home, and learned about others who call it home in the process. (Bragging about all the exercise I was getting didn't hurt either.) The day I finally became happy in New York was the day I gave in and got a bike. That’s all it took. I stopped relying on everyone and everything else—the uncertainty of the train schedules, the wait time for a bus, and the cost and terrible music of an Uber or a cab. If you want to understand a city, and to better feel your place within it, get on a bike (you should also throw on a helmet) and just go— while you still can . —Lauren Messman, Associate Editor Quitting Drinking, Superhero Movies, and Guy Fieri Photos: Eve Peyser on Instagram / Wikimedia Commons I've spent most of 2017 writing about the Trump administration , and the triumph of evil. To put it mildly, the world is not well, which is inconceivably frightening, and on a personal level, very demoralizing. A saving grace has been not drinking . When I quit last October, I did so because I knew if I kept drinking I would die. Drinking was always an escape for me, a way to not feel like myself and not be accountable to myself and my loved ones; at the same time, it exacerbated my suicidal ideation and depression. I don't think I would've made it through the most chaotic year of myself if I was still drinking alcohol, a substance that has only plunged me deeper and deeper into chaos. I'm incredibly thankful for my boyfriend, a fellow non-drinker. Together, we spent much of the year looking for other, less harmful ways to escape from this shit world. As it turns out, a good, wholesome way to take our minds off all the horror that is 2017 is watching superhero movies. Suicide Squad , The Dark Knight , Deadpool , Thor: Ragnarok , Batman Robin , whatever the film's Rotten Tomatoes rating, they offer a form of escapism that makes me happy without hurting myself. Same goes with Guy Fieri, and the wonderful stars of the Food Network. I am especially thankful for Guy Fieri's unapologetic Guy Fieri-ness—it's genuinely inspiring to me. Despite the insanity of 2017, it was also the year I learned to love the things I love without being embarrassed about it. — Eve Peyser, Staff Writer, Politics TEA At some point in the last three decades America decided collectively to get really into coffee to the point where I assume schoolchildren in the coastal elite bubble are educated in cold brewing and Aeropresses and why burr grinders are better. I come here not to denounce coffee snob culture (I have paid $5 for a pourover and did not complain about it) but to raise up tea culture. Sometimes I don't need to mainline all that caffeine that comes in your average cup of "good" coffee. I just want a hot drink to read while I watch a mature, adult television program such as a Ken Burns documentary or HGTV. Green tea, bitter black tea with some milk, herbal teas that can taste like flowers or orange or mint—it's all good, apart from Lipton's, which thank God is mostly not served outside of the Midwest, diners, and certain institutional settings. (I'm talking about hot tea here; iced tea is also excellent.) Teabags are fine but really you should have a teapot and loose leaves, which will feel charmingly eccentric to Americans. Next time someone comes over offer them some tea, or better yet just tell them you are making tea and they can have some if they want, because that's the kind of person you are: a hospitable drinker of tea who even has those little mesh balls you put the leaves into. Tea gives you something to do in the kitchen when you want to check out of a family gathering. It warms your hands during cold winter nights. I won't go so far as to say that drinking it makes you a good person but I'm sure that it's harder to be a vicious asshole while drinking a nice cup of hot tea, and isn't that what the holidays are all about? —Harry Cheadle, Senior Politics Editor Yoga When it feels like things are in a tailspin, and I can't stand reading one more headline or wondering why I'm bothering putting money into a 401(k) when Donald Trump could literally blow up the planet at any moment, there's really only one thing that consistently makes me feel better: yoga. For me, practicing yoga is the difference between near-constant low-grade anxiety about the state of the world and the ability to fucking chill about it. When I'm feeling shitty, I've learned to put those feelings aside for an hour and hit the mat instead. Nine times out of 10, I feel somewhat better afterwards. So yes, I am thankful for my yoga practice. (On a related note, I'm also thankful for weed, for very similar reasons.) —Kara Weisenstein, Associate Editor The 2017 World Series Champion Houston Astros This year I flew home to Houston, Texas, to visit my parents. The trip was supposed to be quick, just two days. It ended up being nine. Many of them were spent in the dark, without electricity. My trip was the same weekend another visitor came to town: Hurricane Harvey. Even as He began slowly churning in the Gulf and was projected to come knocking as soon as I touched down, I went ahead with my travel plans undeterred. As a Third Coast native, I'd lived through many a ‘cane, and figured the trip would be just a tad bit wetter than I'd hoped. I was wrong. Though my folks were largely spared , I was beginning to see—through Facebook, texts, calls—that many old friends, neighbors, colleagues, and relatives were not. The scope of destruction was massive, the exact kind you might expect when a year's worth of rainfall is wrenched from the clouds in just a few days . Everyone got touched. Efforts to recover were similarly massive. All the donated money and funds both federal and local helped people rebuild homes, surely, but spirits around the region were also in massive need of renovation. That came in the form of the Houston Astros. This was, in a word, unlikely. These are the Astros. Just a few short years ago they were the worst team in the sport . (The Dis-Astros they were sometimes called when I was growing up.) And even when they've managed to field good teams they always find a way to fuck things up. So when they found themselves this year in the World Series facing a favored Los Angeles Dodgers, the most expensive squad in baseball , there was nary a reason to believe they wouldn't be swept like they were the one and only other time they'd found themselves playing this late into the season. But they won. In seven thrilling, totally fucking insane games , they won. Quickly the photo updates of various rebuilding efforts and the lasting evidence of Harvey's destructive rumble were replaced on my Facebook feed with reaction videos of the last World Series out, photos of the various victories along the way, GIFs of improbable plays, and plans to attend the parade. Nothing will ever erase Hurricane Harvey's enormous impact on the city of Houston. But because of it, the Astro's championship season couldn't have come at a better time. —Brian McManus, Special Projects Editor My Fringe-Ass Dad My dad is fringe, in the same way Frank Reynolds is fringe —in fact, he’s a lot like Frank Reynolds, interspersed with a little bit of Homer Simpson, a dash of Harrison Ford, and a whole lot of Larry David. Once, he hit a deer while he was driving through rural Georgia in his sedan, and instead of doing anything about it, he left the chunk of fur that had lodged itself into his crumpled grill in place, neglected to clean the blood from his hood, and started calling his shitty four-door the “Deer Slayer 2000.” He rips cigs. He doesn’t pay parking tickets, as a rule. He’s been wearing the same army-green coat every winter for about a decade, despite the fact that there’s a gaping, tattered hole in the left elbow. Another good one: Five hours into a bender with my reprobate friends at a grimy Atlanta bar, after too many games of pool (couldn’t really see the balls) and air hockey (somehow wound up with bloody knuckles) on which we bet a pickle-back apiece, everyone in attendance—including, of course, my fringe-ass dad—decided to go to the Clermont Lounge . It’s a seedy, smoky strip club that’s really more of a dive bar than anything, and it is (for lack of virtually any other word in my vocabulary) fringe. But we didn’t have a way to get there. So my dad—who, thankfully, was sober enough to drive—had all eleven of us pile into his tiny, beat up sedan: Two in the front seat, seven in the back, and me and a buddy in the trunk. We all easily could’ve died, and though two people vomited on the way there, we made it, and everything turned out fine—better than fine. It was fucking awesome. We drank, and sang, and ran around like idiots, and danced our asses off. I bought my dad a lap dance. The point is this: My dad is extremely fringe, and I have never laughed harder, or marveled more, or appreciated to a deeper degree anything than I do his fringe-ass self. This Thanksgiving, I’ll eat turkey, and pet my dogs, and probably play a few games of Trivial Pursuit, all of which will be nice. But what I’m most excited about—what I’m most thankful for—is the chance to get weird with the lawless, depraved (and, by the way, huge-hearted, shockingly brilliant, impossibly selfless) psychopath who raised me. Here’s to you, Dad. Stay fringe. —Drew Schwartz, Junior Staff Writer Whitney and Brandy in 'Cinderella' While cleaning my apartment the other day, I was looking for some Whitney Houston to jam to. I stumbled upon the 1997 Rodgers Hammerstein's Cinderella soundtrack, which featured Brandy and Whitney Houston. This was the only version of Cinderella we were allowed to watch growing up, and for good reason—the movie sparked my love and appreciation for Whitney Houston and made me dream of being a princess like no other Disney movie had before. The soundtrack took me back to simpler days where every holiday season my mother, sister, and I would watch the scene with Brandy gliding around the dance floor with her prince. We were in awe of the beautiful ballroom filled with cool-colored gowns. From the mixed-race cast to the banging soundtrack, this movie was a huge part of my childhood. I am thankful for this version of Cinderella that was ahead of its time in so many ways. —Janae Price, Editorial Assistant These Things Image by Lia Kantrowitz Sometimes talking or writing without putting my foot in my mouth is hard work. I’m truly thankful I have a job where I don’t often have to express myself with words. In that vein, here is a collage of other things I’m thankful for. —Lia Kantrowitz, Senior Illustrator New Jersey I'm back at my mother's house right now in New Jersey for Thanksgiving, and I'll be here for four days—the longest stay I've had in my home state since I moved to New York five years ago. I don't miss this place until I'm here, but I often find myself defending it, even in Brooklyn. I only grew up once, but you'd be hard-pressed to convince me there's somewhere better to do it. I'm from a land that people go through to get somewhere better—to New York, to Philly, to the airport. It makes you restless, flamboyant, and (sometimes) overtly obnoxious. It's everything I enjoy about life. There's something in the air, beyond pollution, that will always make me feel at home here. Even just exiting the tunnel on the train from Manhattan, once it emerges on the other side of the Hudson, makes me feel different. The smokestacks. The factories. The toll booths and swamps and power lines. Finally I can say "fuck" every other word, and no one's going to say shit. In New Jersey, you learn things. You learn how to speak, to tell stories. You learn how to drive 80 miles an hour eight inches from the back of another car. You learn you're not fucking special. You don't have to make up your mind here. You can elect a man who might as well be the mascot for corruption, and then you can tell that guy to fuck off and pick the dude who's going to legalize pot. You can watch The Jersey Shore with irony and without irony, simultaneously. You can listen to Bon Jovi, and understand why he's brilliant and silly, and you can listen to Bruce Springsteen, and understand why he's brilliant and silly. Plus, we have better bagels than Long Island. And better emo music. Fuck them. —Alex Norcia, Copy Editor, VICE.com and VICE Magazine November 23, 2017 at 04:23PM

[36point36-blog]

Here's My Story. It's Long, and I Swear a Lot.

Prior to my current job, I worked for my family business - a small grocery store - more or less steadily for fourteen years, from the age of 16 to the age of 30.  The store was located five or so miles from the state capitol, in the heart of a college town, flanked on one side by a sprawling campus and on the other by a large, twisting expanse of highways.  Those highways connected us to a vast network of far-flung, sleepy little towns and hamlets that most of us had never seen.  Our customer base was therefore very diverse - foreign students, frat boys, truckers, church ladies, families, foodies, and everyone in between were amongst our regulars.  There were literally dozens of customers that I saw every single day, five days a week, for over a decade.  I naturally became close with many of them, as did much of the staff - who were themselves all very close with one another.  We were not always friends, but we nonetheless came to know each other uncommonly well.  We knew each other’s families, boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, pets, personal habits, quirks, strengths, and weaknesses.  Many of us became co-workers as teenagers and continued seeing each other every day well into twenties whether we wanted to or not, which meant that we saw each other’s physical appearances change incrementally over time, in every imaginable direction.  Our hair was cut, dyed, grown out, cut, and dyed again.  A few of the “boys” that were hired as teenagers started going bald in their twenties.  Some of our clothes changed subtly with the fashions of the day, became aggressively collegiate during football season, got frumpier during pregnancy, got sloppier during hangovers or bouts of depression.  Waistlines expanded and contracted and expanded again for all sorts of reasons.  All of these aesthetic changes just sort of took on a natural ebb and flow amongst the core of employees who’d been there the longest.  When you see someone every day for ten years, they eventually transcend whatever they happen to wear or weigh at any given time.  Whether they’re fat, thin, bald, pregnant, sixteen, or twenty-six, they are simply themselves at that point.  Whatever state they’re in becomes, at that point, a natural one - simply because you’ve seen them in so many states.

But in 2014, my family business closed.  It was squeezed out rather controversially by developers and replaced by a national chain store.  The aforementioned core of still-young veteran employees was heartbreakingly disbanded.  We had become adults together elbow to elbow.  We knew each other’s favorite movies and bands and donut flavors.  We had survived terrible fights, made out drunkenly in dark bedrooms at parties, cried together, laughed together, exchanged birthday presents, braided each other’s hair, covered each other’s shifts.  And then it was all over, and with grim faces and leaden hearts we begrudgingly became other people’s co-workers, other people’s checkout girls, other people’s customer service representatives.

Which brings me back to the heart of this essay or whatever it is - the paradox of former obesity.  When the store closed and I had to get another job, I was 220 pounds.  I did not actually KNOW that because I had, for my entire adult life, asked the staff at my doctor’s office not to tell me the actual number whenever they weighed me.  I would step backwards onto the scale and shut my eyes, and they kept it a secret as per my request.  But I was nonetheless 220 pounds.  When I started at my current job, roughly two dozen strangers became my co-workers and met me for the first time as a 220-pound woman.  That was in September of 2014.

A little over a year later, in October of 2015, I was on top of a ladder at work, missed a step, and accidentally head-butted the side of the light fixture.  Now, I am just about the most panic-stricken, white-knuckled hypochondriac and/or pessimist you could possibly imagine.  Every minor ailment spells imminent doom to me.  If I have a slight cough for more than two days, I become increasingly certain that I’m a modern-day “Satine,” dying from consumption in my own non-musical but equally tragic version of “Moulin Rouge.”  In my warped, worst-case-scenario mind, a UTI becomes a long-dormant strain of neurosyphilis, for which I am the Patient Zero.  A skin rash all but whispers aloud to me, “Get your affairs in order - you’re not long for this world.”  So I hit my head at work, and I naturally freaked the fuck out.  That “Concussion” movie had either just come out or was about to come out, and I also happened to have a friend who was undergoing brain surgery at the time, so general head injuries were already on my mind to an unusual extent at the time.  The next day, I had a crippling headache - maybe from hitting my head, maybe from freaking out for 24 straight hours about hitting my head.  Either way, I was encouraged by my manager to fill out worker’s comp paperwork and go to the nearest urgent care, an unfamiliar setting that only exacerbated my cold-sweated, shaky-handed anxiety.  When they finally called me back and said they had to weigh me, I was in such a frenzied state of mind that I forgot my own iron clad rules.  Without thinking, I stepped onto the scale the NORMAL way - with both eyes wide the fuck open, looking directly into what might as well have been the fucking eye of Sauron - the scale’s small, menacing LED screen.  This would eventually reveal itself to be one of those ultra-rare, movie-like moments where life as you know it - your regular-ass, everyday life - is literally and profoundly changed forever.  At the age of 30, after a lifetime of being either obese or significantly overweight, I learned for the first time that I weighed over 200 pounds.

There are no words to really describe the effect that this revelation had on me.  It was like…oh, I don’t know…being struck by lightning and beaten with a cattle prod while learning that my new husband had just been murdered.  During the nine month period leading up to this cataclysmic event, I’d actually been LOSING weight in preparation for my September wedding.  I’d had several appointments with my regular doctor, who only told me how much I LOST - not how much I WEIGHED.  She was increasingly encouraged by the small but steady progress I was making, and amazingly, despite my natural pessimism, so was I.  In fact, I was pretty damn confident on my wedding day.  I genuinely thought I looked better than I had in years - quite possibly my whole adult life, even.  I had, after all, lost nine whole pounds since getting engaged the previous December.  I didn’t see a fat bride in the mirror.  I actually saw a somewhat transformed person.  Nine pounds!  Nine of ‘em!  That damn near constituted a full-blown makeover, as far as I was concerned.

What I didn’t know at the time was that I was nine pounds less than a staggering 220 - my highest weight on record, which was added to my medical file in December of 2014, right after I got engaged.  The urgent care scale read “211,” a number that from that moment onward was permanently tattooed into my brain tissue.  Calling it a “wake-up call” would be a hilarious understatement.  When I left the urgent care clinic, my heart was pounding out of my chest.  I started sobbing the instant I got into my car.  I briefly stopped crying long enough to pull up a BMI calculator on my phone, then immediately started crying again once I’d crunched my own numbers.  Even nine pounds lighter than before, I was clinically obese.  Not even on the cusp between “overweight” and “obese.”  There was a little line graph on the BMI calculator website with green on the “normal” side that shaded into yellow once it reached the “overweight” range, then into orange for “extremely overweight,” then finally into the deep oranges and reds of “obesity.”  I was well into the orange-red zone, dangerously close to the patch of blood-red at the tail end of the line.

I went home early from work and cried myself to sleep.  But the next day, in an unprecedented act of self-improving action-taking, I bought myself a pair of drugstore headphones and I walked to work for the first time.  There were approximately 1.5 miles between my front door and the entrance of my workplace, and the first time I walked it in both directions, I felt like I was some sort of 19th century wandering pioneer or ancient nomadic tribeswoman.  That first walk TO work might as well have lasted a full calendar year - that’s how epic and sprawling a distance it was at the time, especially out in the open for all to see.  Now that I knew I fat I was, I was forced to realize that all the joggers and bikers and drivers and passengers that were passing me ALSO knew how fat I was.  This was not only taking place in a fairly small town, but also my lifelong hometown - I had worked, lived, and spent the entirety of my K-12 years within the same five-mile radius.  So, presumably, at least some of the people who saw me walking that fateful day recognized me - knew me - had known for years how fat I was.  The whole way there, the whole way back, I felt like I was jiggling stark naked down the open sidewalk for all the world to see, with a neon sign affixed to my head that read “CLINICALLY OBESE” in flashing, colorful letters.  But somehow, even though it was one of the single most embarrassing and physically uncomfortable experiences of my life, I knew that it had to be done…that it was the only way out of the nightmarish orange-red zone on that BMI chart.  I made minimum wage (still do), and I knew I couldn’t even afford an occasional aerobics class, let alone a gym membership or a personal trainer.  So I just DIY-ed the fuck out of a radically new lifestyle.

I didn’t count calories or ban refined sugars or carbs or anything, but I started eating a fuck ton of frozen vegetables and spicy sauces from the international foods aisle, and I stopped eating Annie’s macaroni and cheese altogether, which I adored and ate very frequently, always with butter, always two boxes at a time.  I copied and pasted all my beloved, rousingly violent 90s rap from my computer into the internal storage on my phone and blared it into my headphones for about an hour and a half total, three or so days a week, on my way to and from work, walking as briskly as I possibly could.  I bought some used Gillian Michaels DVDs and played them on mute with the captions on so I could at least listen to my own invigorating, murderous rap jams while I flung myself to and fro across the room and up and down on to the floor with hand weights, as per Gillian’s instructions.

I kid you not, the results.  Were.  Immediate.  Had they NOT been immediate, I might have just screamed “FUUUUUCK IT” into a bowl of peas and given up.  But I started losing weight RIGHT away, to an extent that even I (who was, mind you, utterly prepared to fail) could plainly see with my own two eyes.  A month in, I was able to squeeze into my favorite coat from six winters before, when I had briefly flirted with the mid 150s, then gotten lost in a long bout of depression, during which I began to drink heavily and rapidly slide into obesity.  Two months in, I could actually zip up my junior prom dress.  Three months in, I started to occasionally get compliments.  By late winter of 2016, during Michigan’s presidential primaries, I was comfortable enough with walking long distances that I canvassed with a genuine spring in my step for the Bernie Sanders campaign.  I continued to lose weight during this period and through the end of the winter, so when Bernie won the primary, it felt as though I had, miraculously, won twice.

Looking back, I’m 100% certain that once my weight loss got to the point where it was visible to even the least attentive observer, the overwhelming majority of my co-workers and casual acquaintances didn’t expect me to continue with it much further.  I had been 220 pounds and was now around 170.  I had to get all new clothes, and I carried myself differently.  I had already defied the odds in terms of the national statistics.  Once customers started commenting on my weight left and right, within earshot of everyone I worked with, it would have been fair to assume I would have just stopped there.  But that couldn’t have been farther from the truth.  If there was one prevailing lesson I had thoroughly learned at that point, it was that cheesiest of all maxims - basically, “what you think is impossible might actually be possible,” or whatever variation on that you prefer.  No one - DO YOU HEAR ME? - NO ONE was less likely than me to succeed.  I’m not saying that to be self-deprecating - I’m simply stating a fact.  I had never liked - or even tolerated - sports or exercise.  I had never enjoyed being outdoors.  I had never possessed an ounce of will power or self-control.  I had always, always, ever since I was a baby, eaten like a lumberjack in a cartoon or a rescued prisoner of war.  I had been overweight my entire childhood and obese as an adult.  I was also over thirty.  The deck was fucking stacked against me in a lot of ways, and goddamn it, I pushed the fuck back.  I kept going.  Eighty pounds later (36.36% total weight lost, hence the title of this blog), I’m still going.  I’m a little deaf from all the rap blaring into my headphones, and my ropy, calloused feet resemble a gnarled old ballerina’s, but my BMI went from 35.5 to 22.6.  I own (and comfortably wear, without Spanx or other control top undergarments) a size 4 Calvin Klein dress.  I walk an average of 13 miles a day.  This past Tuesday, three days ago, I walked twenty.  Alone and happily, quite unexpectedly, without a set goal or destination.

If you think you can’t do it, you’re just wrong.  I may not know you, but I hope to God you give yourself a chance and try.  I can help you if you want.  That’s for real why I made this blog - I am, in so many ways, still as hot a mess of an adult as I ever was, and I’m a very unlikely mentor for anything at all, but in this ONE specific instance, I am living proof that a bunch of weight can be lost without surgery.  Or a class.  Or portion control.  Or a specific diet.  Or a food journal.  Or a gym.  Or fancy equipment.  For real. I did it. I highly recommend it.

What all too many so-called “body positivity” activists and pseudofeminists will tell you is that if you’re obese, you don’t really need to lose weight.  You’re fine the way you are.  The patriarchy or the establishment or the fashion industry or what the fuck ever are just trying to keep you down, and real women have curves, and beauty is within, etcetera, etcetera, and so forth.  Now, it’s true that curves are beautiful.  It’s true that you can be healthy and be a little overweight.  No one should be fat-shamed (or body-shamed at all) by anyone.  Bullying IS wrong.  Beauty IS within.  Cellulite IS normal.  Barbie-like bust-waist-hip ratios ARE unnatural and unrealistic for almost everyone.  I am not the enemy.  This is not a so-called “thinspo” or “proana” blog.  This is an ex-obese blog.  This is about being obese and wanting not to be.  Having been obese for most of my life, I can assure you, flat the fuck out, the alternative is better.  In all candor, it feels better weighing 140 pounds than it does weighing 220 pounds.  My doctor assures me, might I add, that it IS better.  She can hear it in my breathing and my heartbeat.  She can see it in my blood pressure.  So I do not pretend to have all the answers.   I don’t even consider myself to be a particularly accomplished human being overall.  I never finished college, I work in retail, I make minimum wage, and I’m 33 years old.  But one of the crowning achievements thus far of my entire life has been losing eighty pounds of myself, that magical thirty-six-point-thirty-six percent, and I make no apologies for my pride.  If you want to do something like that yourself, feel free to ask me anything you want, or tell me your own story.

So. Thank you for your time…and good luck.