Thanks everyone for your comments on my desperate cry of frustration. You are right. I have to learn to put my foot down and just ignore Poss’s occasional forays into the passive/aggressive sulk.

Major day today: I visited the nurse, the physician and the dietician.

This whole gastric banding thing is all coming true on 20th of August.

Oh my.

I am very conscious of snoring and a lot of the nurse’s questions related to that. I don’t like it when Beloved does it, and it bothers me to know that I snore as well. It’s a health issue and it’s bloody irritating. I often wake myself up when I snore. Not that I snore a lot. But I lie in bed and I feel this great, thick scarf around my neck and it’s just a roll of fat. A bit roll of neck fat. And it stops me from breathing. Yeah, that’s a health issue right there. She didn’t have to ask the question about how supportive my family was, since Beloved was sitting right next to me.

The physician was a bit of a circus. Very funny man and I felt good chatting to him. He made it plain that we are pretty much going to be family from now on, with me making regular visits to have everything checked, and he’ll be liaising with GP as well. It’s exciting and scary. What scares me the most is the thought that I have to make serious changes. But that’s what I want. I want that thin body.

The dietician was a very straight, dapper guy. Will be seeing a bit of him in the coming weeks, too.

Starting next week I have to do Optifast

These are the ones I bought today. I do this for the 2 weeks leading up to the operation. The reason for that is apparently this stuff makes your liver shrink a bit and that helps keep it out of the way during the op. Who knew. Well, there’s nothing like a small liver to keep the family happy. And of course the bonus to that is I will lose a couple of kilos before the operation, and also get into the habit of the new eating style.

This is a commitment I’m making in order to make a difference to the rest of my life. I can’t do it alone, I’ve tried every trick in the book with pills and diets and exercise and deprivation and hypnosis and anger and restraint and even thinking that maybe I could just give up and learn to be fat and sassy.

But I don’t want chafing  thighs or haemmhorroids (or however you bloody spell it) or diverticular disease or diabetes. I don’t want to shop in the “big” section. I want my feet to stop hurting and I want nice clothes to fit me. I want to go bushwalking with Beloved and I want to ride my bike. I want to go for long motorbike rides with him, but at the moment he won’t let me because I don’t have any waterproofs to wear and you know why that is? Because they don’t make them wider than they are long. I want to be comforable at night when I sleep and I want to be that crone.

I want to be that wise, grey, thin old lady.

Just me and Poss home tonight. She’s out there, doing stuff and not really caring but I’M EXPECTED TO MAKE DINNER AND I DON’T WANT TO. 

I’m not hungry and I don’t want to cook.

How come I don’t have the right to not eat?

angreeeeeeeeeeeee

I wanted to post Ellabella’s comment here for everyone to see. Hope you don’t mind me sharing it, sweetie, but it’s just so relevent:

Well, dear one, you read my post, so you know that my relationship with food is pretty much the same as yours. I try - oh, how I try - to like only what’s best for me, and 90% of the time I succeed. But that other 10%, if ignored, seems to gain strength in exile - just seems to keep growing until it busts out one day in the form of really awful cravings for things like hot fudge sundaes and the like. And if I give in to it - if I talk myself into going ahead and having one - I go through WEEKS of struggling again to get my appetite under control. Tiresome, really. Keep us updated on the lapband process. Sounds sensible, but that three-year-old in my head is still tantrumming over not being able to eat junk whenever she wants, you know? NEXT life, I intend to have a better relationship with food AND my body, and that’s the truth!
Hugs,
Z

It was your whole approach and your comment about that three year old in your head. Oh yes. Oh, I have one too, and she can spit her dummy at a moment’s notice.

In fact, she was there on Saturday night, at dinner with the family, and she nearly screwed up the whole night for me.

Did I mention we’d gone to Taco Bill’s? Melbourne’s take on Mexican food. Nothing like real Mexican, I’m reliably informed, but tasty and I do have a weakness for frijoles. Even tried something different from my usual, but there were frijoles, of course.

Well, we had nachos to share and then a nice main course and then the girl came and asked if we wanted coffee and dessert and everyone round the table (except me) said “no”.

So she went away.

And I was sitting there with dreams of chocolate sludge fading and NOT HAPPY!

I mean, it WASN’T FAIR.

Beloved had had a margarita and chilli beer. That was his dessert.

Poss had had a margarita.

Radio Boy and GF had filled up on that giant Tequila Sunrise, and although BF hadn’t had alcohol, he’d had a major slab of cake at home before we left.

So they all got treat and I got NOTHING and I tell you, that dummy was just about to become a projectile.

Just glad I didn’t let food stuff up a lovely evening.