I can't stay on your life support, there's a shortage in the switch

I've got Pink's "Like A Pill" stuck in my head. Well, it could be worse; I actually like that song, but when I sing with it in the car, I always giggle uncontrollably at myself on the line "I tried to call the nurse again, but she's being a little bitch," because I am so not badass enough to pull that off.

*takes deep breath, crosses fingers*

So far, 2007 has been good. I really should get on here more, but it's been hard to do. I guess it would help if I would remember to take my laptop to Randy so he can fix the fan; either that or bite the bullet and put a new one on my credit card, but I'm trying to pay those off, not put more shit on them. And just in case you're wondering how that's going, well, not too damn fantastic, actually. Like you're surprised, right?

(Aside: every time a woman with a perfect body walks past my window, I am so overcome with jealousy it is all I can do not to climb out of it and kick her in the crotch, and I'm wearing loafer wedges so YOU KNOW IT WOULD HURT.)

Other than being a complete psycho, apparently, I am consistently feeling better and better these days. As much as I detested and dreaded therapy in the beginning, with my first therapist, I look forward to it all week with Robyn. I can say anything to her, and she never makes me feel stupid. I told her yesterday about the boy I loved all through high school, and she zeroed right in on me with, "Do you still have feelings for him?", and I said yes, knowing she wouldn't treat me like an obsessive freak who still loves a boy she met when she was fourteen and with whom she ceased to have any sort of relationship over twelve years ago now. Upon admitting that kind of thing, which I have done only with my closest and dearest girlfriends (some of whom live in this shiny computer-box) or, less often, with women I barely know, I have always felt a miasmatic blend of relief and self-loathing. Now they will look at me like I have suddenly sprouted tentacles, I think after this particular confession, because only a true freakshow could love someone she hasn't seen since babydoll dresses with combat boots were en vogue. Right? But I knew Robyn wouldn't do that, and she didn't. All she said was, "Well, you never know what will happen. Use it. Let him motivate you"--because I told her that he was the only person who ever made me feel like a girl, in every sense; the way he looked at me, the way he talked to me, the way I suddenly became small and delicate around him after living day-to-day feeling like a hulking, big-boned warthog. He was like a drug for me. He was my drug. He could stimulate me or depress me in a matter of minutes. I have struggled so much in the course of my life to keep anyone from controlling me, but I let him do it.

I have probably forgotten all the bad things about him, the things he did that infuriated me, the times when he broke my heart; but one thing I know now is that I cannot settle for a relationship in which I feel anything less than what I felt with him. And that's why a relationship with Randy will never work. Randy is a good person, a sweet man with a big heart, but he has issues that will never enable him to give me what I need, or feel worthy of what I give to him. It's highly unlikely he will ever truly deal with these issues, and I am not able to wait for something that probably won't ever happen. I love him, and I know he loves me, but we are not IN love, and yes, there is definitely a difference.

Y'all, I have changed so much over the past few months that I barely recognize myself anymore. I still look the same and I still sound the same and I still have the same physical issues that I had then. My thought processes are incredibly different; my pessimism, my irrational fears and phobias reduced to almost nothing. I still have my moments...I still get tense at loud noises, still worry about being attacked, still take things personally that really don't have anything to do with me, but I've caught myself examining these irrationalities and fears and picking them apart until they become just what they are: unfounded and silly, and then, gleefully, I dispose of them.

I've dropped twelve pounds of fat, at least, and gained several pounds of muscle. Don't ask me exactly how this happened, because I don't know. The ADD drug I'm taking (for ADD, but with side benefits) makes me literally forget to eat. Can you imagine? Yesterday I had a protein shake and a cup of coffee for breakfast and food completely slipped my mind until 6pm. Ten and a half hours! That's incredible. I'll admit I was ravenous by then, but the difference is that I would not have eaten if my stomach hadn't been screaming for food. Eating has become something of an annoyance. I get irritated when I get so hungry I can't ignore it anymore. For someone who has gone her whole life looking forward to meals, worrying about when the next meal would take place while still consuming the last one; someone who would eat until she was physically ill, to cover up the depression, anxiety, self-loathing, who would eat just to have something to do? This is nothing short of a miracle for me. God, I wish I could always be irritated that I have to eat.

Stupid food.

My back is still a problem, but my shrink warned me again not to say that I'm taking ADD meds for weight loss if I am seriously pursuing breast reduction surgery (which I am). It's true that they're helping me with the eating stuff, but the effect they've had on my slideshow-brain proves that I do, in fact, have ADD, so that's what it's for. I've been thinking about what it would be like to have smaller boobs, and after seeing this year's Christmas pictures, thinking about having a reduction is pretty much my favorite daydream--right after the weightloss thing, of course--because I am so nervous that I will lose all this weight and the girls will end up two skinny sandbags hanging to my knees. That has been a serious deterrent for me, because I have always been pretty proud of my boobs. Boys always liked them, and when I was younger and skinnier (during those years when babydoll dresses with combat boots were en vogue), I got a lot of double-takes...in a good way. I was a healthy 36-D, or at least that was the size I wore; I was probably more like a DD, but I didn't know from bra fittings back then. I think a D-cup, an actual D-cup and not a DD-cup smashed into a D, would be a good size for me. Thinking of buying tops that button down without gapping in the middle of my chest makes me absolutely giddy.

It's amazing. I'm excited. I don't hate getting up in the morning. I don't like getting up at five, but I don't hate it like I used to. I don't dread going to work, because work is good. Work is mundane, doesn't take much thought, but it's low-stress. My boss is kind to me and appears to genuinely appreciate me (last week he told me, "We're blessed to have you," which was truly one of the best things anyone has ever said to me), my co-workers, as a whole, are friendly and funny, I get off at 3pm, my schedule is flexible and I get to drink excellent coffee for free. In another couple of months I'll even have insurance! *blissful sigh*

I keep wanting to get up and do things. Energy! I want to do the things I've not been able to do for so long, and even things that, because I was depressed or overwhelmed or whatever, I've never wanted to do, like go hiking and camping and maybe even running! I haven't been able to really run since I was eighteen, and even then, I'm wondering how I did it without giving myself a couple of black eyes from my boobs coming up to smack me in the face. I'm ready to get on with it. For the first time in--God, I don't know, maybe ever--I want to live my life, not just get through it.

I can't remember the last time I have felt so at peace. Things are happening, good things. I'm not tired, I'm not depressed, I'm not anxious. I'm okay. This is glorious, this contentment, this peace. Something to cherish. I'm good. I'm very, very good. I'm happy.

I'm happy.

Wow.