Butterfly Wings

Last week (or so, don’t remember exactly) the boys and I were riding along, minding our own business on our way home from school, when we caught up with another mum with her kids walking home from school. We slowed down, carefully passed them, and started to move on.

Then I heard the mum start saying something along the lines of “Well, I didn’t know it wasn’t a man, I wasn’t really looking!” in that defensive, too-loud way that you do when you think your kids have embarrassed you in public. In actual fact, I don’t recall hearing any of what they had said before that, but I imagine that the mum had said something about moving over to get out of the man’s way, and that the kids had informed her that I wasn’t a man. Like I said, I don’t really know, but I recognised the mum’s embarrassment. I don’t know what made her think I was a man. I was riding a men’s bike, but if she hadn’t seen me she may have been judging by my voice, while I was telling my boys to go around the other people carefully.

At first I was slightly amused at being called a man. I acknowledge that it’s not easy to judge gender from a fleeting glimpse of a person on a bike (while trying not to stare). And I’m fat. And I don’t have close-fitting bike clothes to show off my femininity (mostly because of the fat thing). Then I started thinking that this may be a positive thing. If another woman can mistake me for a man, then maybe I could stop being so paranoid about riding on quiet bike paths alone. Maybe those (admittedly rare) attacks were on petite women riding women’s bikes. Maybe a bigger woman in looser clothes on a men’s bike looks male enough to get away with it.

Maybe I should get a helmet that doesn’t have a pretty purplish design on it…

Homework sucks. I can’t do it.

How can I tell myself I’m OK, when I’m constantly being told that I’m not?

How can one possibly know what this is like for me, if one has never experienced having excess weight, and has never had to make the effort and figure out how to get rid of it?

I’ve actually lost a little weight. Losing weight while doing this will just lead to my receiving a “see, told you”, even if the other things I’m trying might have caused it. I think I’ve shown how ridiculous obsessive counting of numbers on labels is. It’s doing my head in. But apparently the counting is what I need. Um, news flash, I have OCD.

I’m not OK.

Yesterday, DH and I went for our annual skin checks.

He, of course, was declared worry-free, which is good, of course.

I have to go back in a couple of weeks. Most of my body, although fat, and partially sunburned from my bike ride on Saturday, is problem-free as far as the reason for the appointment. Fortunately, I received no lectures on either the sunburn or the fat. The thing on my forehead, however, which has been bothering me for ages, and which a year ago was frozen off by my GP (thinking it was just a harmless sunspot), is now considered to be a basal cell carcinoma (BCC) (this doctor is not so impressed with my GP). However, since I’ve bumped the thing so often lately, and it is inflamed and scabby, it’s difficult to be sure that it is what he thinks it is. So I have to try to let it heal (ironically, it’s in a great place for hats to irritate), then go back for another look, partly to confirm that it’s a BCC, and partly to determine which type (some are worse than others, but he thinks mine is one of the “least bad” - gee, where have I heard that before?)

If it turns out that it is a BCC, or at least that the doctor is more sure of that next time I see him, I have two options.

The first, simplest option is surgery. I’ve had a BCC removed before. It was on the side of my face, right on the line where the arm of my glasses sits. It was smaller, and healed well. This new one is larger, and is above one eye. Traditionally, the doctor would cut a margin around the actual BCC, then straight cuts to each side, in order to close the skin in a straight crease line and minimise the obvious scar. But this is my forehead. And the cut will be big. He described the result as a brow lift. On one side. Firstly, I don’t need a brow lift. My forehead is about the only part of my body that doesn’t have a lot of excess skin. Secondly, I don’t really want to walk around permanently with one raised eyebrow. He did show me a couple more cut techniques he could use, which would bring the skin together vertically, causing a vertical scar that didn’t naturally fall in a crease line. This should avoid the raised eyebrow effect, but leave a more out-of-place scar. I believe I can better tolerate a vertical scar than a permanent derisive expression. And, as long as he takes a decent margin, it has a success rate of very close to 100%.

The second option is Photodynamic therapy (PDT). After he takes an initial scraping of the thing to send away for testing to confirm the cell type, I can fork over $250 (a lot more than surgery) for a series of treatments. These treatments consist of applying a chemical cream which is then activated (made toxic) by a light treatment in his clinic. This treatment brags a success rate of 80%. Yes, that’s a failure rate of 20%. One in five people will have to return for the surgery anyway.

I’m heavily leaning towards the cheaper, vertical scar.

And maybe I can put some of the financial saving towards a new hairstyle. I think it’s overdue.

Trapped inside my own body

I know, I know, I have fully functional arms and legs, all in correct proportions and quantities. To all intents and purposes, I’m an able-bodied person and have no right to complain.
However, I’m fat. But inside, there is a person who doesn’t want to be fat. For myself, not just for my critics. I’m fitter than I look. Most people don’t know that. This morning I rode 2km on a bike, walked another 500m or so while carrying 22kg of child lying down in my arms (he had a headache and felt sick; I parked our bikes and carried him to a shop for some food and drink to give him the energy to get home again), walked the 500m back to our bikes with same child on shoulders, then we slowly rode the 2km home. What I really want is to go for another ride, but he’s asleep now and I can’t just take off for an hour or so without him.

Trapped inside my own home

See above about the child asleep in bed thing. I love walking, but he doesn’t. He’s starting to be just a bit too heavy to carry around in the Ergo. I can still do it, and once we get a rhythm going we’re great. But my back isn’t fond of that arrangement for too long.
I’ve rediscovered biking, but I can’t leave him at home alone, and there’s only so much going around in small circles in the backyard that a person can stand.
I have an old manual treadmill, but it’s just not the same. But it looks like it will have to do for a while.

Trapped inside my own head

I have too many thoughts. It is always this way, so no news there. I’m being told by my health care providers that I have hormonal issues that stop me from losing weight optimally. I’m being told by others that I’m just lazy and eat too much. I’m being told by myself that I just can’t win, and that maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to fail.

Trapped inside my own selfishness, guilt and resentment

This morning, I actually wished DS would want to try school. We’re homeschooling. We’ve chosen this. He doesn’t want to go to school. His brother is at school but is looking forward to the day we resume homeschooling with him, too. My head is telling me that I’m never again going to be able to leave the house by myself. I don’t like that feeling. I don’t want to resent my kids. I don’t want to delude myself into thinking that my only chance at sanity is to farm my kids out to a school all day.

Trapped inside my own introversion

This post will be public, but not pinged to strangers. I doubt anybody will bother reading it. I don’t even know if I want anybody to read it. I’m doing this blogging thing, maybe as an outlet, maybe for attention. Sometimes I just wish somebody who cares about us would read it. Sometimes I have to be grateful that they don’t. I’d probably offend somebody. I’ve been down that road before too.