I just closed my eyes and swung.

It's been a very strange week for me, with my head all over the place.

It's so funny, working for Rob… I actually met him in 2009 at Texas Frightmare Weekend in Dallas. He was there promoting his film Laid to Rest and he started talking to my mom and I. We hit it off and I just really liked him; he came across as a genuine, fun guy with an awesome sense of humor. When I checked out his screening, I was really into the movie and told him so. I had no idea that it would lead to a four-year friendship and finally me becoming his personal assistant. Rob's kind of the example of a self-made man, since he came to Hollywood from a rural town in the deep South with eighty bucks in his pocket and a dream to do makeup effects. He has since become one of the most respected FX masters in the genre as well as a successful director on stuff like Teen Wolf, but he's still the same funny, smart, cool-as-hell guy I met in '09. We've been talking a lot at work and it's really helping me get through some rough patches.

My mom was one of Rob's biggest fans; she absolutely loved him. Every time he came to Texas Frightmare she'd make sure to put together a little gift bag for him with stuff like candy and hand sanitizer, and when we'd walk past his table she'd ask him if he wanted her to get him water or soda or a coffee or anything since he was busy signing autographs and couldn't always leave his spot. When we went to LA one time, Rob offered us a tour of his shop back when it was in the old location. Neither of us had ever been to a big working FX shop before, and we were thrilled to see all of the molds and severed heads and monsters lurking around every corner. Rob took pictures of us with the big demon beast from Buffy the Vampire Slayer and my mom carried their dog Slayer around the whole time.

Now it's funny, realizing that I'm actually a part of this now instead of just a big fan. I'm working alongside Rob every day, watching him piece together what I think is going to be one hell of a smart, fun, scary horror film, and it's like a dream come true for me. I've wanted this for my whole life and now I'm actually able to do it to some degree.

I am so far from religion that it's crazy; I can't remember the last time I prayed or anything similar. I gave up on most ideas of Christianity when I was much, much younger and the last straw was when we found out that mom's cancer was terminal. But I do consider myself agnostic, I don't know if there's a cosmic driving force out there or not, but it's kind of interesting to think about. I'm not going to go so far as to say that I KNOW there are no omnipresent beings out there. For all I know it's Cthulhu. But either way, I was driving yesterday and I started talking out loud. Talking to my mom, because it's so hard not to just pick up the phone and call her.

I know how proud she would be of me. She was always pushing me to go to LA, to move out here and chase my dreams, to run them to the ground and do something with myself. She was in love with Los Angeles; she and I used to walk down the boulevard, taking pictures, laughing, talking. She spent some of her childhood in Sacramento and California was always her home away from home; whenever we started to plan a vacation, it was always Los Angeles we mentioned first. She loved it here and I see her in every palm tree, in the hills, in the sparkle of the neon at night. I want to call her and tell her about the chilly canyons at night or the way I saw a coyote dart across the road one night driving home from a friend's house or the way I eat sushi and soy and tofu like it's going out of style. I want her to know that I am shopping in all of these cool little stores and spending long hours curled up in a dark smoky room with ominous music playing and Terminator statues in the corner, writing until the sky lightens to pre-dawn.

I know how much she loved Rob and loved playing 'mom' to him whenever she saw him; I know she would be so thrilled that I'm getting the chance to work beside him on this movie and that he's inspiring me to better myself, to strive for awesome things, to work hard and push my own limits and learn things faster than I'm used to simply because he believes I can do it and I don't want to let him down or give him a reason to think he made a bad choice in hiring me.

I think I miss her now more than I did when she first died and I was in that deep depression, because now I'm doing things. I'm living on my own, navigating a strange and beautiful city, absorbing everything about this place through my skin and eyes and ears, and she isn't here to share it with me. Some people will say "She is there with you" or "She does know, she's watching over you" but no one can be sure of things like that. Maybe when we die we watch over people and maybe we don't, maybe we just go back into the soil and that's where the story ends. But either way, I want to believe that she would be happy with the young woman I'm becoming, that she'd be proud of me. It keeps me going.

This depression hasn't really got its hooks in me yet, but it feels different than the others. I don't want to hurt myself or sabotage myself or whatever I always did before when I was depressed. I don't want to lie in bed and eat until my stomach cramps. I just want to write, or get out of the house and go explore the boulevard or go people-watch in a swanky little rockstar dive bar. I want to throw myself into life instead of pulling away from it. I want to laugh and love and find a place where I can realize She's gone but I'm going to be okay by myself and I think I'm almost getting there.

I feel like LA is where I belong. Of course I miss my Texas friends and what little family I have left, but this feels so much like a home for my heart. Everything about this place has enchanted me and I don't want to leave; just the idea of moving back to Texas right now makes my heart hurt a little.

I still feel out of sorts in my body. I don't like being naked with my boyfriend, even though he tries to make me feel sexy and tells me I am. It doesn't click, doesn't gel. All I see are my flaws. I know I've made progress, even the pictures with Rob are so hard to look at because I was fooling myself for years about how big I was, how big I was continuing to get. But now there is so much loose skin and I feel so self-conscious about it. Everyone can see it. It affects what I wear and how I wear it. It makes me feel ugly and like a freak.

My arms are gross, which really hinders my ability to wear cute tank tops or baby doll tees.

But nothing's as bad as my stomach region. To the point where when someone hugs me around the middle I stiffen up. I think I was actually less self-conscious about my stomach when I was still fat.

It's just skin, there's nothing underneath it. I'm 213 pounds and if we cut the skin off I bet I'd be more like 180. This isn't even counting my ass/thighs, hips, calves, and all of the other places that are retaining extra skin and cellulite. And I have no idea if I can afford body contour surgery anytime in the future; that's about $20K at the very least, and I'd probably go home to Texas to do it simply for cost reasons.

I feel stupid being this vain when I've lost almost 150 pounds in a year. I should be excited; I should be thrilled about being on the 'thin' side of my life (even though I'm still big by any standards and a fucking elephant compared to most of LA), but instead I sit here pinching at the skin and wishing I had a way to just get it off me.

I don't know if I'll ever truly be happy with what I look like, or if I'll feel sexy or confident or beautiful. It would be nice, but it kind of feels like a mental block that I have no idea if I can get around or not.

I want my life to begin... all I have to do is let the right one in.

Everything is topsy-turvy and it's wonderful.

I have relocated out to Los Angeles, where I have a beautiful little apartment a block from Hollywood Boulevard. The walls are covered in bats and the wrought-iron lamp has Edison bulbs that throw shadows against the big French windows overgrown with ivy tendrils and the fiery orange-red of autumn leaves, and one of my best friends lives across the hall. There is delicious two-dollar sushi around the corner and a delicious little Thai place where an Asian man does Elvis karaoke one night a week in the dining room, and I like to walk and see the pink stars on the sidewalk under my shoes. If I turn at the end of my street and look up I can see the vast sprawl of the Hollywood sign on the hills. The city sparkles like stripper-glitter and I will never, ever be tired of it.

My work is incredible; I am the personal assistant to a successful director, and I love going in to our office because it's a big warehouse overflowing with monsters and dead bodies and fake blood. I sit in a dark little office curled up in black leather chairs, typing furiously until the wee hours of the night, listening to ominous movie scores on the office intercom and finding inspiration everywhere I look. I am writing again. People don't realize what I lost in my mother's death, not the least of which was myself. I used to write hundreds of stories a month when I was young, but in the past year and a half nothing I'm proud of has left these fingers. And yet sitting in that office, creative energy felt like static in the air and I wrote furiously until my wrists ached and my eyes burned. The sun was lightening the smoggy sky behind the palm trees before I lay down in bed that night, my heart singing with renewal. I felt like whatever wall I'd been butting my head against, my new boss had taken a sledgehammer to it and those fissures were spreading.

My boyfriend is beautiful, an artist whose palm feels right against mine when we walk down the street and who knows how to kiss me to make me laugh and shiver and clutch him like a buoy. He's the kind of boy you want to wake up in the middle of the night just to ask him his favorite song, and I always wake up first and trace the lines of his strong shoulders and smooth back until he stirs awake simply because I want to see his eyes in the morning sun, which puts gold in the hazel-green of them. He is protective and smart and lovely; his hands touch me with the same consideration he shows his sketchpads, my artist-boy who fills the blank pages with aliens and creatures and wolves and dinosaurs.  I don't remember ever feeling this dizzy-drunk on someone before, a magnet for kisses, someone who fits against my side like this. Walking with him, talking about hopes and fears and dreams, holding his hand in a haunted house, sleeping curled against him like a kitten... all of it feels so right that it should scare me but doesn't.

I feel like I am exactly where I need to be. I miss my Texas friends and family, of course. I am working insane hours and my schedule is demanding to say the least. But I will never regret doing this. I feel electric. I smile so much my face hurts. I feel optimistic and positive and I am loving every moment of my life right now. I made the right choice in taking this incredible opportunity, and I am so happy that I did.

For the first time in a very long time I feel like I am living for myself, and that's an amazing feeling.

Flying lessons.

I don't expect a miracle cure for what ails me--- so many people seem to believe that the weight loss surgery is exactly that, a switch you flick that automatically makes everything in your life better and gets rid of all of the problems. The thing is, you aren't really just physically fat, you're mentally fat. You've got a lot of shit to work through and doctors can only do so much. The whole hierarchy of your friends' group changes as soon as you're no longer 'the fat friend'. Guys stop friend-zoning you and sales clerks in stores are nicer to you. And what's worse is having to explain the surgery to people. I'm not ashamed that I did it, I tell everyone how exactly I've lost so much weight in ten months. I'm not going to smile vacantly or shrug or act like I did it the good old-fashioned way. I am a scientific miracle, a Frankenstein Barbiedoll. I had to have a big chunk of my stomach cut out to make me stop gorging myself on food. I'm not in a position to judge anyone for their vices, except people who refuse to acknowledge them and take control back of their lives if they're able to do so.

But I am a member of multiple weight loss support groups and it disheartens me to see people bragging about 'cheating' on their nutritional plans, or saying that they love getting drunk because it's so much easier than pre-surgery, things like that. On the other end of the spectrum you have incredibly obnoxious people who post things obviously seeking attention, things like "I had surgery two months ago and I've only lost 70 pounds! I thought it would be more but I guess it's okay :(". It makes me Hulk-rage to the point where I barely even find 'support' in these support groups anymore, I just do most things on my own.

Today was a really nice day, however. After the self-flogging of yesterday, I resolved to make today better. I went to the local day spa for a treatment to pamper myself since I had such a rough week; I splurged on a Body Contour Wrap, a procedure the spa offers that professes to be a wrap that makes you lose inches 'permanently' through detoxification instead of dehydration. I had an amazing technician named Lori who did a great job. I was nervous and self-conscious, of course; I had to wear disposable bra and panties made of black tissue paper and the panties were a tiny g-string. (On the plus side, they were 'one size fits all' and they fit and I got to tell her 'YAY! I'm finally 'all'!") She took measurements of my body in key places--- calves, thighs, hips, waist, ribcage, and biceps. Lori vigorously scrubbed my body with this exfoliator stuff meant to expand blood vessels and stimulate circulation, and then she wiped me down and applied this detox cream to me, then wrapped me tightly in Saran Wrap from collarbones to ankles. Then we maneuvered me onto the massage table to 'marinate' while she gave me a fantastic facial, a scalp massage, and arched my eyebrows for me. When she removed the wrap and measured me again, I had lost a total of nearly 20 inches throughout my body. Supposedly it isn't 'water weight' and I won't put them back on from drinking water, but I don't know. All I know is that my progress made me more than a little happy and my body felt really good from the relaxing procedures. And man does my face feel good after that facial treatment.

After the spa, I came home and worked on the house a bit more while eating dinner, more turkey roll-ups with fat-free cheese and Miracle Whip Light as a condiment. I called my grandma, who decided that we should go to the county fair to walk around.

The fair's long been a tradition in my family; there's only one year I didn't go that I remember, and it was last year because it was only a few months after my mom died. The year before, my aunt Shawn, her then-boyfriend (now husband) Kyle, and my niece Kimber went with my mom and me to the fair. My mom was in cancer treatment then but she wore a gray silk turban and a pair of light-up rabbit ears and we won stuffed animals for her at the games and fed her funnel cake. It was an amazing night for all of us and one that I remember very fondly.

This year I was much smaller, and much more nimble as we walked over the uneven ground; my grandma pushed her walker and we browsed the arts and crafts booths, wasted money on games, laughed about the rides. I won a stuffed lobster, a dinosaur, and a sock monkey, all of which I gave away to little kids who didn't win. I bought a tray of wiffle balls to throw at cups and gave them all to little boys whose mother didn't have enough money for them to play. I hung out with a capuchin monkey, who played with my hair for awhile before licking my face.

 

I ate elote (roasted corn) with fat-free mayo, parmesan cheese, sriracha and lemon pepper powder and tried to convince myself it was healthy because it involved a vegetable. I had a few swallows of homemade sarsparilla soda and two bites of a corn dog. My grandma pushed a small piece of funnel cake onto me. But in truth, those 'devious' fair foods that I once inhaled without a second thought just didn't taste good anymore. The funnel cake was like sticking my tongue in a bag of pure sugar, so cloying it almost made me gag, and the corndog tasted heavy and greasy. (Nothing negative to say about the soda or the elote though, damnit).

But as we were wandering, about to leave, my eyes lit upon the trampoline bounce. This is something I've wanted to do since childhood but I was too self-conscious then; the kids who did it were doing crazy backflips and tumbles in mid-air, fearless, soaring in their harnesses and socked feet. By the time I was old enough to psych myself up to do it, I weighed too much.

Tonight I gazed at the 'rules' sign. Must be under 230 pounds.

I walked up to the operator, a guy in his thirties with a jack o' lantern smile and kind eyes. We spoke briefly and I told him that I had always wanted to do it but had never been thin enough. He waved me up onto the trampoline and I climbed easily onto the chest-high ledge without struggling; I stood patiently, biting my lip, as he fitted the harness around me and between my legs. I was sure that there'd be a snafu, that it wouldn't buckle, that the straps wouldn't touch.

It buckled, and he pushed the button to start the hydraulics. I was lifted into the air until I felt weightless, and experimentally I bent my legs and kicked off.

I flew.

 

Nobody's fault but yours.

I watched a documentary today that was streaming on Netflix, called My 600-lb Life: Melissa's Story, and it was a very poignant watch for me that resonated hard. It was the kind of thing that really hit me in a vulnerable, emotional mood. Today's been an unstable day with my emotions anyway, but today was also a day that I realized I'm not as strong as I thought I was, and this blog's being used in part to hold myself accountable.

 

I've been fat since I was young, since my dad first pulled his shit with me. Coming into my life and telling me that he was there to stay, then vanishing without a trace, popping in like a rabbit in a magician's hat whenever he felt like causing more drama and pain for my mother and I, I began to internalize my feelings. I wouldn't talk to my mom about it because I knew it hurt her to discuss my father; he was the love of her life and she was convinced that she had done something wrong to make him leave as it was. She didn't need my questions. I started to pack on the pounds, sneaking food into my room late at night, secretly eating cookies or Little Debbie cakes and guzzling sodas and juice boxes and other sugary treats. My family wasn't big on vegetables; we were a mac 'n cheese, mashed potatoes, chicken fried steak type people. Every day when my grandma picked me up from school we went to Sonic or McDonald's or Burger King for a 'snack' to 'tide me over' until dinner. If my mom was watching TV, I'd go to the kitchen and return with a bag of chips and a can of dip or something similar, and by the end credits of the movie we would've polished off the entire thing. It became comforting, although I don't know when that started. Every time I was upset I would reach for food, and of course this stretched out my stomach to the point where it took more to get me full. I'd ask for seconds, or supplement a regular serving size with an extra side dish or a salad or two or three rolls if we were out in a restaurant. I was always eating, forcing bites past my lips even when I wasn't hungry, simply for the fact that it was familiar, it was a security blanket.

It would be easy to lay some of the blame on my mom or my grandma, but really, what's the point? Everyone has That Relative who insists you try her famous cheesecake when you say you can't possibly take another bite of food or you'll pop; I was raised by them. My mom ate to hide her feelings of rejection and loneliness about my dad, and my grandma used food as a balm. She saw it as a direct affront to her Southern hospitality if you didn't stay for dinner, or go for seconds, or have dessert. If she saw me eyeing the dessert menu she'd insist I order something, not letting it go until I was eating a chunk of pie or a bowl of ice cream, because she was convinced that if I didn't order it she was depriving me. I don't know if this was her subconscious way of trying to make up for me being raised by a single mother; all of them were overcompensating, spoiling me with any toy they thought I'd like, buying me tons of clothes, plying me with food. My mom maxed out multiple credit cards, filed for bankruptcy and started the cycle anew right away. She was desperately trying to fill that hole in her heart, and food and shopping were her only two vices. She used shopping as a way to bond with her mother, and the two of them enabled each other; before long my grandpa gave up lecturing my grandma about "bringing one more thing in this damned house" and we just picked and wove pathways through the ever-cluttered houses like mice in a labyrinth of things. All the while, my mother and me were ballooning in weight; she hit over 400 pounds before she decided to do something about it and got very serious, joining a local gym and hiring a trainer.

I was always fat, though. It became kind of my 'thing' I never went on a serious date in high school, ever--- the first time I went to prom it was with a platonic male friend of mine, and then my senior year I went with my gay best friend because I had no romantic prospects. While my friends were making out in the backseat of cars, I was taking pictures of punk bands at local shows and convincing people to make post-show IHOP runs with me because I knew that the night would inevitably end with me shoveling food in my mouth and I would rather do it in a social setting than alone in my house. At one point, I told my then-friend in a non-ironic, deadpan way, "I really wish I had the self-control for bulimia". Did I really wish I had an eating disorder? No. But I was disgusted with myself, with the way I was always using food as a crutch, as a social tool, as an excuse for myself. I was holding myself back by letting myself get fatter and fatter.

Maybe subconsciously I was scared of finding a guy like my mom had, of being hurt by one and falling to pieces under the surface like she was. My mom was the most sweet, caring, generous person I'm likely to ever meet in my life, but my father did a real number on her and up to the day she died, she had not one drop of self-esteem. She bought ugly cotton panties in bags at Walmart and refused to update her hair from the way she'd worn it in the 90s and was the person who was always remembering everyone's birthday and buying graduation presents for kids of coworkers she barely knew simply because she was beaten down and broken by that rejection from my father and she was trying so hard to be liked. She didn't believe she was beautiful; if I told her "Mom, buy that shirt, it looks great on you" nine times out of ten she'd hurriedly shove it back on the rack and come up with an excuse on why she couldn't. Once, I dyed the underside of her auburn hair black and put chunky black streaks through it; she looked amazing and years younger, and since she was coming to rock concerts with me all the time back then, I thought the change would be great for her. But she went to work and someone joked, "What, do you think you're the same age as your daughter now?" She came home and dyed all of her hair a dark brown to get rid of the evidence of the funky streaks, near-tears, and told me that she'd just decided she didn't like it, that was all. I finally wheedled it out of her and then I had to fight the urge to go punch her coworker in the face--- didn't they realize how much bravery it had taken for her to make a change like that? For her to let me paint her nails black once, for her to stop being America's sweetheart and start becoming some of the feisty, spunky girl she'd once been again?

I was the complete opposite end of the spectrum. I was desperate to be alive, to be liked, to be noticed. I was working as a photographer and promoter for bands and I wanted them to like me. Yet automatically upon meeting them, I was delegated to the 'Other' category. I watched band after band talk to the fawning, svelte girls in leggings and tight shirts, in obscenely short skirts and stiletto boots, and I stood there awkwardly waiting my turn for a scrap of attention. I wore push-up bras and hoped that my cleavage would distract everyone from the fat roll below my tits. I cut my hair short and dyed it neon pink and pierced my nose and got tattoos to make myself stand out, to try and be beautiful like the girls I admired. Even when I was wearing backstage credential lanyards, some security guards would stop me because they couldn't believe a girl like me could be with the band. My mom was actually denied backstage entrance to an event with Ryan Dunn from Jackass because, as the security guard so eloquently put it, "they don't let middle-aged fat chicks backstage, sorry lady".

So I've been working through all of this, and this time of the year always makes me kind of nostalgic. Halloween was always my favorite and my mom and I used to dress up together from the time I was an infant; she was the one who took me door-to-door in the nice neighborhoods to get the good candy, and when I was too old for trick or treating we'd sit home together and pass out treats to the neighborhood kids and watch the Michael Myers or Jason Voorhees marathons on TV. After Halloween came Day After Halloween shopping, which was pretty much our version of Black Friday; we'd hit all of the Spirit and Halloween Boutique stores, buying up fake blood and fangs and weird decor at half-off. I have a six foot tall robotic Jason Voorhees because of one such trip. After Halloween comes Thanksgiving, and then Christmas; last year was our first holidays without my grandpa and my mom both, but this year will feel even heavier because I'll be in LA instead of with my grandma. My first holiday season not being home.

When I was in Ohio, I bought a box of buckeye candies thinking "I'll make them last, I'll eat one every few days and really savor them". But the stress and the agonizing drama of moving on short notice has fucked with me, and everything has been going down from family drama to people guilt-tripping me for my lack of free time this week, and so I found myself eating them absently while I watched Netflix. They melt in your mouth, so they weren't taking up a lot of room in my stomach.

This week I've cheated. I've had about one full root beer, split between multiple trips to restaurants; I can never finish a whole soda, but I try, damnit. I've had a few bites of cookies here and there. I've eaten real sour cream on a taco salad instead of Greek yogurt or fat-free. I've eaten flatbread pizza slices even though I know the carbs are bad and the food's probably got tons of preservatives because it was from a restaurant instead of me making it myself.  And, since I returned home on Saturday, I've eaten seventeen buckeye chocolate bon-bons. I finished the box.

That isn't to say I'm completely off the wagon. I've been chugging water and I saw my trainer today for an ab-kicking session of core work, lots of stretching. I've been packing and moving stuff in the house, which is a lot of work in itself. I walked all over Ohio. Breakfast today was a grilled chicken salad, no dressing except guac and a spoonful of sour cream, lunch was fat-free turkey slices rolled around fat-free cheese sticks, dinner was a sugar-free Vitamin Water and more turkey slathered with roasted garlic hummus and rolled up for easy nibbling. I'll probably eat a LiveActive cottage cheese cup before bed and drink a little more water.

But fuck, backsliding makes me sad and I hate knowing that that urge is still in me. The urge to eat when I'm stressed, to use food as an excuse. In my mind I rationalize I worked out for an hour, I can have a bon-bon and then I look down and three are gone. I thought I'd broken this habit and I guess I'm just disappointed in myself.

My weight's still at 215 but everything is shifting around. I'm firmly a 14/16 in jeans now and a medium in t-shirts; the medium at Horrorhound Indianapolis fit but I had to stretch it a bit before I put it on. The medium I just got at the 30 Seconds to Mars show went over my head and fit nicely without even feeling clingy or snug. My BMI went from a 54.7 in January to a 33.1 today, which means that in 3.1 points I will be considered 'overweight' instead of 'obese'. And I still have a ton of energy physically--- it's just my mood that's causing the problems.

I refuse to give in to any more temptation. I've come too far for that. I'm getting rid of all of the bad food in my house and when I get to my new place, I will not backslide. I will hold myself accountable for these things, because I refuse to start putting weight back on. I am stronger than this, fuck. 

I am more than just the 'fat girl' now and I am determined to stay that way. I have an amazing new job and a fantastic group of friends and a great new guy and a whole new city that need to find out who I am now, and I want to find out too.

I don't wanna live a lie that I believe--- it's time to do or die...

It's been an insanely busy little-while for me, sorry about the lack of blogging! I'll try to make up for it by making this one awesome (hopefully).

So last time I told you guys that I had made the decision to move out to Los Angeles; I still don't have the green light to publicly say what the job is, but I can tell you it's a ton of responsibility, a pretty demanding position, and I am so, so, so honored and excited to have been asked to do it. I'm going to give it two hundred percent to try and prove that I was the right choice for the position. In the meantime, I've been frantically scrambling to hire movers, change bills over to the new residence, forward my mail, get my paperwork in order, sell everything I can to make extra cash, etc. as well as wrangling my best friend Brandy into coming on the drive to LA with me as moral support (in addition to being a Thelma and Louise type fling before I live in California and she returns to Texas).

This weekend, however, was something I'd already been planning and had paid for ages ago, so I had to take a few days from my busy insanity here in Texas to hop a plane to Columbus, Ohio.

I've been a big 30 Seconds to Mars fan since I was a senior in high school and all through college, but it really blossomed around 2009-2010 and has been pretty steady since then. I think they're an immensely talented band with a lot of diversity in their sound, and the lyrics are often a lot more poignant and emotional than most mainstream rock music. So when their new album Love+Lust+Faith+Dreams dropped a few months ago and I heard it, I just knew they would be touring soon and that I would have to muster up the money to go. Unfortunately, when the dates were announced Texas was nowhere on the roster. I know that the band pretty regularly tours for years on end and comes through a country multiple times, so there will likely be a Texas date or two in the future, but I wasn't willing to take that chance and bought a ticket to see them in Columbus, OH. (Why I picked Columbus of all places I have no idea... their next show was in Denver and I have friends there I could've visited for a bit, but I picked Columbus, where I knew no one.)

So my first victory of the trip, that elusive NSV (non-scale victory), is that LOOK HOW MUCH ROOM WAS LEFT ON MY SEAT BELT! Before my surgery I had to have the seat belt completely extended and even then I often had to ask for an extender. Gone are those days, and not only that, there were tons of inches left and I actually got to tighten the lap belt to a comfortable level. I was in first class, so I wound up crossing my legs like a proper lady for some of the flight too. You really don't understand the novelty of being able to cross your legs until you realize that when you're a bigger girl it's an incredibly difficult task. Now it's second nature to me and I LOVE it.

When I landed in Columbus and caught a cab to my hotel, I was delighted to find that I was situated in the middle of the German Village. This was a great thing but also an awful thing. When I was newly post-op an ex of mine took me to a German settlement town and I couldn't eat anything; the brats and sausage were much too greasy, and everything else seemed very heavy with bread or dough of some kind, or potatoes in some cases. I ended up picking at salads and wishing desperately for a restaurant where I could get a grilled chicken breast or something 'normal' to tame my poor sensitive belly.

This time though, ten months out from surgery and able to stomach most anything, I felt ready for this. My hotel was a dingy little thing on High Street, directly across from a small gay bar and next door to a weird, delicious place that couldn't figure out what it was. The place was a sports bar that looked like an Irish pub, was in a German neighborhood, and served predominantly Greek food. I popped in for a late dinner of hummus and tzatziki with cucumber slices instead of pita bread, then went back to my hotel to relax for the rest of the night with cable and free WiFi. The Food Network and Nick at Nite kept me company until I dozed off. 

The  next morning I had a quick breakfast and then decided to take myself on a walking tour of the German Village since I'd opted not to rent a car this trip. I took a map of the area and just set off, and once I got my bearings it was a blast. I stumbled into a gourmet chocolate shop, where I had my first buckeye candy--- it was like the high-end Reese's cup that Fat Amanda had been seeking her entire life, and I didn't feel bad when I had to buy a few to take with  me. Everything in moderation, turtledoves. I had a spiced apple cider and found a place called The Book Loft, which is a must-see if you're in Columbus. A beautiful space that looks like a big old gingerbread house with a sprawling, stunningly-landscaped courtyard, it houses over 50,000 books and is a delightful little labyrinth you can lose yourself in for hours. I wound up buying a copy of "Sharp Teeth" by Tony Barlow, an absolutely amazing novel about werewolves in Los Angeles that's written in free-verse like a novel-length poem. The prose is lush and the plot's very interesting; I highly recommend it for an unusual, fascinating read.

After that, I walked back to the hotel, vaguely aware that I'd traveled on foot almost five miles round-trip between all of the detours and random routes I'd woven through the Village during my day, but my feet weren't hurting at all. The only discomfort was because it was beginning to get warm, the kind of warm that comes right before a big rainstorm; that heavy, pregnant-feeling quiet warmth with no breeze to stir things up.

I called for a cab to take me to the LC Pavilion for the concert as I freshened up, but unfortunately the cabs were super backed up and the wait was almost 45 minutes. I wound up lucking out and snagging a vacant cab that pulled into my hotel parking lot, and the driver got me to the venue just in the nick of time. I checked in for the meet and greet and headed in to wait my turn.

The meet and greet itself wasn't that amazing because it was run very business-like and the guys kept it very brief. It had an assembly-line quality to it where you were handed a poster, you stood in line, the guys passed the poster down their table as each scrawled their symbol/signature on it, and you got it back. Then you got into a different line and queued up for the photo ops, which were very quick and consisted of you coming into frame, standing there for five seconds while the shot was snapped, and then you were shooed off to make room for the next person. However, I managed to buy myself some time when Shannon noticed my tattoos and commented on them; this got Jared's attention and he asked how I was doing. I asked him about Dallas Buyers Club, his upcoming film project, and he got very excited to talk about it. He's receiving early buzz as an outstanding actor in the movie and I am personally giddy about it. 

I really love this picture, and not just because it's with one of my favorite bands and I don't look like a complete spaz in it. But I can honestly see the difference in myself after the surgery. It's in the way I'm standing so casually, with my thumb in my jeans pocket and one hip cocked out, and the way I stood sideways; in the past I wouldn't have dreamt of it. I would've tried to hide part of my body behind Shannon, maybe, or angled myself so that I looked as thin as possible. I'm still a big girl and I'm still well aware of it, but I simply don't care anymore, maybe. I had a lot of confidence standing next to a group that have millions of people swooning over them (not to mention one of the most beautiful men on the planet, Jared Leto, with his hands on my shoulders and his face a few inches from mine) and I wasn't freaking out about looking okay. I was just having a great time. The surgery has really allowed me to enjoy living and stop being so concerned about what people think of me every minute of every day.

So we hung out backstage for awhile, got to see the stage technicians inflating the big balloons for the launch, getting the big Triad in place, etc.

Then it was time for the concert, and I had side-of-stage access that I opted not to use because I had made some great friends in line and we'd decided to stick together. Alyees in particular (and I bet I just butchered her name) was this adorable, funny chick who was my barrier-buddy and we shielded each other from drunken fangirls all evening.

After all of the anticipation (and a brief flash-flood rainstorm!) we were ready. The opening band was New Politics, who totally rocked our faces off, and then it was time for 30 Seconds to Mars at last!

 

As we got to the end of the night, they performed "Closer to the Edge" and literally hundreds of pounds of confetti paper shot into the air from multiple cannons. Some of the confetti had messages on them; things in Latin, phrases, and some said "Help! I'm trapped in a cookie factory!" 

 Anyone who knows me, knows how much I love confetti... so this face was 100% authentic.

After they played "Up in the Air" and invited people to join them onstage, Aleeys and I bailed and she was nice enough to give me a ride back to my hotel. I was too jazzed from the concert to sleep, so I just kind of ran around my hotel room in a frenzy, updating my Facebook like a psychopath and watching the video footage I managed to snag of the show. 

I also took a couple of selfies, because I was feeling empowered and kind of naked-like. Ignore the cellulite, that isn't going anywhere anytime soon. Other than the loose skin and dimples everywhere, I'm beginning to like the shape my body's taking on. (You know, like an actual female body instead of just 'round'.)

On the plane ride back today, I was first-class again and they fed me a super-healthy and protein-friendly open-faced turkey sandwich with cherry tomatoes and some kind of pesto mustard sauce. Obviously I left the bread... the stuff in the cup is some weird cheese 'salad' type dish, chunks of spicy cheese mixed with diced red peppers and some kind of vinaigrette. I had a few bites but didn't stick with it. The turkey was delicious though.

When I landed in Dallas, I drove through a torrential rainstorm to get home... I sold 45 things on eBay! All of it was old clothes from my pre-surgery days, but a lot of cute goth/punk stuff that holds its value well, and I made a nice little boost to my savings account. I have a feeling the poor thing is going to need every  bit of help it can get once I get to LA next week.

So the plan for this week is--- work frantically to pack anything I want to take, sort out trash, make phone calls to several companies, fill out paperwork and drop it off around town, etc. Try to keep sane. Friday I'm planning to have a big garage sale, then Saturday is my 'send-off' party with my friends at Six Flags in Dallas. Then early Sunday morning my girl Brandy and I are hitting the road to drive from Texas to LA, and the next chapter of my life begins.

I hope I am brave enough, strong enough and tough enough for this.

"We should have each other for tea, we should have each other with cream."

I always hesitate to get gushy about things because the cynic in me is afraid that if I celebrate something too much, it'll be taken away from me. Years of judgment and rejection and chaos and having things promised and then taken away from me at the last minute have turned me jaded, to the point where now I'm always keeping one hand on my purse and trying to avoid getting myself hurt.

But right now, things in my world are coming up roses and I couldn't be more tickled about it.

There's a boy, an incredibly beautiful boy who lives in Santa Monica and is an amazing artist and a photographer and a musician and a gamer. He's funny and smart and never fails to put a smile on my face. We haven't even met in person yet and he makes me giddy every time we talk. I really want things to work out with him; it's rough so far because he's in Santa Monica, all the way out west, and I can't tackle him for hugs and cuddles and movie-watching and such just yet. The waiting is killing me, the anticipation makes me itchy and antsy. But that lingering self-defeating part of me keeps thinking "You're not that great in person, he likes the 'you' that he sees in social media because you can censor what he sees. You control it." Real life doesn't have flattering photo angles and Instagram filters and the 'edit comment' button after you've said something stupid.

There's a city, much bigger than mine, with stars on the sidewalk instead of the sky. It's a city where people go to pursue their dreams; go West, young man! has been the mantra for so long and everyone thinks of the golden era of Hollywood, the tinseltown dreams. But I've been visiting since I was a little girl. Every time my shoes hit the pavement of the city of the angels I feel like I'm exactly where I'm meant to be. I love the neon and kitschy, trashy chic of the boulevard, the sleaze of the strip, the quiet elegance and pretentiousness of the hills, the coyotes in the canyons. The city is alive with hopes and dreams both alive and dead. It's a vampire that sucks you dry, but it feels good while it's got its teeth in you.

There's an opportunity, huge and hanging over me like a guillotine blade and a brass ring all in one.

I live in fear of fucking up. I have lived in a small conservative town my entire life, almost three decades now, and I have developed a reputation. People know that I work hard; people trust me and ask me to work on projects with them. I have good rapport with my colleagues. But this is a small fishbowl and a lot of people are content with being here, swimming in circles. I crave adventure; my wanderlust is terminal. I have always wanted to see what's outside this particular bowl, to go into shark-infested waters without a cage. Something about that idea has always seduced me and until now, I settled for visiting aquariums and watching the sharks through glass, full of envy but also that slight tickle of relief that I was safe on this side.

I don't want to be safe anymore. I want to jump in without an oxygen tank, without a snorkel, without anything to fend off their teeth, and I want to see what I'm actually made of.

Am I scared? Sure, of course. So much is at stake and at the end of the day I could lose everything I've worked for. I could let people down. I could show that beneath everything, I was just smoke and mirrors and a good poker face. I don't think that's true--- I think I'm strong enough, and smart enough, and tough enough, to do this--- but I fear it might be. And I think that in the past, when amazing opportunities have been lain at my feet, I've always found excuses not to do those things, not to go. I've convinced myself that it was too soon, too big, too expensive, too reckless. Any number of things. And yet I know that most of those excuses were simply because I was scared of getting in over my head, of doing something that was outside of my comfort zone. It's funny because people have accused me of being fearless before, or said things like I wish I was as brave/confident as you and all I could think was 'Damn, I should get an Emmy or something.'

I went to see Russell Brand's comedy show Messiah Complex in Austin last night and while the show was hilarious, it was also very poignant and Russell spoke about people who he considered to be his own personal heroes. He picked people like Gandhi, Malcolm X and Che Guevarra, not because they were necessary 'flawless' (he actually made a point of discussing how they were most assuredly not) but because they had traits he admired; Gandhi's brilliant mind, Malcolm X's incredible courage and ability to lead people, and Che's unflinching heart and strength. He encouraged the audience to choose our own heroes "because if you don't choose your own, the media will choose them for you", which I thought was brilliant. I don't know who my heroes are. There are people I admire of course, mostly writers or musicians, some filmmakers, but are they 'heroes'? Do I live and die by their philosophy? I'm not religious and I'm not terribly philosophical most of the time in my day-to-day life, so how do I shape my world views? Who guides me?

I don't know. I just know that I do want to fulfill my purpose... I want to be enthusiastic about my life. I want to wake up every morning going "I can't believe I'm doing this today!" with an excited smile instead of dread. Making a huge salary isn't important to me, as long as I'm comfortable; what's more important is having adventures, not being stagnant and bored, refusing to let myself settle for something mundane.

This morning I was 215. This last damn 15 pounds is killing me... clinging. I am so ecstatic about my weight loss--- the other day I went to the mall and tried on stuff in every store, it felt like.  At American Eagle Outfitters I found some spectacular jeans that fit me like a glove, and even better, they were a size 14. That is by FAR the smallest size I can ever remember wearing; I certainly wasn't a 14 in high school.

 

At Forever 21 I tried on tons of dresses... not from the plus-sized section, either. I can fit into a regular 'large' at F21 if it isn't super-unforgiving fabric or just regular denim. Some of the things, like a leather skirt I tried on, were nowhere near fitting, but these pleather leggings were awesome. I didn't buy anything though, and I was more than a little confused about why everything is so SHORT. Even if I were to wear leggings with everything (which, c'mon, it's Texas and still in the high 90s despite it nearly being October!), these dresses fit more like shirts.

 

 I'm so grateful to be losing weight but at the same time it's upsetting because the skin is beginning to sag as the fat vanishes and I don't know if I'm going to need cosmetic surgery to fix that later. The surgeon told me that usually you lose most of your weight in the first year, and then the second year your skin 'catches up' and tightens considerably. Exercise and lots of hydration help, of course. But I am beginning to have saggy skin kind of everywhere; my upper arms are floppy, my belly is getting saggy instead of flabby, my ass is drooping a little, and my legs, always my worst features, are gross. I don't know if I want to have body contouring done; it's something I'd have to pay for out of pocket, the recovery time on it is rough to say the least, and I don't want to necessarily look like Frankenstein's bride when we're done here. But another part of me is already thinking "If you get thin, you're damn sure going to get hot, damnit" and I want to wear a bikini or a super-short dress in public without being horrified. It'd be nice to get to stand in front of a lover in sexy underwear without worrying about my cellulite, while we're at it.

For now, I'm going to kick up the gym time (I've been really slacking lately), boost the protein even more, and smack myself into high gear.

And keep my fingers crossed about these upcoming changes. Something is pulling me to Los Angeles; whether it's divine forces or not, I am feeling some Manifest Destiny in my very near future.

Sometimes fires don't go out when you're done playin' with them.

It was a really, really big weekend for me, which is why it's been a little bit since my last blog post! But some exciting things have happened in the interim there!

For one, I got to come out to Horrorhound, a really big horror convention that's associated with the famous magazine by the same name. In Indianapolis, which I had never visited, I met my friend Shae, who I've known online for quite awhile. She also works the convention and we were assigned as celebrity handlers. She was seated with Jamie Kennedy, while I had the pleasure of working for Gerrit Graham (The Phantom of the Paradise, C.H.U.D. II, Terror Vision, Child's Play 2, Used Cars). I had a blast sitting and talking to Gerrit while he met with his fans; during the weekend we also met such horror royalty as Amy Steel, Steve Dash, Steve Miner, Mark Patton, Megan Ward, Robert Englund, and many more. The convention was also home to MaskFest, a special FX sub-convention where makeup artists brought masks, life-sized busts, prop replicas and more to display and sell. Needless to say, I found more than a few things that I desperately needed to own. I also did much better with this convention than I did at Texas Frightmare Weekend back in May as far as taking care of myself; I drank plenty of water to stay hydrated and ate sensibly since our hotel room had a fridge in it. All in all, when the con wrapped I managed to escape with nothing more serious than a sore throat. Impressive, considering how many people leaned over and breathed on me during the weekend and how much dirty money I handled, hands I shook, etc!

Now that I'm back home and to the grind, working on getting things finalized for the Sacrament wrap party on Sunday and a friend's birthday on Friday and reshoots for the movie on Saturday (whew!), I decided to treat myself to a little retail therapy. My scale is still hovering right around 220 (damn), but I know that the weight is shifting around because my sizes are drastically changing. I've gone from a size 22/24 in jeans and tops to a 16 in most brands of jeans (18 in some of the less-forgiving ones, 14 in one pair of incredibly-undersized ones) and a medium in t-shirts as of this weekend. I can't remember ever wearing a medium since at least middle school and it elated me to no end to be able to get a 'staff' shirt at the convention without having to first ask how big their sizes went.

Still, with smaller sizes comes the price of wanting to shop. Gone are the days when I would go to the local mall and have to browse for accessories while my friends ducked into cute stores and tried on anything they saw on the racks. Now I go to Forever 21 or Aeropostale or any other store and can find something that fits me almost every time.

Today, however, I ducked into Forever 21 and found a pair of luscious black heels. Now that I'm not carrying around as much weight, I've developed a huge affection for them. They still have to have elevated platforms and thick heels, I'm not rocking stilettos or anything drastic that you might see on a stage while someone tosses dollar bills at me, but I love not having the ankle and knee pain that comes with the weight I was hauling around.

I snagged the heels and a fabulous black leather jacket with studs on the shoulders. They had a similar jacket in their plus-sized section last year, but even the 3X was way too small for me and I couldn't have dreamt of buying it. This one is a 1X and I honestly could've maybe gone down a size but wanted it to be roomy enough when I have a shirt beneath it.

I was definitely channeling my inner Lady Gaga when I tried it on, though... wearing it over just a bra seemed pretty cool. Plus I was kind of ecstatic that it zipped.

But the best was yet to come.

As you can tell in the photo, the red bra isn't quite cutting it anymore. I was a 44D when I started my weight loss journey, and I had my bra hooked on the loosest clasps on the back for comfort. It wasn't that I had 'huge' boobs by any means, I've never been that busty, but lately I've noticed a lot of room in the cups and even the tightest setting on the band wasn't cutting it anymore. I went to Lane Bryant recently and snagged a 40C, which was better but still didn't quite feel right.

So on a whim, I walked into the one store... the dreaded store. The one I've never set foot in unless it's to check out the fragrances. The one that has a fashion show every year full of devastatingly beautiful, flawless models; the one that puts out a catalog that has a reputation for men stealing it from their wives' collections; the one that calls their models 'angels' because no one so beautiful could be from Earth.

I went into Victoria's Secret.

I was half-expecting someone to hurry over and redirect me to the makeup or perfume section; fat girls, as everyone knows, don't shop at VS. Their panties only go to a size large; their clothing is made for people who have never been called names like elephant or had someone yell where are your knees? when they wore shorts on the playground in elementary school.

I spotted a curvy black girl with perfect makeup and manicured nails arranging the bottles of body wash and sparkly perfume and approached her timidly. "Excuse me?" I asked, my voice low. I could feel myself blushing. I didn't belong here. She was going to give me That Look, the one I've gotten every time I have ever walked into Express or Gap or the True Religion store. We have nothing here for you was coming, or Do you want me to show you the purses?

Instead she smiled sweetly. "Can I help you?"

Quietly, still blushing, I explained that I'd had weight loss surgery and this was the first time I had ever been able to possibly fit into a bra that wasn't 'plus sized'. She nodded and smiled and then I got down to it.

"You guys have so many bras, and I really don't even know where to start," I said sheepishly. "I don't know anything about any of them... do you work in bras or just the cosmetic stuff?"

She said that she only worked in the cosmetic stuff, but she walked me over to a sales associate, a beautiful blonde who was folding panties into a display table. She introduced the two of us and left us to it.

The girl beamed and said, "What can I do for you?" so I explained again that I had been a 44D but now I had lost quite a bit of weight and wanted to find a better bra that would fit me appropriately. "I have a 40C at home," I said uncertainly, "so maybe that's the right size?"

Her face fell for just a second. "I'm sorry, honey, but we don't carry 40s in the store, only online," she said apologetically. I could feel my face start to turn pink. There it was--- you're still too big. You're not allowed here. I took a step backward, nodding, already coming up with my apology for wasting her time, and she eyed me for a second and then said, "Hang on just a minute" before scuttling off in her heels. She came back with a tape measure.

If you've ever been fitted for a bra, you know what happens next. But have you ever been fitted for a bra by a girl with a body like a model, while her cool manicured hands touch your flabby stomach and the batwing arms you're desperately trying to tighten with kettlebell swings? I hadn't; the girls at Lane Bryant who had fitted me years ago were big, fluffy girls with mountain ranges for breasts and soft hands. They were used to saying large numbers, letters further in the alphabet than most smaller-sized shops needed to carry. They were used to big girls.

She left the dressing room and I stared at myself in the mirror for several moments while I waited. There I was, in my size-16 jeans that were actually a little loose on my hips and the dreaded red bra that gapped on the sides and the straps that, no matter how much I tightened them, slipped down my shoulders. My confidence, which had been so prevalent in Forever 21 while strutting in that black leather jacket and heels, was shaky, seismic under my flip-flopped feet.

She returned with a black bra dangling from her fingers. "This," she said brightly, "is your size."

"You said you guys didn't carry 40s in the store," I reminded her, flushing as she stepped outside the door to wait for me to change.

"You're not a 40," she returned. "You're a 38B."

While I can't say that I am enjoying continually losing letters in my bra size, the measurement gave me pause. "Are you sure?" I asked as I slipped into the Body by Victoria lingerie. I couldn't believe how slinky it felt, the soft t-shirt-like material, the way I couldn't feel the underwire. I adjusted the straps and after a minor bend-and-wiggle (every girl knows what I mean), I straightened up and stared at myself.

And started crying.

"Are you okay?!" she asked, hearing me sniffling behind the door but not so presumptuous as to try and come in.

And, in a bra and a pair of jeans, I opened the door and hugged her. I didn't even say anything, I just hugged her.

I know it sounds stupid to people, but I haven't been able to fit into anything in that store since I grew boobs. All through my adolescence, my friends got breasts and we would go to the mall, and they would buy their push-up bras and sexy lacy things. When the coupons came in my mailbox for a free pair of panties, I would pass them dutifully off to slimmer friends; I bought my bras (granted, some of them were cute, but still) at Lane Bryant, huge things with padded straps to hold up the weight of your boobs and wide bands in the back to try and suppress the dreadful backfat, multiple industrial-strength hooks to clasp it shut, packages of extenders sold discreetly by the register Just in Case. And now I was allowed to come into this forbidden wonderland of bright Pink and feathered angel-winged mannequins and I was able to buy a bra and no one would look at me and say Did you want to pick up some body spray today? Maybe some lipgloss? because that was all that would appeal to someone like me in that girly, much-revered land of underthings.

I walked out with two fabulous push-up bras, a bounce in my step, and swung that little pink bag in one hand as I walked through the mall, knowing that for the first time in my life it wasn't a fragrance collection in that iconic little bag.

Now that is what I call a Non-Scale Victory.