FATGIRLslim | Weigh-In Time! Weight Watchers Scales
+13lbs since Jan 15 2014

Not that I expect anyone to actually notice these kinds of things, because it’s the kind of thing I do for me, and me alone, but if you check out the weigh-in above: the actual picture of the scale changes from time-to-time. It actually reflects which scale I’m using at the time. (I haven’t done this right from the start of the blog, but it’s been happening since at LEAST 2011, I think.)

It’s changed from the start of the month, because of two things:

  • I’m going back to weekly weigh-ins.

Given the fact that I’m not doing at all well with this whole monthly weigh-in thing, I’ve decided to go back to weekly weigh-ins, so that I can keep a closer eye on my weight.  It means I won’t go a month without damage I’ve done.  I’m hoping it’ll also mean I keep myself more accountable, and won’t just, y’know.  Continue on like I have been this past wee while.

  • I can’t use the Ozeri on a carpeted floor. :(


I mentioned it in the review I did of the Ozeri bathroom scales: they don’t do so well on carpeted floors, and the carpet in my bedroom isn’t that thick, but it does come with underlay, which means that the Ozeri weighs me in at… ooh. About 192lbs. Which I’d take on any other day of the month, but let’s get real, haha!

I sort of realised, after a week and a half, that my reaction to an almost 9lb weight gain shouldn’t be, “that’s not too bad”, but, “OH CRAP.”

Maybe if I’m more horrified by my weight gains over 2lb, instead of nonchalant about them, I’ll be more inclined to actually stop eating crap every other day.

I know that we don’t eat that much rubbish, but it must be more than we think it is.

It must also be time to start tracking my food again, since I don’t “think” I’m eating as much as I am, eh?

C’mon, Trace. You know how to do this!

In Which Tracy Talks About Head Cysts, Infections, BEING IN A FUCKTON OF PAIN And Medication

Three years or so ago, I noticed this annoying little lump on the back of my head. I forgot about it for about six months when my brush touched something that struck a lightning-bolt of pain down my neck, and I reached up and touched a little lump of squishy excruciating pain.

I didn’t know what it was, but I took a guess at a pimple. A plook. A zit.

I was gentle around that area for about a week, and eventually forgot about it again.

Whenever it was that I shaved my head this time, it came back to my notice, because I accidentally cut it with what I assume was a wee sharp plastic bit of the clippers. I went to Dr. David, and I told him that it had been there for “about three years or something”. He said it wasn’t a spot; it was a pilar (scalp) cyst, probably caused by the years of hair-dyeing. It didn’t have a head and it wasn’t inflamed or anything, despite the tiny cut. (Luckily, I was in seeing him for something else, and that wasn’t all I was seeing him about!)

The other week – a week or two ago? – I was getting really annoyed with it. I’d had it for three goddamned years already, and I’d been through how many courses of antibiotics? Surely it should have gone away? Now, being A) an artist and B) an idiot, I have scalpels to hand in my bedroom, and fresh blades. (Non-sterile but surgical. Clean. FRESH, JUST-OUT-OF-THE-PACK.)

I did what any idiot suffering from a manic attack would do! I found the wee bump, pressed it in so I could feel where the reservoir of crap was, and slid my scalpel in. Admittedly, it took me a few attempts to get the point of my scalpel into it properly, but then again, trained nurses sometimes take a couple of attempts to get a needle into a vein, so. I’m not gonna complain.

I HEARD IT when it happened.

I also felt it, because it kind of immediately started flowing down the back of my head. It was disgusting.

I ended up having to mop it up with tissues and then had to wait until it had scabbed over so that I could go shower.

A few days after, I popped it, and some white gunk came out.

Then I couldn’t stop picking at the scab because it was itchy as hell.

I couldn’t stop.

So I ended up with an infected wound on my head… that then expanded into an abscess beside it, too, because apparently the agony of the infected hair follicle wasn’t bad enough.

We’d decided, yesterday, to take me to the A&E if my head was no better today. So yesterday afternoon, what does my body decide to do to add to this nightmare?

It decides that yesterday is the perfect time to have one of my Back Attacks.

On a scale of 1-11 on Hyperbole And A Half’s New Pain Scale, I was a straight 9, not including my head.

I’m talking constant pain in my left hip. The complete inability to straighten my leg without my hip screaming in agony. A shooting wave of pain that comes and goes and is a FUCKING 11 and sometimes includes MUSCLE SPASMS because THE PAIN ON ITS OWN IS NOT BAD ENOUGH.

For the first time in what I think is over a year, I actually had to take my Methocarbamol, the muscle relaxant/anti-spasmodic. Excellent for helping relax the muscles.

The pain?

Yeah, let’s talk about the pain, and how the painkillers I’m on aren’t doing anything. Or, let’s talk about how I’m on so many painkillers that the doctors won’t give me any more AND I’M STILL IN PAIN.

Do you want to know how much medication I’m on? Do you?

FATGIRLslim | In Which Cauda Equina Syndrome Is Mentioned

Nine tablets in the morning, when you include the multi-vitamin I take. 4 at lunchtime. 8 at bedtime.

And that’s not including the Methocarbamol or the Almotriptan, which are only taken when I need them. It’s also not including any ad-hoc Ibuprofen which I probably shouldn’t taken but sometimes I have a headache that I just can’t deal with and Ibuprofen is the easiest answer, or that time that I was on an anti-fungal pill for a year and a half. Or any times I’ve been on prednisone or antibiotics.


In Which Cauda Equina Syndrome Is Mentioned

So yeah, we ended up in the A&E department today, Dad and I, sitting side-by-side on The World’s Most Uncomfortable Plastic Chairs EVER™. You know the ones. The ones where they dig into your ass fat if you have the audacity to be larger than a size 12.

Just exactly what I didn’t need when I have pain running down the nerves in my hip. Guess where the outwardly-curved sides of the chair pushed into. I dare you.

It took them about an hour and a half to call us, by which time I swear they’d called everyone who’d come in before and after us. Dad and I were sitting reading stuff on our tablets (I was reading a book for a review; he was reading Game of Thrones), and there was a woman who was texting someone on her phone. With the sound turned up. You’re not even supposed to have your phone turned on, in the hospital, let alone turned on, turned up, and texting people with the keysounds on.

Since I’d sat through an hour and a half of listening to other peoples’ phones going off while I swear my family are the only people decent enough to turn ours off completely, or at least turn them to SILENT (not vibrate), I turned around and said to the room, “Whoever’s playing the game or whatever it is, could you please turn the sound off?”

It’s not like I was rude or anything. I’m sitting in the fucking A&E. I sounded exhausted, because I fucking WAS.

The lady proceeded to tell me how she wouldn’t turn the phone off/down/whatever. That she wasn’t actually playing a game. And that she was going to actually do whatever she could to annoy me more, now that she knew how easily annoyed I was.

I could have punched her.

Luckily, Dad had to go out at that point, since he was sitting beside me hissing, “TRACY SHUT UP. SHUT UP. JUST SHUT UP,” through his teeth at me, and I think he had to either phone someone or take a call or do something (I honestly don’t know, he just said he was going outside for a minute WHICH IS SUSPICIOUS BY THE WAY, DAD. IF YOU WERE SMOKING I WILL HANG YOU UP BY THE BALLS AND LET THE CATS EAT YOU.) and then the nurse called me through.

The Doctor I spoke to was suspiciously handsome. And he had a good, firm handshake. I let him see my head, first, and explained what had happened. Outcome? Antibiotics and, “I don’t know what kind of artist you are, but that was a mess of a masterpiece! But please don’t do it again. Don’t touch it, don’t squeeze it, don’t rub it. And the big red lump is an abscess.”

To be honest, I expected to have a part of my head shaved, anaesthetised and cut open, drained and stitched back up again. Considering that I’m still in pain with it right now… I think I’d have preferred that.

Then we started talking about the other thing. The pain thing.

I explained my symptoms. He asked me questions about my health, with regards urinary and poop functioning, and whether or not I’ve gone numb between the legs or if I’ve had a change in sexual function of late.

Apparently, the back pain and the fact that I have difficulty with the whole having-to-go-right-away-or-I’ll-wet-myself when I need to pee aspect of things (hello, TMI, my old friend, how are you?) along with the fact that I’m getting pins and needles down my leg are pointing to Cauda Equina Syndrome.

I can’t, and don’t have the mental capacity right now, to explain it properly, beyond, “it means damage to a bunch of spinal nerves called the Cauda Equina ["horse's tail"]“.

What does that mean?

It means, if it’s true, that I’m probably pretty much destined for major and life-threatening back surgery in the future.

When the Doctor said that, I almost had a breakdown, for two reasons.


Oh Jesus Christ Almighty, BACK SURGERY. How the FUCK do I recover from BACK SURGERY?! I’m fat and huge and I live upstairs and there are 26 stairs to get to my bedroom and OH JESUS CHRIST.

But also:


Today, however, the most he could do was apologise, because he couldn’t even give me painkillers, because of the amount of medication that I’m already on. He did offer to admit me to hospital for the afternoon to hook me up to a Morphine drip, but admitted that, considering I’m already on Morphine, it probably wouldn’t make much of a difference.

In Which There’s A Bit Of A Light At The End Of The Tunnel

He asked me if I went to the gym (not right now; I had to give it up due to money issues, but I’m planning to rejoin soon); how I’m trying to lose weight (cutting way down on portion sizes, with my Mum to help, but I have an eating disorder that means portion sizes don’t particularly mean anything when you eat 8 meals a day); and if I’m attending Physiotherapy.

No, I said. I did call for a referral to physio, about two years ago, but when they listened to my symptoms, they said “it wasn’t bad enough to actually get an appointment for physio. What’s your email address? We’ll send you a link to a website where you can get some exercises you can do at home that will help you.”

(Not a word of a lie. That’s pretty much what they said. Not an exact quote, but that’s what they said.)

The Doctor picked up that slip of paper with my medications written on it, and thrust it into the air.


I was so busy crying that I could hardly reply, “Right? I know.”

So he’s getting me a referral for physio.

Which, as we discussed, isn’t going to do a huge deal to help me. It might help a little, but it obviously won’t solve all of my problems.

He also told me that I’m not just allowed to sit around and do nothing about all of this. I have to fight for the treatment I need. He said I should have an MRI and a CAT scan, as a minimum, but the hospital won’t hand the permission out for these unless they know for sure that you already have CES, because they don’t want to have wasted the money otherwise.

(Sidenote: this is one reason why Scottish Independence is so important. Funding to the NHS is being cut so harshly that things like this are happening. I was turned down for bariatric surgery because I didn’t have diabetes or high blood pressure, despite the fact that I weigh 28 stones. With Independence, the Scottish NHS could allocate its full funds as it sees fit, not just how it can afford. #voteyes #indyref #yesscotland etc *GRUMP*)

And shock, horror.

What it all boils down to is the 380lb elephant in the room.

Losing weight won’t guarantee me a pain-free life. The pain might not, and probably won’t, magically disappear if I lose all the weight tomorrow. Especially not if it’s a spinal thing, or a neurological thing. If it’s a skeletal thing, the bones need to mend.

Basically, what it all boils down to, is that I’ve eaten myself to the point that my body is collapsing. I’ve tried to convince myself for years that I’m not disabled.

I think this is my body’s way of trying to convince me otherwise, so that maybe I’ll finally start taking care of it.

+8lbs since Jan 15 2014

Do you know what I’m not doing right now, despite the above weigh-in?

I’m not panicking. I’m not freaking out.

Yes, I gained just over half a stone.

I gained over half a stone in two months, in which I didn’t weigh myself regularly, check out calories, or, in much of the case of June, eat properly.

I’ve had worse weigh-ins over the span of a three-week holiday (or close to it).

Admittedly, it means that I’m landing pretty damn close to that 380lbs mark that I really don’t want to be close to – it’s one of the benchmarks of, “OH SHIT I’M REALLY LOSING IT,” that I’ve made to gauge how badly my weight gain is (the other being 400lbs, which is, “OH FUCKING HELL I’M DYING AND I’M DEAD WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED THAT I’M BACK HERE WHAT DID I DO DID I EAT AN ELEPHANT AND THEN IMMEDIATELY STEP ON THE SCALES?!”) while I’m aiming for the 350lbs mark. When I get to 350lbs, I aim for 300lbs and try not to go above 350lbs, or it starts all over again, etc.

But right now, I’m not particularly worried, because, as I said, I’ve had worse weigh-ins after a holiday. Once everything’s completely settled down – I still have a crapload of stuff to actually get sorted out re: house, stuff, money, STUFF STUFF STUFF – I’ll hopefully not only be able to get back to the gym for Actual Exercise, as well as going for my wee walks down to the woods when it’s good weather, but I should be able to look into going Keto for a while before transferring to a modified Paleo diet, because I really can’t mentally do full Paleo. I’m not sure how I’ll modify it. I’ll need to do some research and see how other people have modified it.

For instance, I know that Paleo Parents have posted photos on their Instagram feed showing “non-Paleo” foods on their dinner table! *GASP*

The idea had honestly never occurred to me when I first heard of Paleo, to be honest. I thought it was the Paleoway or the highway.

So that’s what I’ll be aiming for, once I’m settled enough to think about it. Hopefully before the end of August. :) I’d love to see a weight loss for next month, but I won’t freak out if I don’t.

I can’t believe it’s the end of July already; tomorrow’s August 1. I can still remember it being the middle of January, with me freezing my bollocks off in my flat under three layers of clothing, wandering around with my socks and boots on indoors.

Now, it’s past the middle of the year (holy god, it’s PAST THE MIDDLE OF THE YEAR, YOU GUYS!, and I mostly forgot about it, but did, at least, take the time to go outside and dig my toes into the grass and feel the sun on my skin. Which is something I wouldn’t have been able to do if I’d been in my flat at the time.

Interesting note: I was born March 22, my little sister was born February 1, and Mum was born December 26. They’re all pretty close to significant dates in the Pagan/Wiccan calendar (Ostara, Imbolc, and Yule) and Dad was born on July 21, which is the exact middle of the year (despite Midsummer/Litha being celebrated the month before), and my big brother-in-law was born July 31, which is the day before Lammas/Lughnasadh. Only my big sister (May 18 – too far away from Beltane to count) and little brother-in-law (July 17 – fair-to-middlingly close to the middle of the year, but since Dad’s already there…).

Hopefully at my weigh-in tomorrow, I’ll have lost something or at least stayed roughly the same weight. I’ve actually been eating food, instead of gorging myself on crap in place of meals, so my energy’s a little better, if nothing else. I’m still exhausted – and needing to phone up for the results of those blood tests, but since I didn’t get a call back saying, “YO TRACY THERE IS SOMETHING SERIOUSLY WRONG LIKE AN ALIEN BACTERIUM IN YOUR BLOOD,” I’m going to assume that everything is A-OK. Otherwise I would have gotten a call from the GP surgery.

In Which Tracy’s Looking Forward To August

Why “looking forward to August”?

Well, hopefully, if it ever stops raining, now that the insane heat has gone away, I’m gonna start going for my wee walks again. The raspberries should have flowered already, and maybe fruited. I hope. I know that they did some pruning over the winter, and I hope that the raspberry plants weren’t some of the pruned plants, because that’d be a pain in the butt.

I could always look out for the brambles again, in late August. Maybe make home-made bramble jam?

(I still wish that Great Granny had passed down her fruit wine recipe. My Great Granny made this amazing fruit wine, with stuff picked from her own back garden. Spices and herbs and fruit and it TASTES LIKE CHRISTMAS.)

But anyway: the wee woods are closer from here, but it’s more of a hike because I need to get down and around and WALK UP HILLS TO GET BACK. More calories burned?

I might, if I have the money, rejoin the gym. I know, I know. It always – obviously – comes down to money. I need to budget, etc. Double check. But I miss my swimming and dancing and spinning and I miss my goddamn weights.

I miss sweating.

So yes, I’m looking forward to August.

Hopefully, this’ll be that beginning I was looking for.

I’m ashamed to admit it: I hardly ever look at my naked or semi-naked body in the mirror. It’s either dark, or I’ve got a towel around me when I’m naked.

I still hate the way I look, although I’ve accepted that I’m the only person who can change it. Nobody else can do that for me (although having a great support group certainly helps!) and it’s going to be a long, hard struggle.

So, this morning while I was rooting around in my pigsty trying to find something cool enough to wear in this insane humidity, I happened to glance over at the vanity mirror while I was sitting on my computer chair.

FATGIRLslim | In Which Tracy Is Ashamed

Somehow, I look even worse when I’m sitting down. Yesterday, I happened to look down at my hands when I was typing something for the first time in forever, and, because I have a glass desk, I also noticed that my stomach under the desk is squished flat up to the top of the underneath of the desk.

But it never occurred to me that it’d look like this.

This is how I look to the outside world, when I’m sitting on a bus or sitting in a restaurant or a bench, or if I have to sit down on the ground to wait for something if I can’t stand up any longer.

This is how I will look to potential workmates, if I don’t lose weight in the time between now and getting a new job.

This is how I look to friends and family and everyone else.

I’m ashamed and disgusted – ashamed that I don’t look in the mirror more often, because maybe if I did, I wouldn’t have gotten to this stage; disgusted, because I let myself get to this stage, of a gelatinous mound of flesh with old bones creaking and me, stuck inside it.

The annoying thing is that I know how to fix it. I’ve known how to fix it, since Mum and I started going to Weight Watchers together – Trish was an amazing leader, and the Core plan really worked! – but I can’t seem to keep it together. I don’t know what it’s going to take to get it back together and keep it together, but I’m going to have to damn well try, because the idea of rolling around to get something off of my bed or out my yarn box or something and seeing that body in the mirror (I almost typed and seeing that in the mirror and then realised I’d be doing exactly what all those other people had done, and de-humanising me. Admittedly, I’m almost separating myself from my body, but… I kind of feel like it’s not my body. That’s not who I am; not what I am. If that makes sense.) would just break me to a point where I couldn’t be fixed.

So where do I start?

I’m not entirely sure.

But I’ve heard that the beginning’s a pretty good place.

I’m not sure how widespread the knowledge is, but it’s Glasgow’s turn to host the Commonwealth Games. You’d think it wouldn’t particularly affect me, given that I don’t, you know, live in Glasgow.

You’d think.

To be honest, I’d forgotten that the opening ceremony was tonight. When I thought about today, I thought: “I have a doctor’s appointment today at 2.10pm. I better leave the house at around 1.15pm so I don’t miss it, because I have to remember to include the extra ten minutes from Hillhouse to Burnbank now.

I wasn’t thinking, “When I’m finished in town, I’m going to have to wait for 75 minutes for a taxi to get home.”

See, I had that appointment with Dr. David to discuss two things: one, that my left arm continues to go numb, and only my pinky and ring finger are affected by it. My wrist, elbow and shoulder are sore, as is the back of my neck.

(Apparently there’s nothing to be done for this. It could be something to do with a nerve, but it’s usually a tablet-thing, and I’m already on two tablets that should take care of it… which means that really SHOULDN’T be feeling anything at all! And yet I am. Thanks, body! *sarcasm*)

Second, that I’m still constantly exhausted. Before, I was sleeping for 14 hours a day, depressed, etc, eating terribly. Now that my sleep schedule’s sorted out (I’m sleeping from anywhere between 11pm-1am – 9am-11am, usually 9 hours-ish, as dictated by the sleep cycle alarm on my phone) I’m still exhausted. My diet’s much better now that I’m eating Mum’s cooking for dinner – as in, I’m actually eating dinner! – and I’m still taking all of my tablets.

I’m talking full-on exhaustion, though. Not like, “I’m tired because of my tablets’ side-effects,” tired. I’m talking full-on exhaustion, depression, don’t want to get up and do anything because my muscles are too tired and my soul’s too tired kind of exhaustion.

So blood work’s getting done.

Headed into town and wandered through on down to ASDA to get myself more fruit than should be legal, bottles of soda (probably not helping ANY of my health problems; need to quit, don’t need to tell me this) and something for lunch.

Now, let me switch into present tense:

In Which Tracy Hates The Glasgow Commonwealth Games

I get out of ASDA at 5pm. “It’ll be 20 minutes,” the lady on the phone says. 20 minutes is… iffy. It’s easier because I’ve got my backpack on and it sort of redistributes everything and it’s kind of heavy and makes my posture better so my back doesn’t hurt as much. I tell her it’s fine.

20 minutes comes and goes. A guy who called the same company as me ten minutes AFTER me has already been picked up. It’s now 35 minutes since I called. I call them back. “Hi, I’m just calling to make sure that the car’s still coming to pick me up. Webster at ASDA.”

“Oh yeah, yeah. He’ll just be a few minutes, he’s just on his way.”

I take this to mean that the taxi will be arriving in a few minutes. As one does.

25 minutes later, and after having a conversation with a woman who has phoned another company and has been waiting 30 minutes, my car still hasn’t arrived. I call them back.

“Hi, I called 25 minutes ago. Webster at ASDA. Are you sure there’s a car coming for me? I first called about an hour ago…”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, he’s just dropping off at Hillhouse, and then we’re sending someone out for you.”

I actually hung up without saying anything, because… what? WE’RE SENDING SOMEONE OUT FOR YOU? You mean to say THERE HASN’T BEEN SOMEONE COMING FOR ME THIS WHOLE TIME LIKE YOU’VE BEEN TELLING ME?

By this point in time, I’ve got shooting pain down my right leg from my hip. My feet are on fire. My hip’s throbbing. The pain in the ball of my left foot is excruciating.

“It’s probably because of the games,” the other lady says. “The lady on the phone said they’ve got more traffic because of the games starting tonight.”

I curse sport and all sporting events up and down the length and breadth of the known world.

I’ve now been waiting for one hour and fifteen minutes, when finally the text comes through that my driver is coming around the roundabout to come into ASDA. At no point in time did I get an apology from the woman on the phone for having to wait for so long.

I wish the other lady best wishes while waiting for her taxi, that it comes soon.

While I’m in the taxi, the driver asks me if I’m going to watch the opening ceremony tonight.


I snorted. “God, no. I’m going home and dunking my feet into a bucket of ice water after waiting for an hour and a quarter in one place. I might watch a movie with a bucket of popcorn. Or read a book. Or slit my wrists. Anything but watch that crap.”

He laughed, and said he’d be watching as much of it as he could.

Personally, I couldn’t care less. And it’s not because of this isolated incident. And it’s not because I’m fat.

It’s because, while I appreciate that events like this draw in crowds – like the World Cup did in Brazil, and the Olympics in London, and Wimbledon, etc – I just don’t like them. They’re sponsored by fucking fast foods and sweets, and sodas of all things. I saw Barrs advertising tonight, which is a soft drinks manufacturer, focused on the Games tonight. Like the things that were sponsoring/advertising/focusing their advertising on the Olympics when that was happening… it’s not appropriate. It bugs the hell out of me.

Not to mention the fact that there’s a huge disruption to the people in the area (and, apparently, the surrounding area, even as far out as this – probably due to people going to see the bloody things and employers not getting enough cover, as Dad rightly pointed out a second ago) and the cost of it – *scream*

I am not a fan of sport. I don’t see why sportsmen are lauded above engineers and scientists and writers. I understand that it’s a huge discipline and requires training and stuff and jesus, please insert words here that describe all the rigorous workouts and stuff here because my brain’s gone blank, but y’all know what I mean! But I’m not a fan. Do it for personal pleasure, if you must, but you don’t see huge stadia being erected when it’s time to duke it out for the Man Booker, do you?



Basically, all this comes down to is this:

Dear Glasgow Commonwealth Games 2014,

FATGIRLslim | In Which Tracy Hates The Glasgow Commonwealth Games

FATGIRLslim | In Which Tracy Is Feeling Better
Other things that mean I’m feeling better: my room’s starting to look more like home, now I’ve got most of my stuff unpacked!

It’s weird, to be writing in the middle of the month and not to be freaking out over something.

Basically, I’m sitting here and I’m not freaking out over anything. I’m not freaking out over money or weight or pain or exercise. The thing that’s on my mind right now is Jesus Christ, I’ve still got so much to do in the flat, but it’s not enough to ruin my chill-ass mellow that’s going on. I’m just sitting here feeling better than I’ve felt in a long time.

The truth is that, taking time out and being at Mum and Dad’s is good. It’s like, the first night that I lay down here, and the following morning, was like waking up in a different universe. One where I didn’t have to worry about pretty much anything.

Oh dear god. It’s like I’ve left all of my adult worries behind.

I know that’s exactly it, but it’s not really. It’s just that, because I’m not having to worry about food or electric or gas, or whether I’m going to have enough money to actually eat this week or if I’m going to have to scrimp and scrounge and go freeganisming again, that there’s been this huge weight lifted off of my shoulders.

It’s not just me. Roxie, my Little Miss Kittles, has had this huge change, too, because she’s become an outdoor kitty here, and she’s enjoying hunting things – in-between sparring sessions with our grumpy old-lady kitty, Twig – and rolling in the sunshine and eating grass and sneaking into the next door neighbour’s garden to play with Margaret’s dog, Scooter. She’s like a totally different cat (except that she’s still the world’s biggest Momma’s Girl and she’s now louder than ever!) and she’s even lost a wee bit of weight from running around all day. Her coat’s actually casting less, which is amazing! She must be feeling better, too, but she obviously can’t tell me that in English. I make no claims about her not being able to understand the question, however, if I were to ask her.

I know it was a rash decision, to come back here, and I know it’s probably going to be tough on Mum, Dad and I until I move back out again in all sorts of ways, but right now, I’m just chilling out and relaxing, because I don’t have the real responsibilities on my shoulder any more. I can start to truly focus on taking care of myself again soon.

There was a promised weigh-in, mid-month, but I probably won’t cash in that rain check. More than likely, I’ll just wait until the start of August to weigh-in again, because I don’t want to kill this feeling, ha!

I don’t feel like I’ve gained or lost any weight since the start of the month, but since I’m living upstairs in the house, I’d say I’m actually getting more exercise now than I was in the flat. I’m climbing the stairs a few times a day here, where I was only climbing the stairs a few times a week, if at all, in the flat.

Surely that’ll end up counting in my favour, when I return to the gym and a healthier lifestyle. It’s how I’ll be able to judge, along with my clothes fit, my health’s improvement.

For right now, however, I’ll just continue feeling better and better, thanks. I don’t particularly like feeling so stressed that I get suicidal.

I’ll take life with my parents anyday, over death because I can’t afford to eat because I don’t get enough money to due to stupid chronic unemployment, thanks.

I got the biggest things moved into Mum and Dad’s on Monday. Bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers, etc. Flopped into my bed on Monday night and I don’t think I’ve slept so soundly since the time I was in Florida with my family as a teenager, when we got lost coming back to Clearwater from one of the parks and spent four hours driving around aimlessly before booking into a hotel/motel thing after midnight.

Exhausted didn’t even cover how I felt. I’d had to assemble a new desk, and the goddamn thing weighed probably, overall, the same as a “normal” adult female, all told. I actually had to get Mum’s help at one point. The instruction book says it only requires one person to put it together. But the instructions also say that you need allen keys when you don’t, and at no point do they say that you need a hammer, when you actually do.

Oh, and they were 14 pages long.


But I’ve got a decent desk that will hopefully last me for forever.

And I’m back in my old bedroom.

FATGIRLslim | In Which Tracy Is Glad To Be Moving Out

Now, that looks sort-of familiar, for long-time readers of FATGIRLslim, right?

Yeah, it really is my old bedroom. Mum actually decorated it while it was the “spare room”, so now it’s got a feature wall of cream with red flowers and silver stalks, and the rest of the walls are just wallpapered in… wheat-coloured? I think. It’s too wheat-y to be cream. I’m personally not a fan. I miss my purple paint.

(I don’t miss the horrendous wallpaper that my paint was covering, mind you. Mum did the world a favour with that one.)

But the thing is, I got my stuff moved out on Monday, and there’s still a tonne of stuff in my flat, like my living room and kitchen stuff.

Stuff I need to throw out; stuff I need to bring down here just to throw up the loft and get it out of the way.

We went down on Tuesday night, Mum, Dad and I, and brought down some more stuff, so it’s not like it’s been three weeks I’ve been gone or anything.

But when I went down tonight to get some of the stuff out of my desk drawers and etc, I honestly thought I’d walked into the wrong block of flats.

FATGIRLslim | In Which Tracy Is Glad She's Moving Out: GRAFFITI

To say that I’m glad I’m moving out, or have already sort of moved out, is an understatement. I’ve lived in that block of flat for two and a half years now, and in the past 7 months, it’s just gone downhill so quickly it’s like whiplash.

And even worse than that? That’s not the only door that’s been vandalised. That door belongs to the guy whose girlfriend just gave birth. He was an “Orangeman”, which may or may not have something to do with the graffiti. I don’t claim to know. But they vandalised the door of the lady who lives in Number 3, too, who is, if I remember, in her 80s.

And if they know who lives/lived in Number 4, then they know fine well who lives in Number 3, and in that case, they’re a bunch of heartless motherfucking cunting spineless bastards, and I hope they rot in hell.

I honestly thought that the druggies’ blood I had to clean up was bad, but now we have people actively defacing the flats?

I’m sorry, but no.

I’m glad I’m moving out.

I’m glad my stuff’s gone already.

I’m glad that since I’ve been at my parents’ place, that I’ve felt calmer, and less stressed, and not worried that someone’s going to attempt to break in and kill my cat or burn my house down while I’m out.

Two and a half years ago, I didn’t have to worry about any of that crap. Two and a half years ago, my block of flats was the only block in that godforsaken scheme that DIDN’T have to worry about any of that crap, because the residents had apparently argued with the council to eject everyone who had been causing trouble.

That’s how I got the flat. Because it was a “sensitive letting” because of the elderly people in the houses, who wanted someone quiet and kind of… y’know. Sane.

And then they let in Jay (who’s a lovely guy when you get to know him and get past all the crazy! He’s just… into bad stuff, y’know? :/) and the people in Number 4, who kept on having loud parties and stuff (but then, the second that his missus gave birth, he wasn’t going to stand for any of that noise or parties or any of that… the kind of stuff he’d been CONTRIBUTING TO FOR THE PAST YEAR AND A HALF, THE FUCKING FUCKER.) and when the people below me, who had been having parties until 4am finally left, they (Number 7′s a privately-owned flat, not a council-owned flat) rented the flat out again … to people who had RAUCOUSLY loud sex, parties that lasted until only 3am, and screamed at football matches when they weren’t having sex or a party.

So yes.

To say that I’m glad I’m moving out is an understatement.

Kind of like saying that Hitler was a little bit of a douchebag.

Okay, so, today’s the 30th of the month. What does that mean?

It means that tomorrow’s weigh-in day.


No, it doesn’t!

I know that there have been some months, especially recently since I’ve changed to monthly weigh-ins, where my weigh-ins have been late by a day or two, but I don’t think I’ve straight-up just never had one, except for those times where, y’know… I’d just disappeared.

But I’m not disappearing. I’m just in the middle of this move and don’t want to know what eating cereal for two of my meals a day is doing to my weight, to be perfectly honest.

I’ll do a weigh-in when I get moved back into Mum and Dad’s house, and get the scales re-situated again, because they’re going to be back on a (very thin) carpet again, which I know is going to affect the weigh-ins, but as the entire house minus the bathroom and kitchen are carpeted (and neither the bathroom nor the kitchen are good for weighing in naked and housing the scales permanently…) then my bedroom’s the only decent place to keep my scales. It’s where I used to keep them, anyway!

But for right now, I’m cashing in a rain check, and picking up my weigh-in in about a fortnight when I’m settled down again. And not eating cereal for my dinner.

You can tell something’s going on – or going wrong! – when it takes ten days between blog posts.

I’m moving house.

FATGIRLslim | In Which Tracy's Moving House

It’s been two and a half years in my wee flat, and I’m moving on! I’m getting out of what has become my own personal little private hellhole, thanks to neighbours that won’t CLEAN THEIR FLOOR OF THE FLATS and who won’t stop stinking the place up; neighbours that I’m friends with who have other “friends” who insist on BREAKING INTO THE BLOCK BY KICKING THE BACK DOOR DOWN (and then putting my friend in hospital for a month and a half – he’s also moved out!); and the fact that I’ve been my own worst enemy since I’ve been here.

Having the shops right across the road was supposed to be convenient for bread and milk, not for my cravings. But I haven’t been able to control my cravings at all.

So the house I’m going to does have a wee general store at the end of the road, but it’s further than the Co-Operative is from here, so I’ll probably be less likely to run out if it’s too hot, too cold, raining, dull, windy, etc.

Where am I going?

I’m going back to my parents’ place for a while.

I know a lot of people will see this as a step back, but I don’t. My parents have not only been amazingly supportive while I’ve been living on my own (I can’t being to tell you how many times they’ve covered my ass for a few days when I’ve accidentally overdrawn my bank account), but after two and a half years of freedom, they’re also supportive enough to take me back until I get myself back on my feet again, mentally, physically and pecuniarily.

So don’t worry about me if I go dark for the next two weeks. I’m just dragging my butt back to Mum and Dad’s place, with Little Miss Kittles in tow. It’s going to be fun, watching her become an outdoor cat.

Birds of Hamilton, beware!