Walking through glue

Three days ago, it was my birthday.
I turned 28.

This may not seem like much of an accomplishment, but when you have been told repeatedly by the person who gave you 50% of their DNA what a failure you are, anything past 18 is really nothing to sneeze at.  Now I can say that I have officially exceeded my father's expectations of my life span by an impressive ten years.

Traumatic childhood aside, I had intended to spend my birthday with my grandparents, and of course BEB.  I had already booked lunch at a delicious Japanese restaurant in the city, and had planned to meet my grandparents at Central station, where we would catch a cab to said restaurant.  Later, BEB and I would spend a leisurely few hours strolling around the city, before catching a ferry to Portside to attend the premiere of Precious.

Unfortunately, in the morning when I called my grandparents to finalise plans, my granddad (Gran) informed me that my Grandmother (Nanny) was too unwell to attend.  She was refusing to get out of bed and take her medication and Gran didn't like his chances of getting her onto a train, much less keeping her settled for the hour-long train ride from their bayside residence to the city. 

Nanny has Alzheimer's disease. 
She is existing, but stopped living a few years ago.
Now my granddad lives for both of them.

I actually wasn't that upset.  I knew that it couldn't be helped.  And coincidentally, I wasn't feeling too flash myself. 

The day before, on Australia Day, I had battled through the eight hours or so spent with my friends and had cleverly concealed the aching withdrawal symptoms I was experiencing as a result of weaning myself off Pristiq, an anti-depressant.  Seeing as I now had the day free, I decided that my birthday would be the day that I commenced cold turkey Pristiq abstinence. 

My doctor told me that coming off Pristiq would not be nearly as agonising as coming off Efexor, an adventure I had the privilege of experiencing several years ago.  After being on varying doses of Efexor for over six years, I had finally found myself at a place in life where I wanted to taste life without the aid of an SSRI.  And with the help of BEB and my doctor, I gradually came off the tablets I was convinced I would be taking for the rest of my life. 

It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but not needing to feel that awful sense of dependence was wonderful.

And here I was again.  Dependent on a chemical for emotional stability.  I often wonder if it will ever end.

I started taking Pristiq on my doctor's advice, a few months before my wedding.  I wasn't handling the prospect of being the centre of attention and in many ways I was dreading the day.  The day I was to marry BEB seemed to have transformed into some kind of demon to be slayed.  I never had cold feet about marrying BEB, but the wedding was a constant source of anxiety. 

The worst part was the well-meaning excitement heaped upon me by well-meaning friends.  And why wouldn't they be excited?  There was a day of getting dolled up, drinking champagne and scoffing wedding cake on the horizon!  Oh, and of course witnessing two souls being united as one blah blah blah...

It soon became abundantly clear that admitting to my friends that I had to take an anti-depressant to get me through my wedding would really have ruined their big day.

So instead, I remained silent on my latest prescription.  I told BEB and my best friend and swore them to secrecy. 

And now, two months post-wedding, it is time for me to bid farewell to the best wedding assistant I ever had.

By the time Precious had ended, the emotional rollercoaster of withdrawal symptoms was just beginning.  And as a side note, let me stress that watching a movie on your birthday which deals with issues of parental abuse/neglect, when you have experienced parental abuse/neglect (albeit on a significantly lower scale), is not a good idea.  It was right up there with the mistake I made on my birthday two years ago by seeing Juno, a film showing the intricacies of teen pregnancy/adoption.  In hindsight, having been raised by my grandparents after my 19-year-old unwed mother flew the coop probably should have alerted me to the fact that Juno was not going to be the comedy riot for me as it had been for others.

The day after my birthday (48 hours sans Pristiq) was the worst.  There was no way I could go to work - I could barely get out of bed and the dizziness left me nauseous.  But I could hardly tell my colleagues that withdrawal symptoms from my medication were keeping me home for the day.  BEB asked me to describe what I was feeling.  I told him it felt like i was walking through glue.

So to avoid the unspeakable, I lied to my workmates.  And to make the lie believable, I used Nanny's illness as the reason for my absence.  I said she was too unwell and that I needed to stay with her for the day.

And because I work with lovely, caring people, they believed me.
And when I returned to work, not only did they have left over birthday cake for me (which they had intended to give me the day before, when I was absent), they were also asking me all about my Nanny - offering their assistance and goodwill.  Then they sent me home early with extra pieces of cake to give to my grandparents.

I felt awful.  I wanted to punch myself in the face.
I also ate the cake intended for my grandparents.

Over the course of the next 24 hours I managed to scream at BEB for incorrectly wording a letter of complaint to a phone company, hallucinate by seeing an abused cat sitting in a shopping trolley in the car park at the end of our street (it was actually a loaf of bread) and cry hysterically on several occasions but for only minutes at a time.

Today is day three.  I have masted 72 hours without Pristiq.
And there is no turning back.

I am still dizzy and disoriented, but I no longer feel like I am walking through glue.
Instead, it feels more like I am walking on a cloud.

I just hope it doesn't rain.

Aussie Aussie Aussie! Urgh urgh urgh...

In two days, it is Australia Day.

In the past, this has been a big day for me.  My birthday is the day after, so usually I would combine birthday celebrations with the public holiday.  This would usually result in binge drinking in city bars while wearing an Australian flag as a dress.  Occasionally, this would also involve drunkenly volunteering to sit in dunking machines, where inebriated punters would pay to throw balls at a target.  Hitting the target would result in the moron sitting in the dunking machine plummeting into the water below.

Fortunately, those days are behind me.

Instead, I am spending Australia day at a friend's unit complex pool.  This could be a very smart idea, or a big mistake.

I am, by nature, a control freak.  I like things to be organised, plans to be watertight, and itineraries finalised in advance.  I also like to be assured that when someone says "Come to my unit and we can use the pool!" they do in fact know that use of the pool is possible.

The best case scenario that I can envisage of the day's events involves my friends and I retaining an absolute monopoly over the pool/BBQ area, thus ensuring unencumbered use of the amenities.  I will take up position on a deck chair perched dangerously close to the pool edge (for ease of access), laying myself in a strategic position where my stomach appears slender and my thighs appear firm.  I will stay in this position for approximately four hours, moving only to eat food which I have requested BEB bring to me.  I will sip on a maximum of two beers, knowing that any more will result in unsightly bloating to my already rounded belly.  Then, when no one is looking, I will slip into the pool for as long as it takes for the others to turn away from me, at which time I will return to the safety of the deck chair, and my towel.

I fear, however, that this may not transpire.

Firstly, how does my friend know that we can enjoy exclusive use of the pool?  She has instructed everyone to arrive at around 11.30am, at which time we will make our way to the pool/BBQ area and swim/eat/drink and listen to the Hottest 100.  This sounds all very well and good but what is the plan if the rest of her unit complex have the exact same idea, but instead have instructed their respective friends to meet at the pool at 9am? I can tell you what it means - it means I will have to parade around in my bikini in front of strangers.  It also means it is highly likely that I will miss out on the only cellulite disguise known to be foolproof - the deck chair.

Secondly, how are we to monopolise the BBQ area with our culinary treats if Barry, Robbo and Gaz and their collective throng of bogan mates are already grilling up a storm when we arrive?  I can't have my vegie sausages tarnished by their meaty residue!  And yes I know I can wrap the vegie sausages in Alfoil as I usually do, but that is beside the point.

I am already dreading getting my gear off in front of people I know, let alone the boozed-up unit dwellers who are likely to be lurking around the pool on what is forecast to be a sweltering day.  I have made a mental list of all the preening my body requires before it can go on display - shaving, exfoliating, fake tanning and of course, waxing (which I will be too cheap to pay someone to do, so will instead use Veet cream which will undoubtedly give my sensitive skin ingrown hairs and a rash). To make matters worse, post-wedding I have already gained approximately 2 kilograms.  This may not sound like a lot, but I can assure you that 2 kilograms is very noticeable due to its distribution being solely on my stomach.  At least in the event of drowning, my fellow swimmers will have something to grab hold of as they are towed to safety.

You would think that being married would strip me of such insecurities, and to an extent it has.  But lurking beneath the surface of every self-assured and bubbly woman, is a girl who seriously hopes you aren't staring at her thighs.

The lure of the pancake.

So 2010 was supposed to be the year that I pulled my finger out of my ass and actually dedicated myself to healthy eating and regular exercise.

This was my first mistake of 2010 - aiming too high.

Nevertheless, the idea had legs.  For the majority of 2009 I had dutifully obeyed a (relatively) healthy diet, and at one point was exercising EVERY DAY.  I became one of those people I used to hate - the lithe, athletic types who rise early on the weekend to run several kilometres before returning home to a bowl of porridge and half a grapefruit.  I used to be one of those people who only encountered these exercising freaks pounding the pavement at 5am because I was on my way home after another weekend bender.  But in a matter of months, my life had turned 180 degrees, and I was "engaged".

Getting engaged was a very healthy idea.  With the looming wedding ever-present in my mind, it became near impossible to enjoy eating Nutella out of the jar as I once had, and after nearly destroying my relationship after one too many beers on the last day of 2008, I had sworn off drinking.  Then the exercise followed.  Before long I was running 5km a day, which increased to a 10km fun run ("fun run" - the cruelest oxymoron of all).  But the best part was the complete shock I had when I discovered that I was actually athletic.  I had never been sporty as a kid, and my highschool sports activities consisted of trying not to vomit on the hockey field after a night of underage drinking.  Suddenly my body - that I had damaged with years of alcohol, smoking and the occasional illicit substance - was performing in ways I never thought possible.

And although my muscles ached, I had never felt so alive.

But then, the wedding came.
And it went.
And I no longer wanted to exercise AT ALL, let alone eat healthily.

So for the past two months, I have done nothing athletic.  I have eaten whatever the hell I want to eat, and I have enjoyed it.

But today, even though I am still not ready to exercise yet, I thought I would at least eat healthily.

Instead, I ate pancakes.

I would never usually make pancakes, but it seems technology has conspired against me and created this little doozie which has made the prospect of obesity well within reach -

It is called Breville Pancake Creations, but you can call it God.

You put the pancake mix in the little wells...

...close the lid...

...flip it over...

...open the lid...

...and hey presto...

pancakes!

Suffice to say, the diet starts tomorrow.