RIP 10 Stones of FAT! Laters Potatoes

YO! Long-time no see hey?

So I took a little time out from my incessant chatting of shit whilst my whole weight loss ‘journey’ was being severely dominated by the bane of my existence that is my Gall Bladder.

I have bored myself to tears many times now talking about them, moaning about them, over explaining to my boss why I can’t get off the floor because of them. Unfortunately the stones care not for my plea to FUCK OFF and remain a solid fixture until my surgeon whips the whole gall bladder out.

When will this be? How long is a piece of string, Bro? Who the fuck knows.

I do however FINALLY my Pre Op Assessment have on the 22nd on January so maybe…MAYBE we will get some confirmation. A little shiny light at the end of this pretty fuckin painful tunnel.

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Anyway, let’s move on to more pressing issues like.. ME HITTING MY FUCKIN GOAL WEIGHT.

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Yas, it happened. Now, let me first of all stress that this is MY goal weight, not my Doctors goal weight.

According to my Bariatric team I should weigh approximately 10 to 11 stone whereas for my height and build my aim has always been 12 Stone aka 168 Lbs aka 76.6Kg

Now, call me crazy but having lost 10 stone 2Lbs aka 142 Lbs aka 64.3Kg I feel quite a sense of achievement in that.

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I feel healthy happy, both mentally and physically and I whilst it’s been such a challenge adjusting my mind-set to my new diet I feel like I have a great balance I am confident I can maintain which to me is the most important thing. Not going backwards.

Going backwards, the dreaded gain, the ‘popping that one extra mince pie in at Christmas’ which will catapult you a hundred miles an hour straight back to Fatty Ville is every VSG Post Op’ers realest nightmare.

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I weighed myself this morning after a heavy weekend on the sauce in Switzerland followed by a Chinese last night upon our return.

1lb gain. MELTDOWN?  No, I’m not going down with that ship. It’s so very easy to become obsessed with the scales, too easy to beat yourself up and tear yourself down over a 1 pound gain as opposed to cheer yourself on for the other 168 that you have actually lost.

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Today I’m back on my protein shake breakfast, my skinny decaf and my high protein low carb lunch. That lb will have fucked off my Friday and life shall go on.

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I’m guessing what you want to know by now is what happens to someone’s body when they lose 10stone?

Okay, the truth. My truth at least.

My tits are fucked. They look like suet puddings.

Nice with chips & gravy but not what you want stuck to your chest. When I lie down I feel like a 6 year old boy. My ribs stick out higher than my boobs. Not ideal.

Weirdly it’s not like they’ve sagged, just deflated. Could I have picked a more apt blog name before this all happened? Maybe I jinxed myself. Ace

Next is my arse. ‘What arse’ I hear you say? Exactly. It’s gone. The only reason I know I still have one is thanks to my constant state of protein induced constipation.

Belly? It’s defo like jelly now. I kind of like it. Feels like velvet when I’m in the bath and I squidge it all together.

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Will I need plastic surgery? Maybe. I 100% want my boobs reflated.  I have always had jugs a plenty and I miss them greatly. Plus it would be nice for my Fiancé to revert back to my original nick name of ‘Big Joooceh Titties’ as opposed to the ‘Tiny Cupcake Tits’ he calls me now.

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Urgh.

Is Belly Gonna Get Me?

I weighed myself today and I have lost NO WEIGHT in the last 7 days.

NOT ONE FUKIN POUND.

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I had my surgery on the 21st April 2017 so that makes me 4.5 months post op. I feel this is a little early to just stop losing weight, no?

Is this ‘THE STALL’ I hear people refer to or is this just a bad week? HOW DO I KNOW?

I’ve been lax on the gym front this week thanks to 29847489384674830905058 viewings on my flat cutting into gym time but I’m PUMPED now to get back into my routine as I fear missing even only a few sessions has now collapsed my whole weight loss system and I am likely to explode into a huge ball of fat by Sunday.

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Tell me this isn’t so? Tell me this is just a bad week?

I talked myself out of cutting my excess fat off with some gardening shears this morning in the panic my slimming run was all over.

I joke, I joke. As if I own any fuckin gardening shears. I barely own a razor.

Like, what if this is it? What if by rule I was unable to lose any more weight? Would I be happy now? Would I be satisfied?

I weigh up the pros and cons

PRO – I am for the first time since birth a UK size 16 – come hit me up on Instagram to see the evidence you fuckin bbz @lillibee

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CON – My jelly belly still dominates my life

PRO – I feel less like I’m about to keel over and die

CON – My jelly belly still dominates my life

PRO – I think I’m going to live past 43 years old.

CON – My jelly belly still dominates my life

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Okay so you get le’jist?

So, I guess in a nutshell, yes, I could be happy now. I am happy now.

Of course I am highly dramatic and appreciate in reality is has only been a week but I feel it’s good to mentally prepare yourself for all eventualities, right?

2stone 12lbs is all I have left to lose to be GOAL SMASHED HAPPY. It’s so fuckin close bro.

I’m going to ramp up the efforts from now on. I was never sure I could ramp up the efforts considering how little I eat but it’s time to go all out.  PS… loving the word RAMP.

I’ve binned off all breakfast alternatives for strictly Protein Shake goodness, invested in a bulk buy from My Protein with treats such as Protein Pancakes, BCAA and Impact Diet Whey as well as a host of protein packed goody treats from Eat Natural. Which are LUSH BTW.

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Even Flearoy aka Leigh my long suffering beaut of a fiancé (of 1 year this week a thank yor) is all over getting on this ultimate health kick with me.

He blates loving our new sex life too, I reckon that is his motivation behind keeping our belly’s bound. GWARN LAD.

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Free Date With Every Gastric Sleeve? Bargain.

3 month check in with my Surgeon. ROMEO DONE!

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She’s like legit the cutest woman I have ever seen in my life and to think that she was capable of pumping my torso out like a fuckin Puffer Fish and slicing my insides up like Sushi just blows my mind every time.

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She called me a ‘Star Pupil’ and not to gloat but I totally would have buzzed HARD if she’d have given me a badge.

Honestly my experience with the NHS has been nothing but amazing so far which I think its fuckin immense considering the cuts and the intense pressure these fuckin KWEEN’S are all under.

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Maybe the customer service mark was slightly overstepped yesterday when my Dietitian (Let’s call him DIET MAN) asked me out for a drink. I DIED.

SIDE NOTE-

To all that know me IRL will have heard me speak glowingly about DIET MAN pre op.

He was such a huge help and really pushed hard for me to get approved in those final stages considering id been lost in the system several times.

He gave me his number, his pager and his email and was more than happy to have me peck his head and chase up ‘The Board’ to see if my case was in motion.

On reflection. That bitch was KEEN as.

Sat waiting patiently after the glorious catch up with the super fuckin ace Surgeon I scrolled away on my iPhone waiting for the next session to start.

 In walks DIET MAN.

 DM – ‘Catherine, you’re looking great’ WINK 

 Me – Smiles awkwardly forever unable to accept any kind of compliment with grace.

 DM – ‘Yeah, really great. You know, now you’re post op maybe it’s time we grabbed a drink or a coffee sometime. If you fancy?’

 At this point I went straight into THIS MUST BE A JOKE SO LET’S TAKE THE PISS MODE.

 Me – ‘Why are you only just asking me now? Was I not slim enough before you FATTIST?’

I’ve never a pasty white face turn purple quite so fast. I didn’t even have time to laugh and reassure him that I was, of course only being LOL x 10000

I mean, of course I’d never go out with him. He’s rancid. And I’m engaged. But still, I was joking all the same.

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He ran out of the room.

I went back to scrolling on my phone wishing to die before being called into my next Fatties session catch up.

I strolled in. DIET MAN was leading the session. JOY.

I plodded over to my favourite chair in the back corner. He didn’t look at me once.

Oh YAS. Still got it.

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ACID HOUSE – not the fun kind.

Acid reflux is legit worse than having crabs, thrush, toothache and I'll go as far to say, aids.

So I've mentioned previously my newly contracted intolerance to 'gluten' – I hyphenate this as I'm still not 100% convinced at its legitimacy.

Anyway, I've been suffering on the regs now with all sorts of fuckin aches and pains. And guess what, it's not just fuckin gluten that's triggering it.

Oh ace. So what? I'm now intolerant to seemingly anything with any taste or flavour.

My long standing / suffering friend (holly) we'll call her that because that is her name. She asked me 'what happens if you can't ever eat again properly, will you keep losing weight until you…' she paused realising the only option was that I would disappear into thin air.

It raised a valid point. If this farce continues and my body won't allow me to eat anything bar lettuce and grilled chicken, will I continue to lose weight until I look like Mac of the 80s fame – Mac and Me?

Is this a potench sitch that I need to prepare for? Like, it's cool if so. I just need to prepare my mind and wardrobe to flex some Gollum chic init.

I guess that's one caveat of concern but back to the matter in hand.

ACID. Not the fun kind you buy from the Trippy Hippy when you're 17 and end up in hospital tripping your tits off thinking you've turned into a Percy Pig thanks to your baby pink pigtailed hair.

Acid reflux. Wah wah waaaaaaah.

I've spoken to my GP and dietician several times now and they've confirmed I was taken off lansoprazole far too soon. Post op from the Gastric Sleeve surgery they recommend you take this for a year following the operation.

Oh sweet Dr Fernandez. The fuckin Bain of my existence only prescribed me a second month of the mediation as 'that's all that I will require'

Thanks, dick head.

I wish I could grab her face with my bear hands and transmit the pain from my abdomen into her face for 10 whole second and then, only then will she give a shit about my medial complaints. SHE IS A BEAST.

Okay maybe not quite Harold Shipman but she's got that sordid edge of the misery in her locker man. Trust me.

Anyways. I won't complain too much. My recovery so far has been textbook man. My life is totally normal. I feel ace. I weigh less. Yes, okay so I can't eat without severe pain 8 out of 10 times but HEY. You can't have everything can you?

Also, today I'm wearing dungarees from ASOS.

NOT ASOS CURVE. Just standard ASOS. Why, because look.

Today's weigh in figure. Not bad going for someone who loves food more than life itself.

Mmmmmmm food. I miss you old friend.

Witness The Poor Fitness. One Hope One Quest.

I went running this week. Me. Yes. I.Went.Running

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I’d like to say this has become a standard part of my daily routine but NO.

3 reasons why:-

1 – I can’t run. It’s hard. It’s so tiring. I’m so unfit. I’ll die. I’m dead.

2- My tits are too big. Sports Bras are NEVER to be underestimated. I have a new found respect or every woman, ANY woman who can run and not die. I’ve done my research and will now purchase the most supportive straight jacket’esk Shock Absorber Sports Bra that has ever existed.

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3 – I bought the wrong size running pants. This seems like a silly thing to do, right? See, I’ve always sized up my entire life, bought a bigger size to ensure I’m not bulging out or busting at the seams. I need to stop doing this. Get measured. Mentally accept that I can and need to wear smaller sizes because that’s what my body is now, smaller. It’s hard to get my head round. Do you know what happens when you run with pants that are too big? They fall down. A lot.

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Picture a first time runner in the blistering heat with her tits flying around her head and pants round her knees. That was me. It was not cool.

Aside from that I did actually enjoy it. I could feel the burn. Literally. My thighs were fucked for 3 days later. I see runners now along the canal and give them the secret nod. You know the nod? It’s what we pro runners give each other to be like ‘Yo, cool run bro’

They still don’t seem to give me the nod back yet though. Maybe it takes more than 5 x 1 minute stints? Hmmmm.

Now as we will all be aware this week has been hotter than the fiery pits of hell. Hotter than Tom Hardy smothered in Foie Gras with an Apricot Jus and a pinch of black pepper. Jesus man I’m salivating.

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I usually hate summer. I still kind of do but for very different reasons this year.

I live in London and have to travel from East to West on the Central Line twice a day so my life is always going to be somewhat Les Miserables until the day I win the lottery and that shit commute can bounce.

The Central Line for those that don’t know is the most intense form of social torture one person can endure so you can imagine there’s a lot of sweat knocking about. A lot of body odour. A lot of, how shall we say, scent. Vile

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I also partake in this sweating shindig. Its 154862545932 degrees. Why would I not? But I do feel a certain change in my sweat patterns. I get hot, I chill and I cool down. This sounds like a standard format for sweating I know. But this is new to me.

I used to sweat, get worked up about being the hottest person alive, panic everyone would notice I was the hottest person alive, get hotter, then hotter, then die, never stop sweating, lose my breath, have an asthma attack then eventually cool down.

As of today I have lost 4st and 10lbs. That has made a HUGE difference to the smallest of things. Health was always my main objective and it’s reassures me every day of my decision when little things like that make a difference.

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The Running Man part deux will take place with week. Pray for Lilli B yo.

Chins Up, It’s All Gravy Baby

3 major things have happened this week.

1 – I’ve shrunken into AND grown out of one of my ‘thinspiration’ skirts in what seems like the space of a week.

2 – I’ve lost another stone + 1 extra lb since my last weigh in on the 12th of May.

3 – I only went and joined the fuckin gym. YAS KWEEN.

All of the above are of course wonderfully ace and I am elated to be seeing such results but by the end of this month I will literally be dressing in bin bags unless I stock up rapid on threads as most of my clothes are edging from ‘casually oversized ‘ to straight up 90’s Hip Hop vibes. A look I’m confident I cannot pull off.

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I’ve set up somewhat of a rotator system. Buy clothes – wear 3 weeks – sell clothes – buy new clothes. This is working well man. I can’t replenish my whole wardrobe when weeks after purchasing I look like a deflated Sea Urchin from The Little Mermaid in my new garms. Fuck that bro.

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The gym has been an unexpected delight to me. I’ve always asserted myself as a firm believer in the bold statement ‘ALL GYM’RATS ARE TWATS’ but that’s not the case. I feared the scathing looks of ‘what is SHE doing in here’, the snarky comments of… I have no idea what I even thought these ‘Gym Rat’s’ would say. I just knew I detested the place and all it’s members would no doubt be wankers.

Me, generalise, noooo. Urgh. I’m a twat.

I am a total convert. I fuckin love that fact the gym, well, my gym is such an eclectic mix of fat old women, chubby new mums, ripped to fuck Stedhead’s with bodies like bubble wrap. I’m learning to buzz hard off them all.

I’ve even started taking Gym Classes. Okay, I joined 1. And the instructor didn’t actually turn up. But fuck it, I joined, right?

As I lose weight and gain confidence I’m realising the confidence is nothing to do with the size or shape of my body. Without getting all deep in yo’ass (that’s a saying, right?) I now know the confidence comes from within. I know, I know… ‘Shut the fuck up Lilli’ but seriously man, its confidence in yourself that you can actually do this. You’re not unfixable. You can do 3 more minutes on that fuckin treadmill.

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As for losing the weight, my once super tight muscular calves are now soft and podgy like high quality goose down pillows. My fat butcher’s arms and now flabby butcher’s arms and my boobs have definitely started to shrink. Leigh is monitoring them on the regular and is not shy of telling me I will soon have ‘Nana Tits’. I tell him I don’t mind this. I can buy new ones. HUZZAR. Lilli 1 – Leigh 0

 

Desperately Seeking Stella

I tried booze for the first time in 7.2 weeks.

I had no intention of doing so until my dietitian session last week, turns out everyone in my post fatty crew admitted to having a few ‘cheeky’ bevvies on week 2.

I was straight edge man. And it felt so very dark.

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That night I sent Leigh to the shop to get me a sick bottle of Riesling as I’d been craving this since our Berlin jaunt earlier this year.

Guess what he came back with?

Blue Fuckin Nun. Okay so yes, technically this is a Riesling, technically. But the last time I drank Blue Nun was at G ’Nan’s kitchen table with Sunday Dinner with I was 12.

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God bless G’Nan for always keeping my glassed topped up even as a nipper.

Old school as fuck man.

It tasted decent though, just the mental recognition I was drinking booze was enough to settle my misery. I had approximately 5 sips of this shit before my face flushed red like the colour of Mars. Was I pissed? Was I having a reaction? Was I due on?

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I went back to my water. My safe place.

Leigh’s family were visiting this weekend so to join in the famalam camaraderie I decided to treat myself to a plush bottle of plonk from good ole’ Marks & Sparks.

3 sips this time. It tasted like shit.

My dietitian warned me my taste buds would change, things would taste different. Not always with nice results.

Had this happened to me?

So I CAN’T drink beer because of the fizz, I get this, it’s a no go area. My stomach will burst out my arse hole. Fair play.

But what if all wine in the world now tastes like dog shit? Do I just endure it for the sake of having 3 sips of booze?

I’ve always loved the taste of alcohol 😦 WEEP

I don’t want this pleasure to be taken away from my mouth box. What will become of me?

Kate Moss one said ……….

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Well, Kate. YOU ARE WRONG. Camden Hells tastes better than being skinny. So does Rum, Port and Stella to name a few.

Kate’s a cunt.

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I shouldn’t panic as this stage, should I?

I’ll try a few more alternatives. Worst case scenario is I live the rest of my life with Blue Nun as my tipple and try and make it my ‘quirk’.. that will never work.

Urgh. This is all Kate’s fault.

PS … I got new hair.

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