Diet Schmiet

I have a love/hate relationship with Weight Watchers. Generally, over all, I love it. But some days? Oh, how I loathe the WW.

I've always been a bit on the "heavier" side of things. No one in my family is particularly petite; mostly due to our "healthy appetites". We've never substituted butter and 'low fat' was the equivalent of 'no flavor' in my house. I didn't even know what a portion size was until I was in my 20s and Burger King was the only one cooking in my house for a period of time. So, needless to say, I was a pudgy thing in high school and the freshman 15 dorm-life padded me even more. Then, when I started this job, I stress ate to add another plumping 20 pounds.

I should mention now that I hate exercising. Hate. Abhor. Loathe. I am a tried and true couch potato. What I hate the most about it is sweating. The feeling of sweat is so... gross. Especially when it drips between my boobs or down the crack of my ass. Eeeyeew. I shudder writing this thinking about it. If I'm sweating, it better be because I'm laying in the sun working on my tan while drinking a cerveza; not because I'm on a treadmill. Any weight loss I'm doing has to be either through osmosis or diet.

Also, I carry weight funny. I am not one of those people who equalizes it everywhere. I carry 90% of it around my stomach. I have a severe case of spare tire. With a love handle complication. Muffin-top should be my middle name. Because it happens no matter what pants I wear. It's pretty disgusting, honestly. I try to pretend it's not there and hope everyone else does too. I've taken to wearing baggy sweaters a lot to cover it. I don't want to look at it - why should anyone else have to?

I was pushing 210 pounds on a 5'5" frame when I became pregnant with Keian 3 years ago. Apparently my husband didn't mind the extra flab - more cushion for the pushin? Anywhoo... I was quickly diagnosed as having gestational diabetes, which resulted in a strict 'light carb' diet. Which I followed religiously for the first about 6 months. Taking my blood sugar 4 times a day got really old, really quick. I am in awe of the people who have to do it day in and day out their whole lives. I know for sure I couldn't do it.

As a result of the diet, and the daily puking for the first 20 weeks of pregnancy, I weighed 185 after I delivered. I lost 25 pounds while pregnant. And stayed there for some time, despite breast feeding (which I was TOLD was supposed to help with the weight loss. Liars.)

Fast forward a year. I have a friend I met at work whom I love dearly. She was also on the larger side (but carried it MUCH better than me). She moved on to greener pastures in another state shortly before I delivered my son. I was talking to her one day and she told me she'd lost SEVENTY FIVE pounds on Weight Watchers. She talked it up real good, telling me how easy it was and how much she loved it. I was feeling pretty good about the 25 I'd lost already, but knew I wasn't supposed to be at 185 either. As it was, my size 16s were pretty tight. She talked me into joining.

I did the 3 month online stint starting Sept 1, 2007. I lost another 25 pounds, dropping me to 160 (25 short of my goal weight of 135). I was a size 11 and feeling pretty good. When Dec 1st rolled around, I cancelled. I decided I knew enough about counting points, what portion sizes looked like and what a normal meal should consist of. Which I still firmly believe. I thought I could continue it on my own and just forego the tedium of entering every. thing. I. ate. However, I got lazy and fairly quick. I stopped thinking about food and just ate. Whatever I wanted. Whenever I wanted. I began stress eating again and Dairy Queen was almost a daily staple. I put 15 pounds back on pretty quick. And was back into my size 16s.

So, last month, my job decided to pay for WW. A whole bunch of coworkers decided to try it out and talked me into recommitting. So I started. At first, I was really into it, but quickly remembered why I stopped. Because I suck at documenting my food. And counting my points. The monotony kills me. I've done well enough so far - I've gone from 177 to 165 in the last month. That's with using all my flex points (and even going way over two weeks in a row). I've decided there is a skinny bitch in there somewhere wanting out. I just keep shutting her up with cake and french fries.

This takes me to why I hate WW. It makes me feel guilty. Yeah, there's all the talk about flex points giving you the ability to eat what you want... and talk of it being okay to eat junk in moderation. But it doesn't take into account PMS. Bad days at work. Potlucks. Lush-ism (NOT to be confused with alcholism). Things I run into on at least a monthly basis, if not more often. I *try* to be good, but damn it... when things go bad, you can find me at a burger joint, wolfing down a double cheeseburger with a large fry and a chocolate milkshake. Thinking "fuck it" all the while. And enjoying the hell out of all the calories.

Later, when I go to enter the points, the computer never fails to immediately start guilting me. It starts by putting my overeating numbers in red. Then, it begins commenting on "ideas for when you plateau" (ie - stop gorging yourself). Finally, it puts on my little graph the fact I didn't lose for that week. Sometimes I seriously expect a little arm to come out of the screen and squirt lemon juice in my wounds. When you enter a 5000 calorie meal, it should pop up with a short yes/no form: "Are you PMSing? Did you have a bad day today?" if the answer to either/both is yes, it should just ignore that meal. And send you flowers in the mail. Because THAT'S a diet I can get behind.

To Whom It May Concern:

Fuck you.

This is my new favorite quote, found on a t-shirt website. Unfortunately, I don’t have the balls to actually wear it. Or the money to buy it. Why does it amuse me so? Because if you think it concerns you, you deserve to fuck off. And if you know better than to think it does, well, then it doesn’t. So you’re safe. Moral of the story? Don’t take things so personally. It’s not about you.

Why the negative attitude? I’m not entirely sure, but I’m like 99% positive my job is killing me. I don’t have any solid proof – I can’t exactly x-ray myself and say “yup. There it is. The DHS cancer. Let’s remove it and make everything better.” However, I am pretty sure this job has morphed me from a fairly happy, well balanced person into a numb shell of a shmuck. A ‘sad sack’, as my friend Leah would say to my great amusement.

Let me back up. I’ve always been a sarcastic, “glass is half empty” kind of person. I don’t know why… but it’s how I’ve always been. I’ve always found humor in the dark side of humanity. I remember one time when I was about 8 years old, I was at a friend’s house and told this joke I thought was HILARIOUS. I don’t remember the joke now, but the gist of it was something about a beheaded woman in a river. My friend’s mom flipped out. Totally freaked. She told me it was so inappropriate and scorned me; she made me feel about *this* big. Needless to say, I think I saw that friend like 3 more times before her mom cut me out all together. It was the first time in my life I recognized something was a little different in the way I saw things.

My parents are partially to blame, I think. They are both wonderful people I wouldn’t trade for the world who did the very best they could with what they had. At times, of course, I didn’t see that, and still question some maneuvers, but realize parenting is a learning process. I love them even more for their mistakes and don’t get the chance to let them know often enough how much I appreciate them.

The reason? Let’s go back to the above assertion – my job is killing me. I have worked for Child Welfare for a hair over 5 years now. In intake for 3.5 years, screening for 1.5. For those of you who don’t know, screening is the unit that takes the reports of abuse/neglect and decides if they meet eligibility for assignment. Intake workers are the ones that – you guessed it – assess those reports. Let me give you an idea of what that workload looks like. There are 7 screeners currently. A conservative average estimate says they take 7 calls a day each. Sometimes its slow, sometimes we’re slammed. We’re looking at roughly 50 calls a day (or 250 a week). Of those calls, I’d say there are on average about 10 assigned per day (or 50 per week). There are currently 18 intake workers (including me). Again, sometimes its slow, sometimes we’re slammed. So… as a screener, you answer the hotline calls and listen to people report gnarly abuse. Over. And over. And over. Day in and day out. You kind of have to take it with a grain of salt and distance yourself from it. Depersonalize it, if you will. If you associate each call with an actual living human being; a child, nonetheless, you would literally go crazy. No joke. Complete mental meltdown from the daily vicarious traumatization.

How about intake? Let’s up it a notch. Not only do you have to hear about the alleged child abuse, but you have to see it. Over. And over. And over. Day in and day out. And there are all kinds of abuse. It goes beyond the hundreds of bruises and broken babies you hear about (and I’ve seen) – it cuts much deeper. To hold a severely emaciated toddler you just took from a home 4 feet deep in garbage, rotten food and feces everywhere is a totally different story. Or the brave 10 year old you have to watch relive the most traumatic sexual abuse imaginable while trying to protect their own modesty. The children who watch their mother get beaten every night and think nothing of it because that’s the way it is. The meth addicts who sell their food stamps for a high instead of feeding their kids. These are not works of fiction or stories made up; these are actual living, breathing families in our own back yard. And the scary thing? There are SO many of them. All over our county and our state. All over the nation. These issues are not unique to Lane County.

Sometimes, what's harder than seeing these kids is seeing their parents. Many of them have no idea the effect they've had on their children. Most are so far in denial about their issues, or blame others for their situations. Of course, I am the bad guy. My intervention is the problem, not the original presenting situation. They were doing just fine before I came along. Many people seem to have the misconception we just randomly knock on doors and accuse people of things. No one ever likes to consider there are people who worry about their children's situations and call us for a reason. Due to the resistance I face, I have been called pretty much every name in the book. More than twice. My life has been threatened. By credibly violent people. I have talked to murderers, rapists, thieves and dealers. People who have assaulted police officers. Our lack of protection (and lack of support) can be the topic of another blog, but suffice it to say when law enforcement wants to strong-arm people, they threaten to call Child Welfare. We don't have anyone bigger than us to use for leverage.

Having done this work for 5 years has changed me. Has made a dark mark on my soul. I know, I know… cue the dramatic violin music and light some “woe is me” candles. I’m not looking for sympathy – I write this with the sole purpose of getting it out of my head. Because it is killing me. I don’t need confirmation or recognition. Don’t get me wrong – it is nice and I will take it, but it’s not the point.

Writing about things is cathartic. I like to consider myself pretty articulate and like-able (I could be way off base, but…). However, there is something more permanent – as well as fluid – about writing things down. There is no misinterpretation, no trying to remember what was said, no discrepancy. Everyone gets the same information. It’s nice to be able to get things out of my head; especially when it helps others to understand where I’m coming from. What better way than to blog?

The problem is I’m lazy. I always have been. I’m all about going the extra mile for someone else, but when it’s about my business? I’d rather not. Again, I’ve always been lazy (the minimum is good enough for me!). But lately? Lazy doesn’t describe it. I think "clinically depressed" might be a better term. I have all the classic symptoms Here is a list I found online:

• difficulty concentrating, remembering details, and making decisions
• fatigue and decreased energy
• feelings of guilt, worthlessness, and/or helplessness
• feelings of hopelessness and/or pessimism
• insomnia, early-morning wakefulness, or excessive sleeping
• irritability, restlessness
• loss of interest in activities or hobbies once pleasurable, including sex
• overeating or appetite loss
• persistent aches or pains, headaches, cramps, or digestive problems that do not ease even with treatment
• persistent sad, anxious, or "empty" feelings
• thoughts of suicide, suicide attempts

Yeah, I have all of them. Except the last one. Ain’t no one getting rid of me any time soon – ‘specially not me. You better believe I'm going out in a blaze of glory. And hopefully not at the hands of one of my clients.

So… several of these feed into themselves and my lack of living in general. I hate making decisions. HATE it. I make life altering decisions every day for people. MASSIVE decisions. I don’t have a God complex, but I sure have a fuck of a lot of power in my job. Power I am neither qualified to have nor am I confident enough to master. So, after a day of deciding weather or not to break apart a family and put a child in foster care, the LAST thing I want to do is decide what to make for dinner. Honestly, the little decisions piss me off. The other thing I do all day? Talk to people. About life. So, when I get home, the last thing I want to do is call anyone and discuss… life. Mine. Let’s discuss how my situation is fucked up. Yeah… so not for me. Anyone who knows me knows I suck at phone calls. Because eventually, my two least favorite questions come up: “how are you?” and “what’s new?”

I can’t ever answer these questions. Why? Because I don’t know what to say. People who don't work in my job don't understand. I can explain it for hours, but they don't UNDERSTAND. Due to such, my best friends and support people are coworkers. They get it. They know what it's like. Others try (I do have the best, most supportive husband ever, but he can only help so much). So when people ask, I just answer the generic “things are fine” and move on. I don't bother explaining it. Which I think people mistake for me not wanting to talk to them. Which doesn't help my whole lack of communication thing. I don't call for weeks, then when I talk to people and they ask how things are, they get “things are fine.”

Now, I know what you're thinking. There is more to life than my job. My job does not define me. And there is and it doesn't.. Don't get me wrong. As mentioned above, I have the best husband in the universe. And the most awesome toddler who never ceases to amaze me on a daily basis. They are my life; without them, I have no idea who or where I would be.I can assure you, though, it would not be a good place. I also own my own home and have 4 kitties who worship the ground I walk on. However, I do spend on average 50 hours of a 168 hour week working. That is a third of my life. And another third sleeping (or trying to). When I'm not working, the stress I endure thinking about my job – did I make the right decision? What will happen tomorrow? Did I forget to call anyone? Will the paperwork get done on time? And on. And on. And on. It keeps me up at night. Seriously. And you can be guaranteed at any random moment, if you were to ask me what I was thinking about, the answer would be work. Even if I'm watching TV.

So... what to do? The easy answer would be “get a new job, dumbass”, which I'm sure many of you are thinking. It's not that easy. For many reasons. One, we are a single income household. We've talked about changing that many times, but have decided for now, it makes the most sense. My husband could get a job, but for now, my skills are much more applicable to the state of the economy (which we all know SUCKS if I wanted to find something else anyway). That and we would hate to put our son in a situation where we put him in daycare and my husband works just to pay the bill. That would be so stupid to pay someone else to raise our son. Oh, and have I mentioned we investigate all concerns reported about daycares? So you can bet your sweet ass after I've been out on all the “good” daycares in the area I'm keeping my baby home. Until he's 30. Forget school too; we investigate them as well. That's a whole other blog in itself. Suffice it to say he'll be home-schooled as well. Screw his social development.

Part two of the ongoing struggle is I make the most money in my field possible for this area. It isn't much, contrary to popular belief, but it's the best out there. And I have benefits; which is much more than most can say right now. I would have to take a pretty drastic pay cut to move on. Which isn't feasible when I'm the sole breadwinner.

Part three is that I really, truly to enjoy my job. And I love my coworkers. I will never, ever, find a better group of people who truly understand my personality and sense of humor. Because they have it too. I do very much enjoy the fast paced-ness of the job. I like that I'm not tied to a desk and I am free to work within my own schedule. I like talking to kids and having a positive change in their lives (even if it is initially for the worst). I like feeling important and needed (even if I'm constantly told the contrary).

But I don't know how much longer I can go on. Moving isn't an option right now for many reasons I won't bore you with. So, essentially, I am stuck. I'm trying to make the best of it. I'm very much an internalizer and tend to think about things and try to solve my own problems without burdening others. I've taken to talking more and asking for help. I think letting people know about the situation helps too - so people can know where I'm coming from and know when I don't want to talk, it's not about them. It's about me. As I said, blogging helps. I just have to find the time for it. Medication helps too, but I can't rely on it forever. You shouldn't have to take an antidepressant to go to your job. Nor should you have to pop a Xanex before Court, for fear you may have a nervous breakdown in front of the judge, attorneys, your clients and peers.

Mostly, being a CPS worker is a hell of a lot of sacrifice with very little reward. I'm trying to make the best of it with the limited tools I have. Humor and sarcasm are my main defenses. So, with that said... fuck you if you can't take a joke.