I went to see my therapist today.

After about fifteen minutes of settling in and seeing where my head was at, she pushed me back into the couch, pinned me down with grim determination and a steely glare from her icy blue eyes and said, “Let’s talk about the elephant in the room.”

At first I thought she was talking about me as I have gained a considerable amount of weight recently. But she was talking not about my appearance, but about my health issues which include the trifecta of diabetes, high blood pressure and high cholesterol. If the Perfect Storm killed George Clooney, then my own personal Perfect Storm will kill me as well.

I’ve lived by the maxim that “I defend to death my right to self-destruct”, but my therapist has a whole lot of other ideas and is reading off a completely different instruction manual. “Ve haf vays of making you healthy,” is her new motto for me and surprisingly enough I am finally receptive to her authoritative stance.

It upsets her that my health is not good, but she is not judgmental, sneering, condescending, disdainful or coming from a position of moral superiority and dispending wisdom from the safety of the clouds where the normal Gods reside, she is down there getting her hands dirty in the front-line trenches with me.

Ok, so the opening paragraph may have been slightly exaggerated, but I am a creative writer after all, and I now have to be very creative in getting my body back into shape and wellness.

My children have grasped the health and wellness issue in spite of their mother being addicted to food, alcohol and cigarettes. They, along with my therapist and husband, are dragging me kicking and screaming towards a healthy approach to life, the Universe and everything else. Along with my little dog who, due to lack of exercise has grown some very long nails, hidden by her long coat which recently got shorn and showed me, in such a visceral manner, just how much my health issues were pulling her down as well.

I immediately took her to the vets, as she has an anal infection as well, also missed because of her long shaggy coat. Rather than crucifying myself, we are now simply going to start going for walks and creating a better head-space so I can look after her health as well as my own. With my dog and my therapist by my side, how can I go wrong?

I’ve been to hell and I’m still there with my weight and health issues. I prayed for anorexia at 15, discovered bulimia and laxatives at 22, was diagnosed with depression and anxiety at 33, got the gastric lapband at 35, lost it due to slippage at 42, got a second lapband at 43, lost it due to erosion at 46, quickly gained 60 pounds, and now at 47, I’ve reached the end. I’ve defended my right to self-destruct and now I’m fighting for my life and the right to self-construct. To reconstruct, reinvent and reconstitute myself. Or die trying.

I nearly died last year. Without medical intervention I would have died. If I lived in Outer Mongolia or Zambia and did not have instant access to emergency surgery I would have died due to a complete bowel obstruction, due to internal surgical scars and adhesions; this is where I thought my stomach was having a heart attack and I vomited black bile for twenty four hours under the influence of bucket loads of morphine.

I was bed-ridden for 10 days and gained 20 pounds due to masses of IV fluids. When I got out of hospital I still wasn’t getting it. I was in a life threatening situation and went straight back to my old habits; eating fatty, sugary foods and smoking and drinking like there was no tomorrow.

If I don’t stop there will be no tomorrow. Sometimes I lie in bed waiting for the call again, the excruciating pain of another bowel obstruction or a heart attack or just for something slightly different, a stroke. That would put an end to my psychology studies, writing my third book and teaching literacy skills to a bunch of people who are truly motivated to learn something new and turn their life around. I could learn a lesson from them.

My therapist, utterly beautiful, gentle, kind, wonderful, caring, healthy human being that she is, is willing to take me on another journey, this time down the road to health. I said to her that I didn’t know where to begin and we decided taking the dog for a walk was the start. Visiting an endocrinologist is second and then we will go from there. I will keep you posted on my success. I think my mental health issues will then decrease exponentially.

Being a type 2 diabetic, if I smoke and continue to have high blood sugar levels eventually the circulation to my limbs will cut off and they will wither and die and I will end up an amputee, a double amputee if I am lucky because death is the other alternative.

I’m 47, and I’ve dodged the grim reaper for a long time, but I can feel his fetid breath on the back of my neck now unless I outwalk, outrun, outswim, outyoga, outpilates out anything to get away from him.

It’s my choice.

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    Last reviewed: 17 Aug 2009