These little things

So I’m down another four pounds this week. It’s been fourteen weeks and I’m down seven stone three pounds (101 pounds or 45.8 kg). That’s a hell of a lot. Some little changes:

  • I no longer avoid stairs. I now sit upstairs on the bus, not downstairs with the drunks and the elderly. I work in a school with a lot of stairs and while I still can’t bound up them like a gazelle, I don’t make up silly excuses to not climb them any more.
  • Because I’m a slave to the zeitgeist, I watched Marie Kondo’s Netflix show last weekend and have obsessively been touching my possessions to see if they spark joy and disposing of those that don’t. I tried on every single item of clothing I own last Sunday and filled three big black bags with clothes that were too big for me. Five days later, I put on a shirt that I had kept for work. It was already too baggy. A shirt became too big for me in 5 days. This process is insanely fast.
  • My ass is always sore. I’ve lost a lot of padding there and sitting is murder. My coccyx is used to having a layer of fat between it and the chair. That’s not there any more. I’m told that this will pass after a month or so. I can’t wait.
  • My joint pains are improving so, so much. I still wake up stiff because my body’s been through a lot. And my ankles are still sore because they’ve been sore for twenty years. But my hips and my knees are no longer in constant pain.
  • I can kneel again. And I can get up after kneeling again. Come and get me boys.
  • Speaking of which, my harness fits way better than it did.
  • My skin around my chest and belly has started to sag. I knew it was coming, but I thought maybe I’d get away without any loose skin. When I last lost a significant amount of weight, in 2007, my skin snapped back to my new size and nothing sagged. But I was younger then and my starting weight wasn’t anything as high. Oh well. Battle scars to wear with pride.
  • Laundry doesn’t take as long. Partly because bending over at the washing machine is no longer an ordeal and partly because I can now take off my socks. I can now reach my feet to get my socks off at the end of the day. Before, I found it hard to reach my feet, so I’d use the big toe of my other foot to get my sock off, turning it inside out and launching it across the room in the process. Now that I can reach my feet, my socks come off without having to be turned inside out and without having to be rescued from where they’ve landed on a bookshelf or in a bin and so when I’m doing laundry, I don’t have to turn them the right way round.
  • My jacket has become a coat. I felt something at my ass the other day. I reached around to see what was fondling me. It was my jacket, which previously stopped at the bottom of my back, but I’ve lost so much bulk that it now hangs much lower and so it covers my ass as well.
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Ready?

I’m now officially three months post-op and I’m ready to be swept off my feet.

Note, this is a post about, among other things, my man parts, so mild NSFW and TMI warnings for what’s to come.

I’m still losing weight at a ferocious rate. Four more pounds down this week, so I’m one pound away from having lost seven stone. I weigh under 300 pounds for the first time in forever.

I think I’d probably still be attractive to the chubby chasers of London. My belly is still pendulous. But nothing as pendulous as before. My thighs are still thick and flabby enough for a man to spend hours with his face lost in their folds, nuzzling in the way that chubby chasers love to nuzzle. And I’m still heavy enough to pin them down with my body as they all seem to love.

But I haven’t met up with any men since the operation. I haven’t really wanted to. I know this mightn’t make a lot of sense, but I kind of feel like the weightloss gives me the same benefits that I get from casual sex. I get more pleasure from my body now than any man could offer. I find myself feeling my belly and how much smaller it is, or just staring in the mirror and smiling to myself.

That said, I’m ready for a man. A relationship man, not a sex man (though a sex man would be alright too). I’ve been saying this for a while now. In fact, in one of my favourite ever blogposts, I said the same thing two years ago. I said I was ready for a relationship. But I wasn’t.

In all my 37 and three quarters years, I have had two men with whom I had short, quasi-relationships. One was my Man of 2007, who called me his boyfriend during our feverish eleven-day relationship and made me ludicrously happy. As I say in the post about him, I was happier when I was telling other people about him than when I was actually with him. A lot of our interactions before and after sex consisted of him asking me what I was thinking about and me not being able to think of what to tell him. The second was French Train Station Platform Boy, who I write about in this deliriously happy post. Yes, he kissed me in public and chased away bullies who called me names and he worshipped my body and suggested we go on holidays together. But I didn’t take the hint. I didn’t show signs of committing. I couldn’t accept that I might be happy with someone so in love with my fat. He still texts occasionally and tells me how happy he is with his fat boyfriend.

I’m more ready for a relationship now than I’ve ever been. I don’t feel, like I did when I was at my fattest, that I have to hide, that I shouldn’t go outside, that I should just spend time alone with my books and the internet. I’m more open to people now than I’ve been in years. But it’s not just the emotional side of weightloss that makes me more ready.

On the physical side of weightloss, I can now wipe normally after using the toilet. Every poo makes me happy now. I’m not afraid to share space with others or to share my body with others now that I can say that again.

Also, I have started to get random erections again. For years, as I’ve gained weight, I’ve had to really focus to get there. Now, I wake up and hello, there he is. It’s like being 17 again. It wasn’t age killing my hardness. It was fat.

I still have reservations. Being in a relationship is far from the norm for me. I still have a quiet, solitary side, along with my social, touchy-feely side. I still have difficulty imagining myself sharing a bed or a bathroom every night. And I know that I will have issues with loose skin that will probably make it hard for my body to ever be truly sexy. But reservations be damned. I’m ready for a relationship. A real one. Come and get me boys.

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More like Twenty-FINEteen

Like Scooter, I’m back in the UK.

I had a good Christmas, all in all. I had a spectacular haul of presents, possibly the best gift haul since I was an actual child getting actual presents from actual Santa Claus.

And I didn’t die of jealousy from not being able to eat to excess like all those around me.

In the weeks before Christmas, I’d got used to my restriction and didn’t ever test it. I knew when my new stomach was full and so I knew when to stop, more or less. Predictably enough, Christmas jiggered with my wiring in this regard. I knew stuffing wouldn’t be a good idea. Nothing very bread-y has gone down well since the operation. I don’t know why I thought I’d get away with stuffing. Twice I tried sausage meat stuffing (my favourite part of Christmas dinner) (or at least of my family’s Christmas dinner – rumour has it some of y’all pagans don’t eat it) and both times, my chest nearly exploded and I had to sit down and burp for two hours. And it wasn’t just stuffing. I had two much ham and cheese for breakfast one day and had to go through a long recovery burpathon. (Yes ham and cheese and nothing else is a perfectly normal breakfast.) Don’t get me wrong. My meals were still exceedingly small, far smaller than what my 6-year-old niece was eating. I was pushing myself from 3 or 4 bites per meal to 5 or 6.

I also tried Christmas pudding, but two spoonfuls of that made me feel like I’d eaten a tractor. And I had two M&Ms, two Roses and a segment of a chocolate orange. They left me feeling fine, but I was cross with myself for taking them, because I wasn’t hungry and I’d managed to avoid all sweets completely for the last three months.

On the last few days of my Christmas holiday, I started having the same nightmares I’d had immediately before and after my operation that I was eating again and gaining weight again. I kept waking up in a blind panic that all of this was for nothing. That I was going to be broken forever.

On the way to Ireland, miraculously, I had asked for an extension belt on the plane and then realised I didn’t need it. The plane seat belt fit around me. It squeezed the bejaysus out of me but I didn’t care. It closed. I was one of the normals. Then, on the way back, try as I might, I couldn’t fit the belt on. I had to ask for an extension. All the way home, I panicked. I’d gained weight. The Aer Lingus seat belt fit me on the 23rd of December but not on the 30th. Less than three months out from the operation and I was getting bigger already. I was bound to fail.

I got home at 11:00 pm last night, checked my fish were alive (they are) and stripped out of my clothes and hopped on my weighing scales. How much had I gained? I’d panicked so much that I was convinced I’d gained three or four stone. Of course I hadn’t. In fact, this Christmas, I lost four pounds.

I measured around my waist. I hadn’t gained anything there either. Again, I was smaller. It was Aer Lingus’s fault. I hadn’t been any smaller on the 23rd than I was on the 30th. I hadn’t gained any weight or any inches over Christmas. The airplane seatbelts must be different sizes. Relief washed over me like a woman in a shampoo ad taking a shower in a waterfall. I felt like one of the apostles bumping into Jesus on Easter Sunday. I’m not dead after all! It’s all still going well. The Promised Land is still waiting.

I’ve now lost a total of 6 stone 9 (93 pounds or 42.1 kilos). This is the most weight I’ve ever lost in my life. I’ve now surpassed my record weightloss of 6 stone 6.5 pounds in 2007. Of course my starting weight then was close to my current weight now, so I still have a long way to go, but what took me a year then, hasn’t even taken me three months this time. I’m a man reborn.

It’s New Year’s Eve. For the first time in four or five years, I’m going to a party tonight so I’ll have to watch my NYE episode of the OC early to see if Ryan makes it to the hotel on time to stop Evil Oliver from kissing Marissa at midnight.

As always, I have a million resolutions. It’s weird to know that the one that’s always been my first resolution for as long as I remember is actually going to happen. 2019 is the year Connor is really going to become a thin person. So I can focus on all the other amazing things I’m going to do in 2019. It’s going to be a good one.

Happy New Year everyone! xxx

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It’s beginning to look a lot like less public humiliation

I love Christmas. Always have. In no particular order, here are the reasons I love Christmas: Fairy lights. Mince pies. Tinsel. Christmas trees. Christmas ham. Wrapping paper. Roast potatoes. Getting presents. Giving presents. Sausage meat stuffing. Bread sauce. Christmas pudding with sugary whipped cream. Mariah Carey. Wham. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. My Christmas Wish by Britney Spears. Songs with bells in the background. We Need a Little Christmas. Selection boxes. Home Alone. Driving Home for Christmas. Excited children. The ESB ad. The Penney’s ad. The Cornflakes ad. Holidays are coming. Warmth, fireplaces, silliness. Glittery baubles. Lametta. Christmas ham sandwiches. Being surprised by presents. I just love Christmas. And I really do wish it could be Christmas every day.

This Christmas will be different. I still can’t really eat, so my Christmas dinner will be very different. I’m thinking I’ll have one bite of ham, half a roast potato and two bites of stuffing. With some bread sauce if possible.

I don’t want a selection box. But I might at some stage attempt a bite of pudding. Maybe. I’m not sure I want that either. A mince pie would make my chest explode. Anything too bready irritates my new tummy more than anything else.

To be honest, that’s absolutely fine. I’m fine with not eating very much. When you don’t really experience hunger, it doesn’t feel like deprivation.

My family are still bananas, so I’m really not sure how that’s going to go. But I’ll still love Christmas, no matter how things with my family go.

I’ll also find it less humiliating. Posing for photos won’t be as bad, though I still hate how big I am.

I won’t feel as guilty on my flight for ruining the flight experience of the passenger beside me because so much of my flesh is spilling into their space. Don’t get my wrong. My elbow will still be in the space of the person next to me and the tray table won’t fold down flat in front of me and I’ll still need to ask for a seat belt extension and therefore be banned from sitting in a row with an emergency exit on it. So being fat is still humiliating. It’s just not quite as humiliating now as it was before.

Today I went for my Christmas haircut. The giant bib that the barber puts around you when they’re cutting your hair actually fit around my neck! For the first time in years. Little victories like that make going outside easier. I can walk into the barber’s with a little more bounce in my stride.

And yesterday, when I was on the Tube, I slipped my fingers between me and the armrest and they fit!

The world isn’t designed for people who are 21 stone 11 (305 pounds/138 kg) (my current weight). But it’s designed even worse for people who are 28 stone 9 (401 pounds/183 kg) (my highest weight). The world should change. But I am delighted I’m changing. Every day has thrills for me now and seven days of family drama can’t kill that!

Merry Christmas everyone! Enjoy the mince pies on my behalf!

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More more more

My hormones are ALL OVER THE PLACE. I keep getting randomly emotional – both in a good and a bad way. I get the urge to cry way more than usual in a day. But I also get the urge to run around telling everyone how happy I am. I constantly want to hug people and I’m not sure why. I find myself in the unfamiliar state of not craving alone time as much as I normally do. I actually want to be around people. I also find myself wanting to scream more than I normally do.

My body is changing around me and that’s my best explanation for what’s causing this rollercoaster of FEELINGS. My body is disappearing. I am disappearing. And of course it has an impact on my emotions. Good and bad. The story that fat people are taught by society is that our fat selves aren’t real, that the real, “good” self is hiding under the fat, waiting to emerge. And here I am, Thin Connor, getting born, killing the fake(?), less worthy(?) Fat Connor in the process and it’s beautiful and it’s all I ever wanted and I’m living the dream and it’s terrifying and I’m afraid and I want to get off.

My weightloss was slower this week, but that was only to be expected after so much strong weightloss in the last few weeks. This week I lost two pounds. My new weight is 22 stone 1 pound (309 pounds/140 kg). My total lost to date is six stone one pound (85 pounds/38.5 kg).

I’m constantly reminded of the changes in my body. Here’s what’s new this week:

  • When I’m sitting at my desk at work, I look down and my lanyard is hanging lower.
  • I no longer need to grab the headboard to lever myself from a lying position to a sitting up position in bed.
  • I have found three jumpers that I haven’t worn in about five years that now fit me again.
  • For the first time since winter 2013, I can button up/zip up a jacket and actually protect myself from the weather from all angles.
  • I no longer need to undress to pee. I can successfully use a urinal again.

This is all good. I’m doing a Very Good Thing.

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Dainty feet

My weightloss has sped up. I’ve gone from 3 or 4 pounds a week to 5 or 6 pounds a week. I’m now 22 stone 3 pounds and I’m one pound shy of having lost six stone. In two months.

I’m now lighter than I was when I started this blog 7 and a half years ago. In fact, I’m 10 pounds lighter than I was then. Little did I think when I started this weightloss blog that I’d still be writing it in 2018 having gained almost six stone and lost it again and be on the brink of finally losing enough to actually be a healthy weight within the next year.

And the weightloss is finally beginning to show. Like, it was always showing, but it’s really, really showing now. On Thursday, I met a woman who I’d only ever once before met, back in August. We have absolutely no relationship and yet she noticed. That’s the kind of weight I’ve lost.

I’ve lost so much weight now, that I’ve gone down a shoe size. That’s right. Even my feet have lost weight. I’m turning into a delicate Tinkerbell-like creature with dainty feet.

(I mean, I’m still morbidly obese, but I’m getting there.)

I bought new shoes for my new feet. While I was there I bought my first ever Christmas jumper. In M&S. Like a normal person would. I’m still not small enough to buy trousers in high street shops, but I’m not that far off it. I can definitely buy shirts and jumpers in normal shops again. And it was a joyous shopping trip. Being able to try on shoes without getting breathless and trying on Christmas jumpers that actually fit me made me very emotional.

I’ve found my appetite has decreased even more recently and so I’m eating even less than I was three weeks ago (I didn’t think that was possible) and so I’m resorting to having things like orange juice to up my calories so I don’t end up malnourished. (Imagine that being something that Connor O’Donoghue had to worry about – not getting enough calories. Oh Brave New World…)

Speaking of orange juice, it serves another purpose. Keeping me hydrated. I’m not doing a good job of this at all. I have always been bad at it. I don’t particularly like water and I don’t drink tea or coffee and before my operation I was entirely dependent on having two to four bottles of Coke Zero a day to keep me hydrated and caffeinated. I’ve finally got that out of my life and I don’t want to go back but somehow I’ve got to start getting liquids in. I’m drinking way too little. It doesn’t help that I have to sip because my new tiny stomach makes gulping hard and I’ve been having a worrying symptom.

Warning: OK. If you don’t want to read some TMI/NSFWish information, this is the point where you can stop reading the post. Rest assured I’m happy and almost certainly healthy and stop reading here. You have been warned.

Three times recently, for two or three days at a time, I’ve been pissing blood. It’s been gross but not particularly painful. I hoped and prayed it had nothing to do with my surgery. I have a feeling that lots of people think the surgery was a bad decision (though everyone has been very supportive), even though I feel as if it’s in the top five things I’ve ever done, and they’re just waiting for it to turn out to have been a mistake.

Anyway, I went to see a GP on Friday morning. Ladies and gentlemen, he was a very young and very handsome GP. Very handsome.

I told him about my symptoms and my operation. He said he couldn’t see how they’d be connected and that was a big relief. The operation was still a good idea. Phew!

He gave me a tube and sent me to pee a sample out for him. Of course I couldn’t. I only ever pee twice a day and I always get pee-shy when doctors ask for a sample.

It’s probably an infection of some sort that is reoccurring partly because I’m not well enough hydrated to flush it out. He sent me home with two tubes to fill with pee and I have to go for blood tests too. If I can’t manage to pee and bring in the samples immediately, then I’m to put my pee in my fridge. Gross.

He also examined me. Oh my word. I know visiting a doctor isn’t supposed to be sexual, but he was a very handsome doctor and he was touching my penis and asking me lots of questions about it. I gasped as he pulled it slightly to get a proper look. He asked if he was hurting me. I said “No”. I think it’s only good manners to gasp when a handsome man touches your penis. He was amazed, like other doctors before, at the tightness of my foreskin. I’m the tightest he’s seen. (Lol) That could be part of the problem. As with other doctors, he recommends a circumcision. Just you wait for my bris/bar mitzvah! It’ll be the party of the season.

Anyway, I floated in to work that day. It was such a fulfilling visit. It’s so rare to have a doctor actually listen to you. And I was delighted that the operation wasn’t at fault. And having a handsome man touch my penis was wonderful. I think that’s what I want out of a relationship. Penetration is so overrated, but a nice man who listens to you and gently feels your willy is wonderful. Work was really tough on Friday but I floated through it on the afterglow of my imaginary romance with the handsome doctor. Such a lovely visit.

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Project Rewind

I’m obliged to love my surgeon. He changed my life. But I don’t think I like him.

I had my six-week post-op “check-up” with him on Monday. Except he didn’t check anything. He didn’t examine me in any way. I walked in the door of his office and he said “Wow! Look how different you are!” He’s literally only seen me twice before in his life and I didn’t believe he could see a difference. I mean, I was still flattered because telling me I’ve lost weight is literally my favourite compliment (because society), regardless of whether people mean it. But I didn’t believe him so I started our check-up in a cynical mood.

The whole conversation lasted about four minutes. He asked me how much weight I’d lost and then told me what a great decision I’d made. He didn’t look at the surgical scars, but he told me they’d be red now but they’d fade in a few months. He didn’t really look at me at all. He basically talked most of the time about how wonderful the surgery is, like I had to be persuaded of it. L

I told him that it had all been wonderful. I said the only negative has been… And he interrupted me and boomed “all the new clothes you’ll have to buy!” He launched into another self-congratulatory tirade.

I’d wanted to talk to a doctor about the various side effects I’ve been having in terms of going to the loo. I’m sure they’re not unusual, but it would have been nice if he’d shown the slightest bit of concern. He didn’t. After a few minutes of bombast about how wonderful his surgeries are, he ushered me out again. I’ve made an appointment with a GP instead.

He’s not wrong. It has been a great success. This week I lost another seven pounds. So now I weigh 23 stone. (It’s crazy fast. 7 pounds in a week, nearly two months into a diet? That’s TV speed weightloss.)

Last week I wrote about losing the weight of four years, including the weight gained during my adventures and misadventures in Vietnam and Longford. (I’m fairly sure I’m the only person who considers time in Vietnam and in Longford to be roughly equal life experiences.)

This week the rewind project continues. I’m now at the weight I was in my magical first year living in student halls at the age of thirty. That means a number of things.

That was a year I did a lot of exercise. That year I joined the college boxing club. I started going to swimming lessons. I ran 5K and then I ran 8K. So if I’m that same weight again, I have no excuses. I can start exercising again. And it’s definitely true. I can walk up the (slight) hill to my house much more easily than I could a month ago. And I don’t need to spend the whole of Sunday lying in bed to recover from the week of work I’ve just done. Now I can actually do things at the weekend again. I’m getting my life back.

Being the same weight I was for my first year in Hall means I’m also putting the biggest slump in my life behind me. The first year in Hall was so magical and so transformative in many ways, getting to know and trust my Boys, writing two chapters of my PhD, running, and having the courage to come out to my deeply religious family and to go on dates with an actual man. I still see my adult life as pre-2012 and post-2012.

And after that first year, I crashed. I stopped exercising. I began to withdraw into myself again. I went from being emotional in a good way to emotional in a bad way. I gained weight. I had an embarrassing freeze where I didn’t write a single word of my PhD for a year and a half. It was a big slump. And I got over it. But now I’ve pressed rewind. I’ve rid myself of the weight I gained in 2013. I’m optimistic 2012 Connor again (but even better this time!)

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