Fatty, Fatty 2 by 4 …

I was eating healthy all day.

Until my husband went to the Farmer’s Market by himself.

He brought me home a small, individual Cherry Pie. My favorite.

Did he not understand anything I said to him?

Sure. I don’t have to eat it. I tried not to … but my anger at him sabotaging my efforts pissed me off enough that I gave in. I caved.

I am weak. I wish I knew how to get stronger.

On Tuesday, I had my second therapy session with Dr. N. I arrived 45 minutes early because I had that long walk down the hallway to get to her office. The length of the hallway maze to her office has been measured just under a full city block.

I was waiting for about an hour - which was 20 minutes past my session start time. I finally got up the courage to go to the front desk and ask why I had not been called yet. Apparently, they forgot to page the doc and tell her I was there, an hour ago! I told them that I was going to use the ladies’ room and if she came looking for me to let her know where I was. I mean really, there’s only so much coffee one can drink before one has to let it go.

Doc apologized profusely. I accepted.

We had the usual 50 minute session. It was a good session. I feel very comfortable with her and had no hesitancy talking to her about pretty much anything. I used the word shit to see her reaction (I’ve said before that she dresses conservatively and wears a pearl necklace, so I’m not sure what I can get away with) because I find it difficult to censor myself when I’m angry, sad, or happy. She didn’t flinch. Next session, I’ll go with the f-bomb and see how it goes. I need to be totally free in expressing myself but at the same time I don’t want to offend.

The main topic of conversation is why do I think I do what I do to myself. I really don’t have an answer and if I did I suppose I wouldn’t be in therapy. I suppose there are a lot of reasons. My mother told me for 17 years what a failure I was, that I wasn’t lovable, that I was fat, that I’ll never amount to anything, that I was fat, that I was stupid, and the list of negatives goes on and on with her. I also was told by my brothers and sisters the same thing. I was tormented pretty much on a daily basis. My mother beat me religiously, whether I needed it or not. My siblings picked up on two things: (1) my feelings were hurt very easily and (2) if my own mother didn’t like having me around, they didn’t either.

The other reason I think I eat uncontrollably is because it’s something I can do to feel momentary happiness. Until afterwards when I regret and loathe myself. But for a brief 15 minutes I am somewhat happier. Only then do I realize that I am committing a very slow suicide. Because if I can’t stop, I will be dead. No question about it.

I left home at 18 (I had a civil service job and an apartment before I left home). I was totally self-sufficient and responsible for myself. I didn’t ask for anything when I left and I never said goodbye. I just left.

I’ve married men (yes, more than one) who were either physically or emotionally abusive, used drunks and/or alcohol, and were unfaithful more than once. And made sure I found out about it. I left each of them within a year of each marriage.

Somewhere in there I had my son. The one bright and shining moment of my life that I have no regrets about. Yes, I wasn’t married. Yes, his father left me the day I told him I was pregnant. Yes, I felt that I finally had someone in my life who would love me unconditionally.

The therapist and I talked about how all the childhood things I went through, the bad marriages, the failed relationships, were all the direct result of not having any self-esteem. I got that before she said it. I already knew the reasons. I want her to tell me how I can stop my self-destructive behavior.

We also talked about what it would mean to me if I lost enough weight to make me comfortable in my own skin. Well, I think it would mean that I was back in control once again. That I wasn’t a failure.

Fear of failing is just as bad as the failure itself. I think that more than once I sabotaged my own progress because I wasn’t sure what the real outcome would be. Would I lose all this weight and finally realize that being married to my husband was probably a huge mistake and we did it for all the wrong reasons? Did I love him because he once told me that he will always love me and then proceeded to immediately back out emotionally from our relationship?

Yesterday, while husband was taking a nap, I went into the cupboard and removed 6 cookies from the package. I don’t know why. I wasn’t hungry, I just had lunch. But they sat in my sweaty palms anyways. I told myself to put them back. I was disgusted that I had taken them and asked myself, “Why am I doing this? I don’t even like these damn things.”

And so I put them back and hoped that the guys with the straight jacket were standing around somewhere listening to me talking to myself whilst trying to rationalize my taking those 6 cookies and then ultimately decided I was being pretty stupid.

Since I told my husband about the eating disorder, I’ve really been trying my darnedest to stay away from food between meals. And when I wake up in the middle of the night (3 or 4 times a night) not to wander out to the kitchen because I’m going to find something and eat it. It could even be paper bags, it doesn’t matter.

As our session ended, my mind was not focusing on what she was talking about. The only thing in my mind was that I had to walk the city block of hallways to get back to my car. Again, I was determined not to ask for a wheelchair. As I began the walk, I started out slow. Turtles probably walk faster than me. But I did it. I had to stop only once to lean against something about half way to my destination. But I made it. And I was damn proud of myself.

I’m hoping someday I will be able to do it without evening thinking about how painful it’s going to be when I finish. But in the meantime, I’m still proud of myself for not asking for a wheelchair.

As I left the office, Dr. N. gave me a packet of forms to complete before I return to her on May 8th. She wants me to record everything I ate and put on the side of the page I think it’s a fine idea.

Until next time.

I am desperate to find someone who can design my blog for me.  I had someone.  She is now unable to do it.  Once she refunds my money, I’m going to have to find someone else.  I’m totally in a funk about this because I was trying to be ever so patient since February to get my custom design.  But, it was not meant to be.

So, if you know of anyone who sells templates or does custom design - keeping in mind that like the rest of the world, I’m on a budget - please let me know.

I found the first person by doing a Google search.  Now I’d like to find someone who has been in business a while and has no intentions of quitting any time soon.

Thanks.

The Princess (youngest daughter) emailed me at 4:20 am last Thursday. Because The Queen (our cat) refuses to use a litter box and wakes me promptly at 4 am every stinking morning, I was already up.

In her email she said she wanted to take a year off from college. That after three years of college she’s not sure what she wants to do with her life. Oh. Fuck.

She’s in her junior year. Junior year, for crying out loud. And now she is confused and overwhelmed?

Try not to panic. These were the only words pinging off the inside of my brain.

Be calm. This became my mantra.

I emailed her back and said, “Okay. Well, what DO you want to do?”

Her response? “I don’t know yet.”

Okay, here’s my modus operandi.

Whenever making a life-altering decision, make sure there’s a Plan of Action. No floundering or flailing around like a fish out of water.

This always worked for me when confronting others with my changes of plans when talking to my parents, a boss, the kids, whoever.

Her main concern at that point was just to tell us and see what the fallout would be before she came up with an alternative plan.

My main concern was that I would not be able to talk her out of this and all that money spent on education, the time, the effort, the scholarships … all of it would be flushed down the proverbial toilet.

So, I didn’t panic. I said I wasn’t angry . . . and I meant it. I wasn’t angry. I was hysterical. Which, fortunately for both of us, does not show up in an email.

I wanted to go off on a diatribe about education, not finishing, losing scholarships, yada yada yada.

But I knew that this required face-to-face time. And a list. Everything must be decided with a list. It’s a required preamble to making life-altering decisions. Just in case you didn’t know.

So I emailed her again and asked her if she wanted to come home this past weekend so that we could figure out what to do and the next step to ensure that she would be able to implement her plan without missing a beat as far as returning to college goes.

I essentially bribed her with Chinese food (her favorite). Don’t laugh. It worked.

As a back story, there’s been a lot of activity this semester at her college. First, a friend committed suicide. Second, a student was accused of making “terroristic threats” and the university went into immediate lock-down for several hours until the “person of interest” was located and placed under arrest. Finally, a non-student was attacked and robbed on campus.

The Princess had seen it all this semester and it was very difficult for her to feel safe at the university.  I get that.  What she doesn’t get is that she is 2 semester away from graduating.  What she doesn’t get is that if she takes a year off, she’ll be throwing away the remainder of her scholarship funds ($6,000).  What she doesn’t get is that 72% of all people who, with good intentions, decide to take a year off from college, never, ever return.

So, we talked about it calmly.  I bit my lip through a lot of the conversation as I am sure she did as well.

The end result was that she was going to think about her decision more after finals.  Which is good because finals are enough to stress a person out without having to deal with other distractions.

We had the talk 4 days ago now.  I have not heard from her since then.  I’m hoping that she takes my advice and talks to her school counselor before she makes the leap into the abyss.

After I came home from the therapist’s office, I was contemplating my navel.  No, I was really just trying to be by myself.  I have had a lot on my mind and needed some “alone time” so that I could sort out how I was feeling about things in general.

I knew that I had taken the first step to getting help.  Seeing the therapist was a huge relief.  But I knew that I had a lot more work to do.  I decided that I can not do this by myself.  Even though I know that ultimately the bottom line is that whatever changes take place that I own them and not depend on anyone else to get me through the tough times.  With that said, I would be doing myself or my relationship with my husband any good if I approached these issues alone.

I didn’t get to this point alone.  The obvious flaws in our marital relationship took two people to materialize.  I didn’t do this all by myself.  There were two of us that got us here.  To this point.

So I decided that it was time to reveal The Secret.  I don’t remember having a conscious thought that I was just going to tell him.  I asked him a question and his answer pushed me over the edge enough to just tell him the truth.

The question I asked was this:  “Do logically believe that I have gained all this weight as a result of eating like a bird? How is it possible that someone as intelligent as you can believe something that outrageous?”

He never hesitated.  He said, “I’ve been with you 24/7.  I’ve seen what you eat.  And besides, you don’t look any different now than you did 15 years ago.”

Oh. My. God.

Tell me he didn’t just say that.

I know I sat there a good couple of minutes while I tried to lift my double chin up off the floor, take a deep breath, and say something intelligible.

I was, and still am, flabbergasted that he truly, honestly, and with every fiber of his being believed what he said.

I proceeded to inform him that while he was sleeping?  I was eating.  All night long.  Every night.

I continued with telling him that whenever I was driving in the car?  Eating.

Going to the bathroom.  Eating.

Sneaking a smoke.  Yup.  Eating too.

Getting the mail.  Eating.

I have replaced every bag of Oreo’s at least once because I ate them all while he was taking a nap and had to run out and get a new bag.  And of course I had to make sure that I also ate the exact number of cookies that were in the bag before I started eating all of them.  I don’t even like Oreos.  I like Hydrox.

Then I pulled out my driver’s license that was taken about a month after we were married.  There is no double chin in that picture.  I have beautiful cheekbones. My eyes are bright and open.  I’m smiling because I was happy and content.  My makeup was perfection.  My glasses were fashionable.

He took the photo and stared at it for a full minute or so.  Then he told me he had not noticed the changes.  Until now.

I told him that if he loved me, he would have seen it for himself.  If he loved me, he would have known.

It’s been a week now since the revealing revelation.  Do I feel better telling him?  No.  I don’t.  I feel worse.

If he had known but loved me enough not to tell me, I think I would have been a little happier.  But to be totally oblivious to what was happening to me, to us, to our entire relationship … no, that did not make me feel any better.

However, since I told him.  I’ve stopped eating when I’m alone.  Most of the time.  I had a little relapse today. I don’t know what triggered it.

His life seems to be going in the direction that there’s nothing he needs to do to fix things.  And really, other than our relationship issues, there isn’t anything he can do to fix me.  I can do that on my own.  I don’t need a daddy or a babysitter.  I needed my husband.

My secret is out.  But I don’t feel relieved.  It’s going to be a long struggle.  I have to keep one, single thought in my head every day … if I don’t change my life for me, then my life might as well be over.  Because I am not going to die because I’m obese.  I refuse to let that happen.

Will my marriage survive this?  Do I want it to?  I don’t know the answers to those questions.  Right now I have to forge ahead and do whatever it is I need to do for me.

I want to be my own hero.

Part I of this monologue is here Read Me First.

Last Monday, April 14th, I went to my new therapist. You know, the female one. I had never been there before so I did not know that the walk from the front door of the hospital to her office was a city block long. I kid you not!

It was a very long walk. It was an excruciatingly long walk for me because I walk with a cane and I’ve had some serious issues with the pain and lack of strength of the muscles in both my legs. As I was walking along, I had to lean on the wall just to be able to go forward.

She told me that the walk measures out to a city block in length. She advised me to call for a volunteer to get a wheelchair for me in order to get back to my car. I did not want to do this. In my less than logical mind, getting into a wheelchair be like giving in to the disease and I’ve taken a vow to never give in and keep fighting. I refuse to be a baby. But, common sense took over and I requested the chair.

I found the therapist to be nice. We chatted for about an hour. She talked about what I could expect from her as my therapist. We talked about my previous history and familial relationships. However, I made it very clear to her that I did not want to waste a lot of time of what my life was like before this point in time.

I know that it’s important. I understand that being neglected, abused, beaten, molested, abandoned has a direct impact on subsequent behavior. That said, I’m looking for help in dealing with my life right here, right now.

I explained to her that I’ve gotten past the crap that happened before. I’ve forgiven those that needed it. I’ve let go of the anger associated with each of those life-altering events. What I needed was a way to understand why I’m committing slow suicide with food. Because that’s how I see it.

If I was a drinker, I’d be an alcoholic. And would require the same type of help. I need the tools to get through the next 5 minutes … then the next hour … then the next 24 hours, and so on.

I felt very comfortable with her. Although I feel that she might crack under the pressure of my being too open and honest. She was, after all, wearing pearls. And she was dressed very conservatively. I tend to have a garbage mouth when I get angry and I might be a little too forthcoming about particular issues in my life.

We agreed to meet again in two weeks.

Later the evening of that same day, I had an MRI on my left knee. I was packing up a couple of boxes and was sitting on the back of my legs when I heard and felt a distinctive “POP” in my left knee. I’d heard and felt that previously … about 25 years ago when I was playing racquetball. And as a result had torn the inside left knee cartilage that had to be repaired.

I received the results from the MRI a couple of days ago and yes, I did tear the remaining cartilage of that knee. I now have an appointment with an Orthopedic surgeon. Oh joy.

So, all my medical appointments are pretty much out of the way except for the orthopedic guy. And for the most part, I’m fine with the test results … with the exception of the MRI.

For tomorrow’s post, how I finally told Hubby my secret.

Last Thursday, I went to my family doctor. He and I talked about all my quarterly blood work, my recent mammogram, and my bone density test. (I have to have a bone density test every two years because I was 22 when I had all my reproductive organs harvested from my body.)

My Type II Diabetes is still under control. My A1C test for the diabetes was 6.1. Which is normal. My liver and kidney are just fine. My blood pressure was 134/64. Which is so very excellent.

Then I talked to him about the lap banding. He told me that when the Bariatric Center opened six months ago at our local hospital he got a chance to meet with the director and was very impressed with his background in the field of weight loss surgery. He also said the following, “When Dr. B and I discussed how to refer a patient to him, your name was the first name that popped into my head.”

While it was nice to know that I was one of his patients that he thinks about outside the examining room, it was still a little bit embarrassing to know that those thoughts revolved totally around the fact that I am a fat person who needs help to lose weight. Lots of help.

Unfortunately, he does not know about the dirty little secret I live with every day.

I told my doctor that I was going to the seminar that the bariatric doctor was going to give a lecture about the lap banding process, insurance coverage for the surgery and so forth.

The only thing my doctor was concerned about was what this surgery might do to my single, solitary kidney. And quite honestly, it was one of the things I was concerned about as well. Here I was ready to let someone cut my body open because I had to protect my secret at all costs. And the cost of the surgery (other than the implication that I was too chicken-shit to reveal my secret to my husband and doctor) was that with this type of surgery I have to watch my fluid intake. Drinking too much of any fluid could cause me to vomit (because I would be drinking only sips of fluids and anything more than a sip would cause immediate expulsion). And the end result would be dehydration.

Having only one kidney means that I must keep fluids flowing fairly regularly. And I have to drink lots of fluids to keep it working at its optimal performance. If I was unable to keep fluids down or I was only able to have fluids in extreme moderation, my kidney might not be down with that idea and could cause some pretty intense and life-threatening results.

So, I left the doctor’s office thinking that I had once again dodged the bullet and did not have to tell anyone about my secret.

As I got into the car, I told my husband that I was not going to the seminar. I had a couple of reasons and they seemed fairly plausible to me and, more importantly, the husband bought into the half-truths I was telling him.

Okay, so I get through the weekend with this constant, nagging thought in my head that I needed to tell my husband what’s up. He really doesn’t have a clue and telling him would probably shock and appall him all at the same time.

I was on edge the entire weekend. I wanted to just choke my husband’s throat and watch his eyeballs pop out - all the while asking him how he could be so blissfully ignorant about what was going on with me while he sat idly by.

But I didn’t. I wanted to, but I didn’t.

Monday morning, I had my appointment with my new therapist at the hospital.

To be continued …

Okay, so I’m debating the issue of whether or not to have the lap banding done. I’ve been researching it for about a month now. While it’s not foolproof, it’s a much safer alternative than stapling. The mortality rate is significantly lower. And to be honest, mortality is not an issue for me. I’m going to be dead if I don’t do something, so why not this?

My brain will not wrap itself around the idea of having a foreign body in my body. I’m trying to look at this logically and I can’t logically justify putting plastic in my body forever. Forever. I mean who does that? Willingly?

Especially since I know the secret. The secret behind my losing weight is for me to be happy. I don’t mean just “la la la la la” happy. I mean I have to love myself enough to want it. The weight loss that is - and right now (hell, it’s like forever) I’ve never even liked myself.

I’ve never felt good enough, strong enough, pretty enough, smart enough - just enough. Until someone else loved me first. How sick is that? To base my entire life’s happiness on another person?

It’s pretty pathetic.

But, even as a child, before kindergarten, I was repeatedly treated as though I was not a good enough daughter. That I was not a good enough sister or friend. When my sister came along (18 months after me) and we started growing up together, I felt even less enough as a human being.

By the time we were in grammar school together, I always knew that she was going to be the pretty one. I knew that she was loved and adored. I had already endured physical and emotional abuse by my mother to fill two lifetimes.

My mother would dress us as twins and yet, we looked nothing alike. Ever. And while she dressed us alike, the whole time she would tell me “if you were not so fat, you could look just like your sister … look how pretty her hair is and yours is a tangled mess … why can’t you do things the proper way, like your sister  … look at your teeth - they’re so crooked, not like your sister’s perfect teeth at all … “

And on and on it would go. Oh, I’ve since forgiven my mother for her alcoholic rages and ramblings. I did not know then that she was an alcoholic. I did not discover that until I was about 23 years old and I witnessed her pouring vodka in her orange juice for breakfast. But by the time I had discovered this bit of information, I’d already had 23 years of denigration along with a side of scars on my face from a glass of milk she intentionally threw into my face.  Hard.

How do you erase all that? You don’t. No matter how hard you try 2 + 2 will never equal 4. Knowing that my mother said these things because she was a very insecure and unloved person herself who soothed her soul with alcohol can never change the pain and suffering she caused me. There are no do-overs in real life.

Anyway, I digress here. Let’s get back to lap banding vs. the brain.

I know deep, deep down that somewhere there’s a little tiny piece of my soul that no one has been able to crush or annihilate in all the years I’ve been alive. I know it’s there. I just haven’t found it yet. But, I know that if I could find it, I wouldn’t have to subject myself to going under the knife to do what I need to do in order to get healthy and feel good about myself again.

I know that if I could find that piece of my soul I would be able to sit down with my husband and tell him what’s what. Maybe.

In the meantime, while I’m trying to figure this all out, I’m going to the seminar on Thursday for the bariatric department at the hospital. Then, on April 14th, I’ve made my first appointment with a therapist who specializes in eating disorders. Maybe she can help me figure this out, I don’t really know. I’m hoping she can help me find what’s left of my soul before it’s too late. I feel like time is running out and the 11th hour of doomsday is approaching. Sound melodramatic? Possibly. But personally, I don’t think there are enough words to describe how precariously my life is teetering on the precipice.

I never think that what I have to say is important. I’ve got a lot of opinions beliefs. Some are based on experience. Some are based on facts. Some are based on educated assumptions. And yes, some are based on emotions.

Whatever my opinions or beliefs are based on, I keep them locked inside me because I’m usually afraid to speak my mind. But it depends on who I am conversing with at the time.

With my kids (okay, I admit, I’ll always call them kids even though everyone is an adult now), they always knew that if they came to me with a question or concern, I would always be able to honestly answer their questions or concerns without hesitation. It was a lot easier when they were younger, of course. Because they trusted in what I said and with time, they knew that what I said was the truth. And I never gave them bullshit or told them “I don’t know” and let them walkaway bewildered. If I did not know the answer, I would always tell them that I needed a couple of hours to figure it out and then we’d talk about it. And often I would show them where I gathered my information from and how I came to specific conclusions in any given situation.

They would tell their friends that if they ever wanted to ask me a something I was available and that I would talk about anything. No topic was taboo. But the kids always forewarned their friends that if they did not want to hear the truth … then don’t ask me. I don’t sugarcoat anything. I tell it like it is.

Knowing this about myself, I can’t for the life of me figure out why I am unable to tell my husband exactly what is going on in my life and how really pissed off I am at him for not knowing how bad things are physically and emotionally.

I want to tell him how much pain I’m in every single day.  I want to tell him that sometimes I take more of the prescribed pain medications than I should because if I don’t, I won’t be able to sleep.  That my body has gotten used to these pills and they don’t work nearly as well as they used to in the past.

I want to tell him that there are days that I go without any relief from the pain on purpose so that after the 5th day of pain I take twice as much medication as I should because I want to totally be pain free.

I want to tell him that I take this medication and I watch the clock because I know that in a mere 23 minutes I will feel as though I am floating and pain free.  And I want to tell him that I force myself to stay awake so that I can really feel every moment of numbness.

I want to tell him how really pissed off I am that he does not know any of this shit.  I want to know why he has been unable to plug into life and know I am sliding into an abyss that I may not be able to crawl out of on my own.

I want to tell him that the reason I’ve gained so much weight in the past 12 years is because he has shut me out of his life.  I want to tell him that when I lost 100 pounds it was because for the first time in my life I was profoundly and deliriously happy.  We had found each other under the most dire of circumstances, became best friends, fell in love, and got married.

I want to tell him what day it was when I knew our marriage was over and that the very same day I began eating and haven’t stopped since.  I want to tell him that when I am alone I eat nonstop.  I want to tell him about all the times I ate an entire package of Oreos and replaced them twice by sneaking them back into the house, eating a couple so it looked like the old package did the last time he saw it, and doing the exact same thing the next day.

I want to tell him about all the times I replaced Easter, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and birthday treats.  I want to tell him that while I’m buying him a non-fat hot chocolate and me a non-fat latte at Starbuck’s that I’m driving home in my car eating pastries I bought there as well.

I want to tell him that I’m still waiting for him to tell me he’s still in love with me.  I want to tell him I understand why he never will.  I want to tell him that I blame him for the weight I’ve regained because all he had to do was court me the way he did before we got married.

I want to tell him all of this right now.  Today.  I need to tell him before I commit myself to going under the knife for weight loss surgery.  Because I know in the bottom of my heart that having my stomach made smaller isn’t going to repair my heart or my head.  I know this because in spite of the fact that I know my prescription abuse and my weight are going to eventually kill me - it hasn’t made a difference knowing.

I want to tell him how angry I am at him for never stepping up like a best friend would and telling me he is concerned about my health and the weight I’ve gained.  I want to tell him how angry I am that he doesn’t know I’m eating all night while he’s sleeping, that every time he leaves the house and leaves me alone, I’m eating.

I want to tell him how really pissed off I get when he brings food home that neither of us should be eating.  I want to tell him that the reason I never have any money left in the budget is because it’s going on food.

I want to tell him how I don’t believe how stupid he’s being for believing that I eat so little and I just keep gaining weight.  I mean, wtf.  Are you really that naive?  Or totally dead inside?

Finally, I want to tell him that I feel like I am falling into a deep pit of despair and that he’s allowing it to happen.  I want to tell him I need him.  I want to tell him to help me before it’s too late.

I want to.  But I don’t know how.

I don’t know Lisa from Clusterfook.com. In fact, I’d never read her blog until today.

But all of these people do know, love, and care about her (and who are MUCH, MUCH better bloggers than myself) . . .

Miss Ann Thrope

Karen Sugarpants

Dawg

Hilly from Snackie’s World

Annie of One Thing I HATE About Today

. . . to just name a few.

Lisa is a mom, a wife, a scholar, a career woman, and from what I read in her blog today and from what I read about her in blogs written by friends and blog buddies who do know her, Lisa is an all-around terrific person to know and love.

And she is a two-time cancer survivor. She was diagnosed in the last few days with cancer once more. I have no doubt she will fight just as valiantly and courageously as she has done in the past. She will continue to be a survivor, and to me, she is an inspiration.

Miss Ann Thrope has organized a raffle to raise money for Lisa and her family. And this money will go to Lisa and her girls going to Disney World before she begins her journey to battle this evil, wicked disease one last time in her life.

I’m donating this book written by Lorelle VanFossen titled “Blogging Tips: What Bloggers Won’t Tell You About Blogging,” published in 2007. This is a brand new book, and it’s autographed by Ms. VanFossen herself.

I have a link to Miss Ann Thrope’s website detailing the raffle. There is also a “Donate” button you can click to participate. Additionally, if you have an item worth donating, please contact Miss Ann on her site.

I hope that someday I get to meet Lisa and tell her how her story impacted my own life today.

Please, go to Lisa’s web site. Read her story. But be forewarned. After reading what a wonderful, vibrant, intelligent, loving person she is, you’ll want to raffle off your husband/wife/SO just to help and support her.

Trust me. I considered raffling off my kids. Just for a second. Okay, well maybe for a half-hour.