When you get dropped into the mincer life changes. Yes, you can get some form and structure back ( being rebirthed as one of those revolting fat pork sausages has been a personal insult but never mind) however the whole business screws you over.
BC version 1 I just got on with it like a good girl. This time? Porridge Woman. Sans tits and ovaries and great chunks of meat from under my arm--not, of course, the Nana wings I'd be happy to lose--on a variety of crappy meds I am, to borrow someone else analogy, a miserable Bandicoot.
Trotting off and dumping everything on a mental health professional of your choice is helpful. So is exercise. You can't turn back the clock and that, I believe, is the thing that is hardest for me. I don't stress to much about the future, but I do grieive for what has passed.
On we trudge. One foot in front of the other. Repeat. Mxxx
