"Everyone thinks you're cheating."

That was what A., a nurse at my local cardiac clinic, told me yesterday when I went in for my infusion of diuretic.

They were talking about the fact I was gaining weight, not losing it. I was up 2 kg from last time I was there.

I became so angry, carried so much of a "fuck you, too!" attitude. I was tempted to stand up and walk out of there. Show them, huh?

Then it all crashed down on me.

They're looking at numbers, and the numbers don't lie. If I'm not losing weight, then I'm eating more calories than I'm burning. Q.E.D. There can be no doubt, no question over this in the long run.

Yes, my diuresing has decreased drastically so now my output is no more than I'd normally kick out were I not on the drugs. That means I'm packing on more water weight. Yes, this will offset the weight loss, if any, by some amount, but all of it? No, I don't think so.

So now all my depression has returned and shit on my head. Well, poor fucking me, boo-hoo. I can't decide if I'm more depressed or angry at the nurses for what they said or angry at me for doing it in the first place.

For me, the scary part is they're right and I'm too ashamed to admit it. I don't want to eat that big a crow--it's the size of a fuckin' Thanksgiving turkey!

But I know they're right. I'm tired of lying to myself about it, tired of the "poor me" head trips, the excuses, the "it's not my fault"s, the mind games I play with myself to make sure I'm protected from realizing what I'm doing, make sure I continue on just I've always done.

Now I get to choose: Make the hard choice and stop lying to myself, start participating in my own recovery; or, make the easy choice; forget about all this as best I can and stay comfortable.