A few years ago I had megaliposuction. I guess the first question most people ask is was it worth it - and the answer is - I don't know. In some ways, I'm glad I did it, in other ways it seems like a waste of money. I could have got the same effects for free with diet and exercise but maybe the lipo was the catalyst for me to do those things. It's hard for me to say.

I guess I should tell the story from the beginning. See there are a lot things that lead up to the decision, a lot of interconnecting events. For several years prior, I'd been spiralling into a deep depression (with the associated weight gains, and I hadn't exactly been petite to start with).

For a long time I couldn't figure out why I'd gotten so depressed. It seemed to come out of nowhere. But I think I'm getting a handle on it now. My sister and I decided to produce a television show for community television and around the time we took that on, all manner of weirdness was happening in our lives. But we became so busy and so focused on the tv show that all these other things got pushed to the background. Once that was over and I had time to actually think about my life, everything caught up with me and my life went pear-shaped.

Within a space of a few months, these things happened:

I was hospitalised with gallstones and had my gallbladder removed. This wasn't so strange or upsetting itself but it always hard dealing with illness and bad health.

A month or so later, my sister and I were out on Fitzroy St. We used to drink a lot and, that night, we were drunk. I'll be honest, very drunk. We got talking to a couple of guys and it turned into an argument. We probably started it, we were drunk after all. Next thing I know, one of the guys, and we are had my sister around the throat so I jumped in to help her. Another of them began punching me in the face. Then they took off. I mean I can't remember exactly what happened but it was something like that.

So we were pretty shell shocked and not sure what to do. We wandered up the street looking for a cab, when the guys (and their girlfriends) came back down the street. One of the guys yelled out for me to apologise. I told him to fuck off; he flew into me, knocking me across the street and onto the road while his girlfriend screamed that it was my fault and I deserved to be beaten.

I had one of my teeth chipped and a big cut down my face. Some guys had been standing nearby and they took off after the guy that hit me. Their friend stayed with us and called the police. The police turned up but the guy who'd done it was long gone by then.

I was so humiliated by the experience. I felt like I shouldn't have been so drunk to get into that situation. I shouldn't have been trashy and drunk and fighting. But you know, I realise now it wasn't my fault. Even if we were drunk (and annoying) there was no reason at all for those guy to attack us. No way did I deserve that.

Around the same time, I was hanging around with a guy I liked. One time we were at his house and I dropped something on the floor. I bent over to pick it up but couldn't bend down because my belly was so big. I never knew if he noticed or if anyone else did, but it made me realise how big I was becoming.

One night we were out and again I was drunk. We ended up sleeping together. It was a bad experience, really bad. I don't know why, but afterwards I felt like he'd only done it because he was drunk and he felt sorry for me and that he hadn't really been attracted to me to begin with.

I took that really hard - I don't know but I took it as a rejection of myself. Not just by him but all men, the whole world, or something like that. It just stopped seeing myself as a sexual person or as a feminine person and began to submerge that side of myself all together.

Now just to complete things, I'd changed jobs from a place where I was happy but not really challenged to another job that looked promising. It was a mistake. I hated the new job but I was willing to give it a go. Except three weeks into the new job, I got the sack. I was on a month's trial and they told me they didn't think I was capable of doing the work. I hadn't really been given a chance to prove myself in the three weeks and the place had been rather dodgy - they offered to re-employ me in another role at a lower salary. I had the talk with the boss - me very stony-faced and unemotional, him trying to make me say it was okay. Like he wanted me to soothe his guilt. But it wasn't okay. He told me to take my lunch break and come back later to discuss things. I went home and never went back.

So, while all this was happening, my sister and I had been asked to work with a friend on a show he was producing for community television. We wanted to do band interviews. So we went out and set stuff up, full of enthusiasm and bravado. We got to hang out with some of our favourite bands and we thought life had never been better. The only problem was that our friends weren't doing anything - apart from our efforts, the show was going nowhere. Over time, we got more and more annoyed with them. In the end, even though we knew nothing, we decided to produce the show ourselves.

Producing and presenting television became like our full time job, an unpaid one. We worked night and day, pulling all nighters to get editing done, spending days on the phone. It's like when you see the end credits for a television show - all those names rolling passed - we did all of that. Of course, we never did all of it well. Our inexperience combined with shonky equipment, meant that nothing was ever as good as we wanted - and we wanted it better than good - we wanted everything glossy and slick and perfect. Rarely did that happen.

We didn't really get a lot of support either. I mean, we had some brilliant people around us. People who would come in at 1.00 am and help out when things were going insane and we had 8 hours until our deadline. But other people, and remember this was a community organisation, where everyone should be helping each other, seemed to just work against us. I guess you get that kind of internal politics everywhere.

They were such stressful years. And I've only just began to realise the toll they took. Not just in terms of the work but when you are overweight, you carry an image of yourself around in your head. Mainly in that image, you are much thinner than you really are. Maybe you see a photo of yourself now and then and you kid yourself that it's a bad angle or bad lighting or an unflattering outfit. Mostly you are cocconed by the picture in your head though. The one where you are a few kilos over your ideal but you'll fix that. One day. In the meantime you are careful when you look in the mirror - only from the neck up. You complain that the sizes are getting smaller in the shops and you only wear stretch fabrics and elastic waistbands. Your friends reassure you and tell you that you look fine. Most days you believe them.

Now imagine that you are on tv and you are confronted with the real image all the time. Not just when the show airs, but through hours and hours of editing. Half your life is spent in a black-walled room, staring at the true image of yourself. There's nowhere to run. But you don't have time to dwell on it because you have to be out there, being perky and quirky and fun. You have to entertain. You can tell the camera person to only film you from the neck up but they don't and can't always do that. You want to photoshop the rolls away but you don't have time. You want to pause your life and get things right before you go on, but the tape has to be done now.

So, by the time we decided to put that phase of our lives behind us, I had a good many issues pushed to the back of my brain. It was like that closet with the bulging door. If you ever needed to open it, you throw things in real fast then slammed the door shut, before the whole lot tumbles out in a tangled, chaotic mess.

That's not to say that I was unhappy. I loved parts of my life. I loved being busy and organising things and running around. I had some of the most fun times ever. And some of the most heartbreaking - there is nothing like the dull thud of your heart when a computer crashes after 12 hours of editing.

I have a box in my storage space filled with tapes. I've watched them back a couple of times - they aren't as bad as I remembered. At the time, all I could see was the glitches and stuff ups; all I could see was my fat.

And no, we aren't even close to the lipo yet.

I got a serious job and began working full time. It wasn't a bad job but it was never really good either. Not bad enough for me to leave or look for something else but I wasn't happy. I had a growing sense of inertia. Instead of being a business professional - all proactive and goal oriented, I just wanted to be left alone in my corner. I got so that I hated meeting people or talking to people I didn't know. I couldn't even ring people I'd not met before, and just months earlier I'd thought nothing of ringing business to ask for sponsorship or record companies to organise interviews.

Around this time, it felt like all my closest friends had begun relationships and leaving me behind. Through personal circumstances, I'd had to sell my flat and I'd got a lot more more money than I was expecting, so financially I was fine but my personal life was a mess. When I went out with friends, I was almost paralytic with fear and paranoia. If we went to a bar, I'd sit at the table and not move to go get drinks. I'd pretend I was too lazy. I'd even sit there busting to go to the loo but not moving. I felt like something bad would happen if I had go somewhere on my own.

No one even seemed to notice. I don't know if i covered it up well or if they weren't paying attention but no one asked what was wrong or why I was acting that way. I couldn't have explained anyway. Even around my friends, I was becoming distant. I wanted that social contact but I seemed to have a barrier around me. At times I felt like I was invisible, that no one saw me - or saw me through dismissive eyes - I was old and fat and worthless.

Of course, I had comfort. I had food. Food was always there for me, protecting me from the outside world, keeping me company. When you have nothing else to look forward to on a Saturday night, what better than a pizza and a block of chocolate? And when that's gone, it's a quick drive to the 7 eleven.

I thought food would never do me wrong. Until I went to the doctors. I was supposed to have a fasting blood test but I forgot and had a drink of juice beforehand, so when he told me my blood sugar was too high, I didn't really pay much attention. A few more tests later and the diagnosis was definite - I had diabetes.

At first I was so careful. My GP had told me to eat no fat so I literally did that. For a week or two, I ate no food with any fat in it. At all. Then I met a diabetes educator and found out that I could eat some fat - thank goodness because I'd been living on vegetables.

For a long time, I was off and on with my diabetes management - I'd get test results and lectures from my doctor, so I'd be careful for a while. Then I'd forget and be back on the pizzas and chocolate. I never really believed it would do me harm. Even though I was becoming more and more lethagaric - hardly able to get out of bed of a morning, then needing a nap after work.

But I did make some effort. My sister was living with her boyfriend at this stage and they'd moved into a house nearby so we'd take our dogs for a long walk in the park every night. Sometimes I'd walk in the park at lunch time. I'd buy light products and try to eat healthily - for a while.

Mostly I didn't believe I could lose weight. I didn't believe I was capable of it. I had some weird ideas - I was totally convinced that it was impossible to lose weight if you'd been overweight as a child. I don't know where that idea came from but I'd read Weight Watchers and Slimming magazine - usually while eating a chocolate bar - and most of the success stories were people who'd got overweight as an adult. If not, I'd find ways that they differed from me.

Even I looked at diets, even sensible diets, they seemed impossible. I couldn't eat that little - at the time I ate constantly. If I was bored, if I was upset, if I was lonely, if I was happy...

For years, my whole life almost, I'd told myself I'd lose weight one day. Suddenly it seemed like I'd missed the boat on that one, that it was too late to do anything about it, even if I wanted to.

I felt like I had to do something for myself and I wanted to travel. I'd always wanted to go to Vietnam and heard about a tour being organised that went to Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. I had the money to go and thought it would be perfect. After all travel was a great way to expand your life and build your self esteem. I booked on the holiday.

Mostly it was fun and I have some wonderful memories that I don't regret, but it was also a horrific experience in many ways for someone like me - someone who was grossly obese and extremely paranoid. I don't even know how much I weighed at the time, I'd never weigh myself but I was huge.

Things started out okay - Bangkok was fun. But from the beginning I didn't get on that well with my tour group. Not that it surprised me - I'm not good with group things. And I was happy to do things on my own. We left Bangkok and went on a river cruise, lazing around most of the time. Of course I felt like I couldn't take part in all the group activities - bike riding was beyond me. A lot of the time just walking too much in the heat was beyond me. The worst thing, on that part of the tour, was that we had to get on and off the boat down a narrow and very wobbly board. I spent the three days in dread of that board snapping every time I climbed it.

As we got to Cambodia, and further ino the country, things got worse. I guess it's a cultural thing and Asian people being much smaller than Westerners anyway - I became like the freak in the sideshow. People would run up to me - asking me how much I weighed, poking and prodding my fat rolls. I ignored them while wanting to run home and cry. But it's hard to run home when you are in a whole other continent.

At one place we had to climb into boats to get to the island where we were staying and I swear the jetty was made from bark. I don't know what was worse - walking on to the jetty with visions of walking right though it or standing on the banks with a bunch of guys trying to guess my weight.

Of course, climbing in and out of boats isn't easy when you're that fat and having a couple of tiny Cambodian helpers propping you up doesn't help. Riding on an elephant when you feel bigger than the poor elephant doesn't help either - and expecting your weight to drag the basket off the animal's back is an horrific experience. And staying in small towns were the only transportation is by motorbike - well that was okay except the drivers kept demanding more money because I was so big. Everything came back to my weight.

My least favourite fat roll was a big bulge under my breasts. I remember getting off the bus in one town and a bunch of women gathering around poking this roll - saying I had four breasts. Arrghh - and having to ride on a cyclo with a skinny little man pedalling, feeling like a big, fat, Western imperalist.

The worst bit was the chants of "big-big" - like I was too big for one "big".
We got to Vietnam and things went downhill. Even in the tourist areas of Saigon, people would point and stare. It didn't help that I'd gotten so paranoid that it wouldn't have mattered what they were saying, I thought everyone was talking about me. I got so that I just wanted to stay in the hotel room and hide but I made myself go out. After all, I'd paid a lot of money for the holiday and I wanted to see and do things. I just wished that I could have been invisible while I was doing them.

Of course the whole holiday wasn't like that - I met some wonderful people and had some amazing experiences, but as far as my feelings about myself were concerned - the whole holiday had been a humiliating time.

I got back to work and things went further downhill. I had a new manager and he began targetting people he wanted to get rid of. I knew I was on his list. He constantly watched me and if I put a foot wrong, I'd be called into his office to explain. I'd gone from not liking my job to flat out dreading each day. I just couldn't make the necessary effort - I mean I could hardly get out of bed at this stage. I wanted to quit but couldn't see how I'd live.

Basically my life was a downward spiral - I hated my job but had to work; I spend money on shopping and food I didn't need to make myself feel better; my diabetes was out of control and I could hardly function. Something had to give. It was Christmas time and I went to the doctor to get on antidepressants. The tablets knocked me out and I spent two days unable to get out of bed at all, unable to wake up. I stopped taking the tablets so I stay awake long enough to buy food for Christmas lunch and I never took them again.

I don't know if they helped or whether it was just having time off over Chirstmas or what but I started to feel a bit more human. Around this time, I began looking up information about liposuction on the net. I don't even know why - I'd always thought I couldn't get lipo. Lipo was for people who only needed to lose a tiny bit of weight off their thighs or somewhere. So I thought.

I think I'd had that argument with my sister and I was looking for information to prove me right when I found some stuff about megaliposuction - a more intense procedure. I read up on it and wrote down the number of a local doctor who specialised in the procedure. I had no intention of going any further though. I mean this was serious stuff, not just like going to a new hairdresser.

But I kept looking at the number written on a sticky note in the front of my diary. And I thought about it. Most of my weight was around my belly. I had quite small legs and arms. If I could get the fat sucked out of my belly, I'd be happy. A few weeks later, I rang the doctor. Just to go in and talk to him. I thought he'd send me away.

I slunk into his office, terrified I'd run into someone I knew. I sat in the waiting room, flipping through magazines and wondering why the patient's were there.
Finally I got called in. I spoke to the nurse and she showed me books filled with before and after photos. She told me about the procedure and then asked me to wait for the doctor. The doctor came in, told me to strip off.

He looked at me and asked me what I wanted off - the belly of course and mostly that fat roll under my breasts. He nodded his head and gave me a quote.
The quote. I'd set a price in my head, an upper limit to how far I'd go. The quote was just over that number. He told me it was compulsory to have a second appointment before he'd do anything and to go home and think about it. I asked him how much fat they'd take and he said all of it.

I went home and thought long and hard about it. I thought about the money - it was a lot of money. I thought about being thin. It was as though I'd been deformed all my life and finally I had an opportunity to rid myself of this deformity. I've never know what it's like to be thin. Ever. Not in my living memory. I was fat as a toddler, as a child, as a teenager. And suddenly I wanted to experience what normal was.

The only person I'd told about the appointment was my sister. She wanted me to get it done. Just for her own curiosity, I think. I wasn't going to tell anyone else but I went to a party at a friend's place and decided to tell my friend, Tim. Tim thought it was a stupid idea. He couldn't believe I'd even consider it. He told me - "fat or thin, you'll still be you". I told him I knew that but I'd rather be thin.

Then he said I wouldn't handle the pain. I hadn't thought about the pain. Pain?
There was going to be pain?

He knew someone who'd had lipo, as a reconstructive thing rather than cosmetically. She'd said it was incredibly painful.

But I could handle pain. I'd been through childbirth and gallstones. I went back to the doctor and told him I'd go ahead with it. I had visions of thinness dancing in my head - wearing regular clothes and becoming visible! I'd be able to go to the gym - I stopped going when my belly got to big for me to ride the stationary bike. I'd be the "after" picture instead of the "before". I'd have fun again instead of hiding in the corner.

Later I found out I was wrong about those two things - the pain was worse than I ever expected and I didn't come out of it anywhere near normal. When the doctor said the fat would be all gone, he was wrong.

Before any of that though, I had to go through the whole process - first up was the psychological evaluation. That was easy. I went to the shrink my doctor recommended and she asked some simple questions, ticked off all the boxes.

Then I had to go get fitted for my compression garmet. After lipo, you have to wear a compression garmet for weeks. It was like a swimsuit with no boob bits and made of super strong lyrca stuff. It was not the most attractive thing I'd ever worn. I'd taken more time off work to travel to the outer suburbs to the compression garmet shop to get fitted.

So I was set for lipo day. Because I had so much lard to be removed, I had to have two operations. I'd have the first one then recover then have the second. And, because I was a smoker as well as a diabetic, I had to quit smoking for two weeks before and two weeks after the operation. I got myself a nictorine inhaler and faithfully stopped smoking two weeks beforehand.

I got up early the morning of the operation to get ready. I washed myself with the special disinfecting lotion and packed all my stuff - sanitary pads, consent forms, cash to pay the doctor - everything except the compression garmet. I couldn't find it anywhere. I'd thrown it in the corner of my bedroom when I bought it home and not thought about it again. It had to be somewhere. My sister was driving me to the doctors and she helped me look. It had disappeared. I was almost in tears - I'd organised time off work and had everything ready to go. And I wanted this. I wanted it done now. I searched the house but couldn't find it anywhere.

Time was running out so I rang the doctor and told the receptionist what had happened. She told me to come straight over. They'd organise a courier to get another one for me. I could breath again. I never, ever found that compression garmet. I think I must have thrown it out by mistake.

At the doctors, I got taken into the surgery and had to strip off. One of the girls took my before photos - wish I'd asked for a copy of them. Then they marked me up with pen all over my belly. I had to decide which bit I wanted done first - it wasnt' hard. I wanted my least favourite fat roll gone.

After that, I had to get prepped and ready. I had stuff injected into me as well as a tablet to relax. It was then that I remembered I was a complete wimp. See all that tough stuff I did, the childbirth and the gallstones, that was fine. But put me in dentist chair where they are sticking stuff into me, where I can see them sticking stuff into me, and I'm a complete crybaby. Now imagine instead of a thin little needle like the dentist uses, they are using pointy things the size of knitting needles, stuff right into your lard. That's what it was like, knitting needles with a bike pump attached. It wasn't a pleasant couple of hours. Of course, I couldn't really see what was going on, unless I made an effort to look. But I made that effort.

Afterwards, I was tender. I sat in a room recovering, I think my sister sat with me, then I got helped into my compression garmet and went home.

I freak out about weird stuff, all those stupid little things, and when I got home from hospital I started thinking. I had to wear this compression garmet continuously for weeks but how would I wash it? If I didn't wash it, it would get all smelly and I had to wear it to work. But, I thought, if I didn't wear it for even minutes, I'd pop out all over the place. It didn't help that the garmet was stuffed full of sanitary napkins because I was oozing stuff all over the place. I rang the doctor's office and they reassured me that I could take it off for a few hours to wash it. Although getting my sore, skewered body in and out of it was a struggle. Even going to the loo was difficult (it had pop studs between the legs like your nanna's girdles but bending over hurt and I sure as hell wasn't asking my family for help going to the toilet).

I had the surgery on the Friday, I think it could have been a long weekend, and was back at work the next week. No problems. Even over the weekend, I'd been pretty mobile - driving to the supermarket to do my shopping. I felt great and was so happy with the surgery. Of course it would take a few months for the swelling to down completely but straight away I could see that my least favourite fat roll had shrunk - it no longer protruded past my boobs anyway.

People noticed. People who knew. People at work too. They asked questions and I told big fibs - I think I made up something about a detox.

Before I had the second procedure, things had disintegrated at work. I could barely tolerate the way things were going. My manager was a pig. A total pig. I was being berated for doing things that were considered normal for anyone else - like going on a coffee break (ie. the guys at work went out for coffee every morning. I did it once and was called into his office to explain why and how I was going to make up the time). I'd said if I didn't get a raise at my performance review I was going to quit (to myself, not my boss). We hadn't had a review for nearly two years and I felt I deserved a raise. I got my appraisal back and not only had I not gotten a raise - one of the few people in the company to get nothing, not even a cost of living increase, but he'd changed things around on my appraisal, things we'd discussed. I was expected to sign off on a document that was different to what we'd agreed on verbally. I'd really had enough.

I went into work with the decision to resign about 50/50 in my mind. Then one of my workmates resigned. I felt like she'd stolen my thunder. It was almost enough to make me not resign. Her resignation caused a furor. I didn't want that. Part of me felt like I should have been fighting for my rights, but another part of me said that I didn't want to work somewhere that I HAD to fight. I went to lunch with my workmate and we had a big talk. She called me a chicken. We sat for a long time while I considered it then I went back to work. I'd been at the job for a long time and I loved parts of it but it was driving me insane. I knew that.

I typed out my resignation. Short and sweet. I signed it and sat it on my boss's desk. Then I went back to my desk and turned off my computer. My supervisor said something about my workmate resigning and I told him I had too then walked out without stopping, it was too late for discussion anyway.

On the way home, I cried. I don't often cry. By the time I got home, I felt better. I worked out my four weeks notice and went in for my second operation the next week.

The second time I was scared. I didn't want those big needles stuck in me. But I couldn't turn back now. Even if I wanted to, I'd paid and I wasn't forfeiting all that cash.

A couple of days before the operation, my sister mentioned the quitting smoking. I'd forgotten. Of course, after the first operation once the obligatory two weeks were over , I'd started smoking again. In between the fuss with work and all the worry, I'd completely forgotten I was supposed to quit again. But I wasn't worried. I'd gotten over the first operation so quickly, I was sure the doctor was just being extra cautious. By this time, my sister had broken up with her boyfriend and was living with me. She drove me to the doctor's again.
Because the operation was on the lower section of my belly this time, I was told I'd be more tender and sore. When I got home, I could hardly move. For the next few days, I could hardly walk and everything hurt.

I went back to the doctor for a post-op check up and he said I had a build up of fluid. I had to be drained. He covered the floor and got one of those medical razor blade lance things and cut nicks in the bottom of my belly then him and a nurse milked the fluid out of my belly roll while I leaned forward to help it drip onto the the floor.

I had to confess to the doctor that I hadn't given up smoking. He was angry - he'd never had a patient get a post-op infection and didn't intend for me to be the first. I think it wasn't so much that he was worried about me as his professional pride.

I had to go over to the doctor's office everyday to get my belly checked and drained. And I had to stop smoking. The smoking thing was really difficult with my sister living with me. She smoked and I ask for a drag on her cigarette, just one drag... I also had to have complete bed rest. I hadn't told my son that I'd had lipo. He just knew I'd had an operation. I hadn't told anyone except my sister and my two friends. I still don't know if anyone else knows - people talk. My sister and my son kept telling me to hurry up and recover. They were sick of "waiting on me". So I felt guilty and I'd get out of bed and do things - cook and clean and look after them.

By the end of the week, things still looked bad. I was on extreme antibiotics as well as getting injections everyday. The doctor was worried how I'd cope over the weekend and told me to call him if I got worse.

He called me on the Sunday night. I thought things were worse but I wasn't sure. I mean, I'm no doctor, how do I know what an infection looked like?

Since his surgery was in an office building and he didn't have access to it on the weekend, I had to meet him at a private hospital across town so he could check it out. My sister drove me, with a lot of complaints. Hey, she was the one who encouraged me to do this in the first place but I still felt bad. I felt bad that I had to keep asking her to do things but also angry because I was in pain and I didn't want to have to ask. I wanted her to offer, to be there for me.

At the hospital, the wards were full so I had to go to the maternity section. I got taken to a bed to get ready for the doctor. The hospital nurse came in. She was the mother of one of my sister's friends. I really didn't want anyone to know I'd had lipo, I didn't even want to go to my GP. So I almost died when I saw her. But it was blessing. I'd checked into the hospital at 11.00. The hospital charged per day - from midnight to midnight. That meant I had to pay for 2 days at private hospital rates with no medical insurance. She changed my check in time to after midnight. But more than that, my doctor (like most doctors) wasn't much of a communicator. He was a rushed little man, always answering in a hurry so you didn't have time to ask your next question. But she knew the questions to ask him and she got the answers. She also have him a bit of a berating because he organised the hospital for his convenience not mine. I felt bad enough getting him out on a Sunday night, but she didn't see it that way.

After all that, there was no infection. I had to be drained again and I had a bung put in my arm - I think that's what it's called - like a drip thing so they can put the injection straight into it instead of giving you a needle each time. I had to walk around with this thing in me though, sticky taped to my arm - like a hardcore but well organised junkie.

Because I had to see the doctor everyday, I was driving all over the city to his different offices or to different hospitals. I was supposed to be getting bed rest but I was spending half my day driving around to appointments and I wasn't getting any better.

I was lucky I wasn't working. After two weeks, I still needed to go to the doctor every day, and get my belly drained every day too. I had fluids constantly leaking out of me. Work would have been impossible, half the time normal movement was impossible.

My doctor wanted me to go into a convelescant home. I didn't want to go but he insisted. It was the only way I'd get better. I was worried about money but they found somewhere not too expensive.

I went into the home. The doctor or his minions came over a couple of times a day to check on me and pump antibiotics into my body. I had my meals bought to my room and nothing to do but lay around and watch tv. It was fun. For five minutes.

Because my sister and my son had been such pains, I almost didn't tell them what was happening. I thought it would serve them right if I just disappeared and left them to fend for themselves. Maybe then they'd be a bit more sympathetic. But, of course, I couldn't do it. I rang them that night.

They let me out of the home 2 days later. I was much better but still needed to go see the doctor a couple of times a week. It took a long time before I got the all clear. I couldn't work, couldn't look for work. My whole life seemed to be based around doctor's appointments.

At least I had the internet to keep me sane.

Finally I got told I was fine. I didn't have to go back to the doctors for 3 months, for the routine checkup. I'd gotten really friendly with the staff - well, I'd seen them everyday. They told me they'd miss me. I told them I'd miss them too but I was so happy not to have to see them anymore.

By this stage, I was just glad it was all over. Glad I hadn't gotten an infection, glad I didnt' have to be drained any more. But I don't know if I was glad I had it done. Suddenly I had confidence. I thought I was a hottie. I wanted to buy clothes and dress nice... pity I had no money left. I'd spent that time on the internet, trolling dating sites and was ready to go out and meet a man, well men.

It was only when I started dating, I realised. I wasn't thin, I wasn't normal. The fat hasn't all gone. I was thinner than I had been and looked a lot better, but I was still obese. All up I lost about 10-15 kilograms. It doesn't sound like much but that was all off my belly - not an all-over loss like you get from dieting.
I was told that the fat you lose from lipo doesn't come back - those fat cells are gone forever. Even if you put weight back on, comes back in other areas. I don't know if that is true.

I went from being overly confident, to being upset, then accepting things. Over the next few years, I dieted then didn't diet. I lost bits of weight then stopped losing - but didn't regain. I became more active and more outgoing. Most importantly, I got out of that big hole of depression I was trapped in. I never want to go back there.

In the end, I've discovered that the only way to do this, is the old fashioned way - diet and exercise. At my last appointment, my doctor discussed further operations but I shook my head. I've been through too much to do that again.

As I said at the beginning, maybe the lipo was the catalyst for all the changes I've made. It was only when I decided to get the lipo, I actually began to believe I didn't have to be obese all my life. Before that, I'd convinced myself that I had to be fat, that fat was the only thing I could be. Losing weight, like many things in life, is only possible when you believe it is possible. I'd closed that door to a room I thought I could never enter. Suddenly the door was opened, the room was within my sights - it wasn't going to be an easy room to enter but it wasn't impossible after all.