Debbie Downer: Somebody, give this girl a cheeseburger!

I don't like to post negative things. Sure, I may post a lot of Grumpy Cat quotes on Facebook (Grumpy Cat is my BFF, y'all). But generally, unless I'm doing the old-lady-grump-harumph, I really do try to keep things positive. Cyberspace is permanent, and I want to be remembered for happy things...
But I feel like crap.
Food is my coping mechanism.
But it's making me worse.
And fat.
I've gained 20 pounds since I started the zoloft, and I'm now in the process of coming off of it. Meanwhile, my stomach mutinied. I've never had stomach problems in my entire life, but right now, I'd like to cut it out of my body and throw it under a fender!  I started having episodic stomach pain toward the end of March. After the 4th episode, I went to Urgent Care (which was, as usual, a complete waste of time), where they figured it was gastritis. Since I'd had to be on so much ibuprofen during my pregnancy (it can slow pre-term labor), we figured it was from that. I was told to follow up with my PCP, so I did; she referred me to a gasteroenterologist, who ordered an ultrasound, blah, blah, blah, and my gallbladder showed itself.
Filthy, traiterous, wretched, foul beast of an organ! 
It was full of stones.
D@#$#t, that required another surgery.
#8.
Surgery #8.
And at this point, I'm A LITTLE TIRED OF GETTING CUT ON.
I thought getting my GB out would wind up being a good thing. It was done last Friday, but I am miserable.
Sure, the surgery hurts...but my stomach feels like someone threw a burning torch into it, and kicked me for good measure. It's not the surgery site...it really does feel like the description of gastritis, and I am totally, miserably uncomfortable right now.
I want to eat ice cream to make myself feel better, but the last cone I looked at had 16 grams of fat, which is sure to set my lack-of-a-gallbladder over the edge.
I can't eat to make myself feel better....and it's made me realize how emotionally dependent on food, that I am.
I've had difficulties sleeping this week, in my low-fat land.
I want a cheeseburger.
I haven't lost any weight, to motivate me....and I want pizza.
I feel like a whiny, petulant 5 year-old, and if my Mama reads this, she's going to swat my ample behind.
Speaking of, as tumultuous as my relationship with my mother can famously be, she is an absolute rock star. She took care of my son and I for 7 days of recovery, until I was able to get back to work. She and my dad grabbed ice bags, changed diapers, got medication, cuddled my boy, and practically carried me up stairs. I'm so grateful for them--I couldn't have made it through the surgery without them.
That being said, I'd celebrate with cake, if I could eat it without getting sick...
Sniff.
This is me feeling sorry for myself....
And this is you, probably sending me an e-mail to remind me to get my head out of my rear....deservedly so....