Some Kind of Update?

I had micro-body contouring in June, this year. I spent nearly $10,000, which isn’t necessarily information that every person would share with the world, but it’s a big part of the story and probably a big part of what’s wrong with me, now. I thought that if I could have the fat sucked out of my body, I would feel better about myself and I would become more active and thus lose even more weight and finally have the body I’ve been wanting for the past few years. I was right, to an extent. Directly following the surgery, my soreness had me motivated to be more active. I was unaware of the results of the procedure, as yet, but I knew what I was supposed to do to maximize the positive results, and I did everything in my power to do them. Or, so I thought. Now, months later, the swelling is still going down in my lower abdomen. My doctor was more aggressive with my lower abdomen than with my upper abdomen, leaving me with a weird belly pouch that looks even worse than the rounded belly I had beforehand. My before and after pictures are like night and day, but when I looked at them, my eyes didn’t register the differences, at first. It occurs to me more and more, lately, that I don’t know what is and isn’t within my power or control. I don’t know what it takes for me to be giving 100%, or any other percentage. It occurs to me now that I might simply be putting relatively little effort into anything, anymore. It’s hard to exert effort when nothing is interesting, but when I feel well enough to be productive, I find myself completing nothing more than domestic chores. I feel lost, like a piece of me is missing, the way children sometimes go missing. I feel incomplete, like an unfinished jigsaw puzzle with some of the pieces missing; but it’s not together enough to figure out which pieces have disappeared. Other people fill the hole inside of me because I don’t know how to do it myself. More and more, recently, I find that I am incapable of accomplishing anything without some sort of outside influence. I feel stifled, though I’ve never had more room to breathe. I feel trapped, though I’ve never been freer. I feel like I’m losing myself, though the opportunities for self-discovery have never been more abundant. Words are harder and harder for me to come by and I don't know why. It seems that when I sit down to write, I have to wrack my brain for the vocabulary with which to begin putting pen to paper. Not only that, but it seems as though my grammar is getting worse from lack of practice while my art gets worse from having the wrong kind of teacher. Where are my outlets? Where is my creativity? Where is the wonderful skill I once held so proudly, with which I could weave words together so as to create something so beautiful, I could potentially invoke tears?