Somewhere along the line in my recovery process, I clearly missed a crucial bit of information. Was I not listening? Do I have uncontrolled selective hearing? Did someone just not tell me because they knew I would probably freak out and develop a new mental illness? NO ONE TOLD ME I WAS GOING TO SWELL UP LIKE THAT BIRD IN SHREK THAT SINGS A NOTE SO HIGH IT BLOODY WELL EXPLODES. I was not informed that I would gain at least 10 pounds in addition to hands and feet so swollen that shoes and rings no longer fit. I was left out of the loop on the part of this thing where all of a sudden the drugs that are supposed to stop me from being depressed make me depressed all over again because I no longer recognize the body I am living in.
I mean, mayyybe the doctor did suggest that the new anti-depressant may cause weight gain or loss, but I guess I just always assumed it would be LOSS and not the inverse. Maybe my daily smoothie is catching up with me, or I’m about to hit 27 and gain 200lbs. I don’t know, and I don’t like it. I want to go to the gym every day in an effort to combat what is happening, but another joyful side effect of the medicinal cocktail I’m imbibing is join pain. I’m in agony on a daily basis, and the meds that are supposed to help me sleep are responsible for it. So now I’m swollen, in pain, and unable to sleep despite the meds that are supposed to assist me with that. For a girl that has struggled with self-esteem issues all her life, this really is not an ideal situation. I understand that I am, in all likelihood, blowing this out of proportion. But at the same time, I don’t know that I’m willing to make the trade-off here. Relatively functioning brain versus relatively functioning body? It never occurred to me that low self-esteem breeds its own kind of vanity, the kind where you check your appearance in every mirror in the house just hoping for a small sign of redemption. I obsess about my weight, about the way my face looks and whether I have more than one chin. I am not alone in this twisted vanity fun-house, I know that. I just don’t have the tools in my arsenal right now to combat what happens to me when I can’t fit into a skirt I just bought 2 months ago. Am I wrong to choose depression over what is happening to my body? Is there any right answer to such a question?
I thought I had finally found my stroke, my ability to keep my head above the water; apparently nothing is all that simple. Maybe I’m naive about how one actually swims, and all this time I’ve just been on the verge of sinking.