My weight keeps creeping up. It’s the meds. I expand. It’s like my body is plotting against me. I think I have this all under control but then I try a trusty old skirt that has always been so loose it almost falls off and oops, it doesn’t fit.
Luckily I still get to wear the same size bra I wore age thirteen.
It’s not enough that I’m mad is it, now I’m getting fat as well. Soon I’ll be like Mr Rochester’s batty ex-wife and I’ll be locked up at my flat’s attic. Hopefully it has wi-fi.
I’ve already had to bin about a dozen shirts and skirts. No chance that I could fit into any of my jeans. My thighs chafe together while walking. I’ve been going to flea markets and drift shops for the past two days looking for loosely fitting dresses because I have no clue is this it or am I going to keep on going.
It doesn’t seem to matter what I do. I exercise, try to eat well. I honestly am. This seems to have no effect whatsoever. My body is changing without my permission. My self-esteem hasn’t been exactly at its peak these past few months and this isn’t helping.
I know this sounds like I’m fishing for compliments. I’m not. I don’t like compliments because I never know how to deal with them. Also this sounds like such a first world problem because I’ve always been skinny and I’m still normal weight as far as I know. I’m just miffed because I’m not used to gaining weight and being insecure about yet another thing is something I definitely didn’t want.
Also this isn’t any hate speech towards overweight people. I don’t mind the weight gain per se. I’m just annoyed to keep finding out that depression as well as treating it keeps changing me both mentally and physically. Haven’t I suffered enough?
My mum is overweight, and always jokes about her weight. She’s also adamant that I shouldn’t deny myself treats. I know some mothers are cruel about their daughters’ weight. She isn’t like that. When she comments my weight it comes from a place of love, recognising the facts and she plans a shopping trip for us so I can dress comfortably.
Still all that’s needed is her saying: ‘My stomach has always been like that as well’, and now you can bet I look at my stomach every goddamn time I see a mirror.
I’m used to being the skinny girl. That’s not to say my weight has always been healthy. I’m 5”7 but at my worst I’ve worn size four clothes. Going up to size ten-to-twelve might be more healthy to my height but it’s still yet another thing depression has had an effect on and I’m getting sick of keep finding stuff eighteen months on.
Don’t get me wrong though. My meds are working. I’d rather hire someone to push me around in a wheelbarrow than feel like I did when I was on the wrong meds. If weight gain is the cross I have to bear, I’ll grin and bear it then. A small price to pay to get well again. I should be enjoying the things my meds are granting me and what my body is capable of doing. Besides, it’s not forever.