Tags
anxiety, bi-polar, bipolar, depression, disease, health, journey, life, mental disease, mental health, mental illness, situational, truth, weight
I have been bipolar since my late teens. I have anxiety, thyroid problems, snippets of OCD, schizophrenia, and a whole bunch of other little twitches and problems that would take way too long to go into detail about. I have lived with these conditions the majority of my life at this point. I take a lot of medications, religiously go to my therapy appointments, and other doctor appointments, and pretty much do all I can to keep the demons at bay. But no matter how many times life throws you a silent and deadly curve, it always has one more. Life doesn’t stop punching, and it’s a lesson I learned many years ago.
This time it threw me a punch I actually saw coming. I didn’t know it was coming but once it was in front of my face, I knew it was going to hurt. In my life, that is life.
Six months ago, I saw one of my regular doctors, stepped on the scale and realized the full extent of the punch I was going to feel. It took nanoseconds for me to realize that once again the place I had finally gained, the ground I had finally firmed was going to be taken away. The scale showed that I had gained significant weight. And in the months since, I have continued to gain that weight.
I need to back up and explain one or two things. First, I have been underweight my whole adult life. Anytime I saw a new doctor I got to have another enlightening conversation about diet, exercise, and eventually eating disorders. It didn’t matter that I have never had an eating disorder (at least not one that was easily defined), it didn’t matter that even through my pregnancies I didn’t gain the anticipated amount of weight, it didn’t matter that it was years and years of the same number on that scale. Doctors saw the lack of weight and simply panicked. Now, I have a lot of problems but I have always refused to consciously add to those problems with a disorder with my weight.
The first time I realized I was underweight was actually on a Nintendo Wii. I took the stupid little test and up popped my BMI that showed I was underweight. It was a momentarily pause for me, but mostly, I was just wanted the information to disappear off the screen before my parents or my husband saw it and gave me one of their patented looks.
The other thing I need you to understand is that in high school, I weighed more than I do even now. In my early twenties I lost a really large amount of weight, enough to concern the doctors into making sure that they put me through every test there was (including a neurological exam) to make sure that my physical health wasn’t the cause of my massive weight loss. You will be glad to know after three months of intense and intrusive exams, I didn’t have a tumor, blood loss, or any other disease that could adequately explain the loss of the weight. I stopped all the tests after a rather horrible GI exam and put up my hands and declared I was done. The doctors gave up, and off I went to live my life.
I have spent years joking about the fact that I was so underweight; I even wrote a post about it once. I didn’t look like my children’s friends’ parents. I didn’t look like the normal people walking around on earth. I had to shop in the junior’s section most of my life, and so I certainly wasn’t able to dress like what I saw my peers wearing. I was not a typical mother, but it wasn’t that I was thin, it was that I look sickly.
So, one would think that gaining substantial amount of weight in the last six months would make me happy. Unfortunately, situational depression doesn’t use logic, anymore than any other depression. There still resides in my this denial that I have gained so much weight because in the months prior to that first doctor’s scale, I had actually gained only a significant amount of energy and purpose. l had gotten off my couch, deep cleaned my home and my life, and was doing things like painting and writing more. I was more purposeful. I had gotten off my couch. And I started drinking decaffeinated teas. That is the sum total of what had changed. Not my eating habits, I stopped all alcohol long ago, and I was walking and doing yoga every other day. I was actually not only happier, I was what all the doctor’s would call physically healthy. But the scale said something louder. I was gaining weight in my happiness.
Since that first appointment six months ago I have continued to gain weight. Slowly but always there. And now the doctors are saying – situational depression. I have depression because of the weight gain, not because of my brain’s normal gymnastics, not because it’s that time of year, not because it just follows mania. This depression is easy to identify, but no less powerful because of that. I always thought that if I had something like situational depression, I would just change the situation. Funny how best laid plans rarely work out.
Of course, the weight that I have gained is only in my waist and my stomach, not where one would wish it. So I can’t ignore it, especially as the weather here has turned hot and I can’t hide behind the baggy sweatshirts I have been wearing. It’s now out in the open and I am going to have to deal with it.
I have decided to deal with this in a couple of ways. One, I am going to make myself look at it. I am not going to seek out mirrors but I am not going to avoid them. I am not going to dress like it is winter when it is not. I am going to make myself see it until it finally (hopefully) becomes my reality.
And now that the weather has cleared up, and I have done my usual research, I am going to start incorporating walking. Not everyday, but I am going to make an effort. We’ll see how long that actually lasts.
I am going to repeat to myself, “this is a healthy” weight. This is a healthy body. Despite what it looks like to me, the doctors are, on a whole, very happy that I am no longer underweight. So that will be my new mantra.
I do have to be very careful because I have a teenage daughter in the house. She is not underweight or overweight, but rather perfect just the way she is. But we all know the damage that can be done to young people especially when weight, the complaint of it, can become the normal conversation. Technically, she weighs more than I do, although genetically she looks different than I do. But I slip even once and complain about my weight or my beauty, she could be the one most effected. I won’t do that to her. I won’t ruin her anymore than I probably already have.
So, it’s a new turn in a long journey. One I have to navigate, albeit carefully, but in a way that I have done before. This doesn’t feel like bipolar. It’s not nebulous. It is very specific. But it is no less dangerous to me and those I love than any other depression I have dealt with. (I need that drink that I swore off).