Every now and again, the irony of losing my compulsion to overeat and yet being unable to shed my excess weight just amazes the hell out of me. I don’t eat any more than the average person, I don’t eat when I’m not hungry, and I go through periods when I couldn’t care less about food. But still, I remain morbidly obese.
I can’t help blaming some of it on Zyprexa, which I must confess no longer drives me to eat everything in sight and really hasn’t caused that much weight gain this go-round. But even though I’m still not anywhere near as heavy as I was a couple of years ago, I feel heavier than I did even at my highest weight. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe it’s because these pounds seem to be concentrated in my mid-section and butt. Maybe it’s because my diet is full of processed crap. Who knows, maybe it’s just because that’s where the weight wants to go.
No matter how you slice it, though, the weight is neither welcome nor appreciated. I hate looking like a beach ball with legs. I’m so firmly packed in the middle that my hips are smaller than my waist…..assuming I could find it amid the fat rolls. I cannot lace my fingers together and rest my hands in my lap, even if I had one. I cannot cross my legs, nor squat, nor kneel (although that has as much to do with my knee operation as anything else). I can, however, tie my shoes and cut my own toenails because my pride won’t let anyone else do it for me. I also refuse to use those go-carts in the grocery stores, because almost every person I see driving them is massively overweight and I don’t want people looking at me and thinking I’m too lazy to walk around the store. So there.
But the image I saw the other night in the full-length mirror at my son’s house scares me, and though I’ve certainly weighed more, I don’t remember ever having been fatter. My clothes don’t really fit any differently, and the numerical value of my gravitational pull, like my moods, is pretty stable. I just feel thick and slow, and my ass looks like the south end of a northbound elephant.
So why am I trying to blame it on an innocent, little, round white pill? Actually, I don’t blame ALL of it on Zyprexa, because I’ve been severely overweight since my early 30s and I never even took the stuff till my early 50s. I just need a scapegoat for my unwillingness to give up burgers for tofu and kale, as well as my dislike of cooking. (Hey, at least I’m honest about it…..)
Actually, I think I might get a little help from Dr. Awesomesauce as to weaning off the Vitamin Z, maybe even as soon as tomorrow. I’m doing well and neither of us wants me to be on two anti-psychotics a day longer than I have to be. Of course, he just ordered another three months’ worth, and we both know what happened the last time I tried to cut back. But I like to think that I’m in a different place than I was three months ago, even as I wish I could turn the clock back five years, before all of…..well…..THIS happened. Before I became “ill”. Before I ever really knew what bipolar disorder was, let alone that I had it.
Yeah, I guess my “big bum theory” is a little lacking in substance. Oh well, you can’t blame me for trying!