Decision Time

So she's right (the psychiatrist). I AM, indeed, tying her hands.

All we're doing is tweaking meds. We're not changing them much, and because of that, I'm not getting any better. It's hit me with yet another of those blinding flashes of clarity I'm so fond of as I sat here rereading my last three posts. And while I've thought about the last several appointments and rehashed what she's said, I've realized that she's right: I keep saying the same things, SHE keeps saying the same things, and I keep getting sicker.

You see, I have this "Thing". I can't bear the thought of gaining weight. I NEED more antidepressants. The level of depakote in my system is relatively low. I should be taking approximately 50% more, and every month she tells me this, and every month I resist. So she tweaks what I'm taking, having me take topamax in the morning in an effort to suppress appetite, and increase seroquel in an effort to stabilize my moods. Seroquel is nasty, nasty, nasty...just the thought of it causes the numbers on the scale to jump. But what I really need is another damned pink horse pill with the big D on it.

You see, all the time I was growing up, my family was obsessed with how we looked. We were judged by our looks. We were the "G's" and we had to present a pretty picture to the community. No matter that my father was falling down drunk in the background. No matter that my mother was as sick as I am. No matter that by the time I was 16, I was completely messed in the head, had fought off a sexual attack, and had no place within in my family. As long as we LOOKED good, that was all that mattered. And I was already looking a bit "chunky"...and holy SHIT, did I hear about it. My older sister called me a fat cow (I believe I was a size 12 or 14) and my mother monitored everything that went into my mouth. My father, on the other hand, urged me to eat as a method of getting back at my mother. Talk about a sick game of chess!

It never ended. After I got married (to the first one), I fell into the same trap. My mother warned me that I would be a "rose in his lapel" because of his profession, and I needed to make sure I stayed thin. And after having three kids, I did gain weight. And he hated it. He mocked, he ridiculed, he called names. And he withheld his love as he tormented me, then sexually abused me. How does this make sense? "How can I love you when you look the way you do?" Size 16...God Forbid.

I lost some weight and I started liking myself. My current husband, bless his soul, has never let my weight be an issue. I have no idea how he feels about it. He says it doesn't matter and I don't know if I believe him or not because no other man, woman or beast on the planet has EVER not cared. It's just not how life IS. People care. He says he doesn't, and that helps me get close to him.

But the pills...they make me gain weight. And as I gain the weight back, the old hatred rears it's ugly head. Hatred you can't imagine feeling. Can you imagine walking past full-length mirrors in your home with your head trained on the floor so you don't have to see your reflection? Or deliberately NOT putting your glasses on in the morning, so you don't have to see the truth? Or, no matter how hot it gets in the summer, EVER wearing anything with short sleeves? And short pants? Not in this lifetime! I'd rather die.

Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I relax when I'm talking to someone and just become "me", for a few minutes, or an hour...then I'll walk away, past a window or some other shiny, reflective surface and the reality will hit me again that the weight is coming back. And once again I'm hit with just how much I truly, truly, hate what I'm becoming, what I am.

These are my choices: insanity or self-hatred, and neither will allow me any peace of mind.