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Rant #2 out of what feels like at least 15. I have some worthy ones lined up, but this is not one of them. Please note that this post talks about weight.

I’m fat. I used to be skinny, but now I’m fat. Overweight, curvy, however you want to phrase it. I got weighed by a nurse a few weeks back (in my annual health check-up for crazy people) and I’m not just overweight, I’m obese. Bit of a shock. Bless her, although she had to encourage me to lose some weight she instantly rushed in to reassure me that it’s not my fault, it’s the drugs, I shouldn’t feel bad about myself, I don’t look obese, etc. I feigned nonchalance, made a joke, pretended it didn’t bother me. Then I went home and stared at a wall feeling like the biggest whale imaginable.

I gained weight on Mirtazapine, but nothing like this. That hit me hard and fast, three stone in three months. I came off the horrible thing and lost all the weight without any effort at all. Mirtazapine is famous for making people gain vast amounts of weight. Lamotrigine is not. It is supposedly weight neutral. You can’t gain weight on Lamotrigine, it doesn’t have side effects, that’s why everyone likes it. Bollocks to that. I’m five stone heavier now than I was when I first started it.

I can’t stop it though. It’s been a miracle drug for me. Before this I tried varying combinations of Citalopram, Paroxetine, Fluoxetine, Duloxetine, Mirtazapine, Sodium Valproate, Lithium and Aripiprazole, with occasional beta blockers and Diazepam thrown in for good measure. My mood gradually stabilised on this and I can’t jeopardise that, not yet anyway, as I attempt to finish the awful MA.

Yesterday was bloody horrible. I had a party to go to in the evening and I doubt I could get even an arm into any of my pretty dresses. So I trudged out to a charity shop and started The Search of Desperation. I did find something, but not before staring at my misshapen lump of a body bulging out of everything I tried on. I took my pretty, colourful, flowing dress that hides a multitude of squidgy bits off to the party and watched as all the shiny skinny people swayed gracefully in. Apparently the average size of women in the UK is 16, but that is not my experience. I’m surrounded by waif-like creatures everywhere I go. So I become Mrs Extravert in response.

I don’t need to be told that I’m beautiful anyway or any other platitudes along the same lines. Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. Either way, I don’t feel it. I feel enormous and hideous. You’d think, then, that this disgust of my body would propel me into exercising. I see people actually doing stuff to lose weight and get healthy. I’m not one of them and I feel so ashamed. I’m tired all the time and I just can’t bring myself to get out of bed earlier to hurl my bloated body around the living room. I want to say that my current misery will motivate me when the alarm goes off tomorrow morning. It’s like starting an essay. There is such a long way to go, so many words to write, concepts to understand that starting is becomes a monumental task. That’s what this feels like. I’m not just doing a month of leaping around in order to get the perfect bikini waistline. I’ll have to leap around for what feels like forever to shift this bulk, if it’s even effective at all. It’s hard to tell sometimes if the drugs are worth it.

So who wants to form a cheerleading squad for me?

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