Pretty Disgusted.

That mallet-wielding smash to the all of the house's mirrors you wish you could take, if not for all the broken glass shards you don't want lodged in your feet.

That ostracizing from your mother whenever you buy new clothes (with your own money)--because they're clothes in a bigger size, just weeks after you bought clothes in a bigger size. The lingering insult of "How much bigger do you plan to get? Do you plan on losing weight?"

The constant impression that when you're out with friends, you're everyone's funny but fat friend. You can be counted upon for your wisdom and a hearty laugh, but you're not the one anyone's eyeing up at the restaurant or bar, wherever you are. Your intellect is sharp as a tack. You're still the same person they loved before you gained weight.

The notion that the guys you like now shun you because psychotropic drugs caused you to gain weight, which was totally not your fault.

The off-handed comments from the rest of your family (your portly, brutish son aside--the only one who hasn't commented on the subject) hurt.

The disbelief of well-meaning, supportive but surely judging friends who say "You are gorgeous!" when your face is all broken out and you look like you're carrying triplets. While friends try and lift you up, there's nary a word they can say that doesn't bring you crashing, plummeting down further into the abyss of your frame. Mind you, said friends are tiny people. The truly gorgeous ones. It's all so superficial, yet it is so self-demeaning that it's disgusting--demeaning--deflating. Kate firmly believes that men who are worth their salt see beyond the Barbie doll image of a woman and accept and adore her for who she is on the inside AND the outside...that truly the man who will appreciate you for who you are will see you beyond your weight and find your level of intellect and wit far more attractive. I'm having a hard time believing that, at present.

For a psychiatric patient, you can't hide the obvious, inside or out. Just last May, when my psychiatrist began upping the doses of my psych meds (antipsychotics and mood stabilizers), I still looked HAWT. I was at a healthy weight for my height, and I'm relatively tall at 5'8". The lowest I got to was 113 lbs when I was "situationally anorexic;" meaning, stressors would cause me to self-starve. (Hello, job at medical practice and PTSD from Chris!) But hell, I looked fantastic when I turned 40 and was tiny as a mouse. I could wear whatever I wanted, and I still have a closet(s) full of cute clothes for tiny people, having purged 13 bags of heavy people clothes from my house last year, vowing to yourself that you'd never get *that * heavy again (a size 8/10).

Now, at almost 42, having gained a ton of weight from my psychiatrist tripling my doses to keep me sane, I'm embarrassed to even look at myself, let alone let any other person on earth see me who might know I used to be a stone fox. The addition of the Risperdal a few months ago caused me to gain 20+ pounds in ONE MONTH before Guy had to put me on a water pill to get rid of fluid retention and edema, and my shrink and I decided MAYBE that's not the right medicine for me.

Consequently, I, myself, without my psychiatrist's knowledge, have cut those doses by 2/3. Gee, I wonder why I keep rapid cycling and tailspinning. To me, it's a trade off. Color me vain, which I am, but I'd rather be skinny and insane than fat and happy. Anyone who's over 40 knows after 40, it's close to impossible to lose gained weight, especially when I'm not the house chef (Ma is). I've said before, if I had my own place and did my own "cooking," Luke and I would be raw vegans. To lose the weight, I'd have to starve myself again or work out like a banshee.

Really, the only trouble with that whole super-skinny bag was that I kept getting sick in the gallbladder and pancreas, for idiopathic reasons unknown, though behind my back, I was being drug and alcohol tested every day of every time I was in the hospital (4 or 5 hospitalizations, unbeknownst to me, without my consent or knowledge until after the fact..I came out clean and sober every time). I threw up or had the trots numerous times every day, especially at work. I could keep down 2 or 3 jars of baby food a day. And I HATE throwing up. My gallbladder stopped working, so it came out. My pancreatic duct was blocked, so a stent was put in for a while to open up the floodgates, and I haven't had it again, though I lived through some terrible pain. I'd make a horrible bulimic. I couldn't perform at work. My glucose was WAY out of whack, and would drop so low that I literally couldn't even FUNCTION at work and would fall asleep on a whim (not unlike I do at school if I have too many carbs in the morning).

Once I recovered and started grad school, when we were issued ID's, I was youthful and fresh-faced, thin-faced. Today, not only is my spirit broken regarding the school and their treating me like I AM one of the 25-year olds who attend (do I REALLY need practicing for a job interview?), but my frame is no longer lusted after by the young courtisans...it's no longer recognizable to professors who had me in class a year ago. The school keeps issuing us ID's and public transport cards with that original ID picture on it...no one would believe me if I said, "No, this is really me."

The vanity train doesn't halt there.

On the days when I'm not going downtown or out somewhere, I don't spike up my hair. Why waste the glue when I'm wearing a hat most of the day and/or hanging out at home? The hair glue makes my hair look darker than it actually is.  Oh my Dad, you should see me scrutinize when I look in the bathroom mirror and run my fingers through my towel-dried hair. It's still a medium brown altogether, but the chunks of gray are impossible to narrow down in order to pluck to myself feel more youthful. Still, I refuse to color my hair (which may change by the time I'm 50). I guess I take after my dad who was almost totally gray by 35. My brother and mom have nary a gray hair in sight. Another superficiality, but remember, I go to school with people in their mid 20's and have very close friends who dye their hair I wonder if they'd be gray if they went au nautral. I've talked it over my stylist. who said my natural color would be very hard to replicate, because it's brown and red and gray. Figures.

I keep promising I'll do the Yin Yoga by Paul Greely DVD  which changed Steven's life, and God knows, would probably would help out wit my snow-shoveling back pain. Joining the gym again is a realistic possibility in a few days when the stipend should come in tomorrow or Saturday. And I still think I could bring Luke as a workout buddy. A girl in my band hired a personal trainer from Zip Fitness to help her along (we're about the same size, but I'm taller). She didn't think it was that expensive.

Monday night is Bar Louie night again for tots and merriment again with Meg, and Guy's been informed that if should choose to stop by, I'll have his damn Christmas gifts with me, though I'm not sure I want him to see me in this condition. I can't help but feel I'm being judged by everyone, everywhere I go, every day. I'm fearful that Guy's distance from me is because I'm no longer slim arm candy to accompany his arm, though Meg assures me Guy's not that superficial. And I know I am not supposed to speak of Guy in my blog anymore, but it's glaring my eyesight.

Maybe, through some miracle, or some intense, 6 days a week, hour and a half a day workouts again (though they totally don't fit into my school schedule and I have scant motivation), I'll fit back into my tiny person clothes by the time Luke graduates...in 4 months...almost gonna happen. At the very least, hopefully I'll at least have better hair than any of the other 8th grade moms...

My Fat Elvis period. I mean no disrespect to the BBW's out there....but I'm a tiny girl frame that happened to gain weight in all the wrong places because of psychotropic drugs. I'm pretty much disgusted and no amount of "you are beautiful!" is going to cement it into my head that I am beautiful. I know I'm beautiful.....when I'm thin as a rail.