The Weight of Anxiety

Hello readers!

Ok, so it's been literally YEARS since I wrote here but better late than never??

I am finding that I need to read my own blog these days and take my own advice.  If you read my last entry, you know that the last couple of years have been challenging.  Grief can manifest itself in many ways.  Sometimes your weight is a sign of your mental health.  Remember that old saying, "You never know another person's struggles?"

Thin is not always great.

The year that my boss/mentor was diagnosed with cancer was a...challenging year to say the least.  In fact, I spent thousands of dollars trying to figure out what was wrong with me.  "Why, what do you mean?"  Well, I'm glad you asked.  You see, my stomach had begun bloating 3-5 inches every day.  The only relief was the first ten minutes of my morning after sleeping.  My gall bladder was tested.  We tried changing my diet and excluding one thing after another.  Yet the bloating continued.  Was I suddenly lactose intolerant?  What was wrong with me???

In an attempt to ease my pain and discomfort, I lessened my food intake.

"What would you eat?"

"Nine eggs a day."

"What else?"

"No, that's all.  Nine eggs a day."

I rapidly lost about 15 lbs. and was bordering on being underweight, but I was so tired of my stomach hurting.  Occasionally I would eat some chicken or lettuce.  My nails were becoming brittle.

But here's the thing....

People were complimenting me.

"Looking great!"  "Have you lost weight?"

I went to get new bras, because my old ones were too big.  When I walked into the store, the woman asked if she could help me.  I said that I had recently lost some weight and needed to be resized.  Her automatic response?  "Congratulations!"

I don't blame the woman for her response.  It's what we're programmed to believe.  Thinner is better.  But what was lurking beneath was grief and a body that was barely keeping up.

Fast forward some time.  I gave up.  I decided to eat again.  Nothing seemed to help my pain and discomfort, so I resigned myself to believing this was just the way life was for me now.  I gained back some weight and got back to my normal size...in the mornings.  My clothes were struggling to fit because I was still bloating.  I read article after article trying to figure out what was going on with me.  My family doctor said this was beyond his knowledge and he would need to refer me to a specialist.  I didn't want to pay for that.  So I went for a second opinion.

"Let's start by cutting things out of your diet."  That was the second opinion.  Listen here, Doc.  If eating only nine eggs a day doesn't fix it, I don't think it's an intolerance.  I didn't go back to him.

Other signs started popping up.  My shoulders were in immense pain.  Then my dentist said the enamel on my teeth was stripping away due to clenching.  Up until that point, I hadn't noticed but once my dentist told me to be aware I realized was clenching my jaw nearly 24/7.

Then I would have moments of sheer panic about death.  Crying fits where I couldn't function.

I tried everything: meditation, prayer, yoga...nothing seemed to help me.  My body was crying out for help, but I didn't know what it needed.

I spoke with my husband and said I felt I needed a different kind of help.

And so...I became a statistic.  I was put on anti-anxiety medication.  My new doctor said he couldn't give me muscle relaxers, but that the issue was probably more deeply rooted.  I never processed my grief from losing a loved one and my body was suffering for it.

Folks, this ain't "I don't like social situations," or "I get anxious about speaking in public."

And here's the truth.  I hate it.  I hate that I'm now on two medications.  I wish I could just snap my fingers and make it go away.

When I was put on the medication, in a matter of only three months I suddenly gained nearly 20 lbs!  I couldn't seem to stop gaining.  It was out of my control.

So here's where I live now: in a world of good and bad.

The terrific news is that the medication has helped me immensely.  The pain in my body is subsiding and my stomach has finally stopped bloating after four years of daily discomfort.  I can handle the day to day much better.  I'm even starting to process some of my grief.  Some.

Here's the terrible news.  I hate my body now.  I've even started throwing out the "F" word: FAT.  I don't like looking in the mirror.  I don't like the idea that people may see me and think, "Wow, she's really put on the weight."

I am mentally flourishing for the first time since my loved one was diagnosed with cancer, but I'm having to learn to love my body again in a new way.  I have to let go of what I "used to be."  I have to accept what I am now.  Perhaps I won't always be this way.  Maybe I will.  But the truth of the matter is that I need to love myself no matter what.