I have never, in my entire life, through all the depressions I’ve eaten my weight in chocolate and through three pregnancies, have NEVER weighed what I do today. 173 pounds. They say age ain’t nothin’ but a number. Well weight isn’t either. Especially when your weight gain is due to a pill you have to take. I don’t mean want to take, I mean have to take. Without Lyrica I shake and spasm all the time. My hands shake, my muscles jump and sometimes, my entire body spasms. When I think of those months where I woke up me and my husband with my spasms, I want to cry. When I think of all the pretty and wonderful clothes that I love that I had to box up in the last year, I want to cry. Fibromyalgia isn’t just about pain, although it hurts. Fibromyalgia takes your life and what you knew you and yourself and your family and your marriage to be and it blows it into a billion pieces. I have to fight for every one of those pieces of my life. The fight for my weight and my body to look the way I want it to look has recently reared its ugly head.
People see a fat person and they see “lazy”. They see “doesn’t work out”, “never met a doughnut she doesn’t like”, and my most recent and most embarrassing “when are you due?” I didn’t correct the hair dresser because I didn’t want to make her feel bad when I myself have told my husband that I look pregnant. I also had a family member tell me that someone saw me in the grocery store and asked them when I was due. I read somewhere (can’t remember where, but that’s another post) that the majority of Fibromyalgics (yes, Google Chrome, that is a word!) carry their extra weight in their tummy’s. Please, for all that is holy, stop asking people you think are preggo, when they are due! If they wanted you to know, they’d tell you!
I will never judge someone based on their weight again. I will never comment on ill-fitting clothes again. I’ve spent an embarrassment of money in the last year going from a size 8, to a 10, to a 12 and now to a 14. I asked someone that I thought was bigger than me what size they wore, when she told me it was the same size I had just left, I was shocked. The hardest part of the gain has not been the stretch marks, although they are painful to me, or the stretch on the pocket book, although that has been an added stress to an already strained relationship with my husband. The hardest part is looking at myself in the mirror and hearing all the comments that my husband or myself have said over the years about others. I know that he does not find overweight women attractive. So how, when I still feel sexy and I look in the mirror and I see the curves I’ve always wanted, do I process that? He is the most sensitive man I’ve ever met and he knows better than to say that he doesn’t like the extra weight. Well, I don’t like the extra weight! So I say so and then he suggests work-out solutions and then I get mad at him for that.
I was always skinny growing up and until my second pregnancy had no trouble keeping weight off. I had a high metabolism, ate whatever I wanted and ate frequently. I was always self-conscious however, because I never ate large portions, and three meals-a-day has never worked for me, so my smaller portions got me called anorexic. Therefore, I hate to eat in front of people and I get sick when people comment on what I’m eating. Now that I’m overweight, I get comments all the time, but to the opposite. I eat the same way I did before and the same portions, only now it is the way I’m eating making me fat. It is the Lyrica!
I’m supposed to to stay positive to fight the symptoms of Fibromyalgia, but there is nothing more depressing than completely emptying your closet, realizing that there is little hope that you will ever wear those clothes again. I’m not wealthy, so everything I put away I love. Bright colors, smooth fabrics, sleek dress pants, dressy shirts that are bedazzled to death, casual pants and jeans, khakis and cords, flowy and flirty skirts and dresses, comfy and form-fitting sweaters, baby tees, t-shirts, pajama pants and shirts, nightgowns, matching panties and bras. I’ve had to replace everything. And if that isn’t a metaphor for my life right now, I don’t know what is.
I detest leaving my blog on such a depressing note, but there is no helping it. Yes. I bought new clothes. Yes. I’m alive. Fibromyalgia won’t kill me. But it has already altered my life, my children and my husband in such a way that I can’t help but feel like my closet. Empty. My children are still at an age where they love me no matter what, but what about the others in my life. The people and relationships that I didn’t even throw away. They just left and gave up on me assuming that I was making up my symptoms and that I had a choice in any of this. I’ve had to start over at a point in my life where I was satisfied with what I had. A home. A job. Three kids, a mini-van and a husband that I loved more than life itself. Before I’ve even had a chance to figure any of this out, I feel like people are giving up on me. Please don’t give up on me. I’m trying!