I have had the gamut of experiences with psych meds over the years, both the good and the bad. But a couple years ago, I was put on the controversial drug clozaril. I avoided the most dangerous and damaging of its side effects, but it nailed me with the weight gain. In a very short time my weight went from 120 lbs to 190 lbs. And it was awful.
I am still struggling with the weight daily. I do my best to diet, and I have begun doing the DVD called Gentle Yoga. But I’m still on several medications that cause weight gain. So the struggle is real.
My issues with the weight are not the issues that most women struggle with. I actually always wanted to be fat. Most of my closest friends are fat, and I love the sweep and curve of them. Of course, I didn’t get fat like that. Nope. Nope. Nope. I gained all that weight solely in my boobs and belly…no curvy plump arms and legs for me! Nope! I look like an olive with toothpicks stuck in it! I look like I am in my third trimester.
The other thing is that most fat people I know grew fat over time, over months or years. I gained nearly 70 lbs in less than two months. I had no time to adjust to growing fat, I simply WAS fat in what seemed like the blink of an eye.
With no time to adapt to my new size and shape, I became even more awkward than I was before. Things I used to do with ease are now difficult or nearly impossible. I have to struggle to reach around my vast belly to put on socks and shoes. I leave toenail polish on for months at a time. Really, unless my youngest daughter visits and paints them, my toenails are a disgusting untended mess. I remain baffled at things like driving-how hard it is to fit my big awkward body behind the wheel. (I’m glad I have not had to fly anywhere!)
On my last visit to the psychiatrist, I proudly told him I was losing a little weight. I guess I was looking for praise or validation from him. Instead he looked at my medication list and told me I still should be gaining weight with my current medications. Then he said I was dieting too much! I felt crushed. I have fought, struggled, and, yes, suffered to lose 14 lbs, and here I was being told that I was dieting too much.
As a mental health patient, I have gotten pretty tough. I can stand the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune pretty well. I do not shy away from new treatments or diagnoses. But there is one thing I do not want. I do not want this psychiatrist to decide that I have an eating disorder. Patients with eating disorders get a lot of attention. They get the sort of attention that I do not want. I don’t think I have an eating disorder, not now, and not in the past.
I know, I know, from those of you who knew me then, after Tom died, I did stop eating, and my weight plummeted. I remember that too. That was not an eating disorder, that was despair and grief. After a few months I returned to eating normally, and my weight stabilized.
So here is a conundrum. If I continue with the diet and exercise, and I continue to lose weight, I run the risk of this doctor taking an interest in my weight loss. I fear getting an eating disorder label stuck to me. I do not know if my fear is rational. The doctor dropped that PTSD diagnosis on me with no warning, out of a clear blue sky. Psychiatrists are a notoriously tricky lot, and I do not wish to run afoul of this man. I might have mentioned before that I find him alarming. But on the other hand, I really do need to lose weight. We are poor. There is no money for even a trip to Goodwill to buy clothes that fit me. My closet is full of size 6 garments, but they do not fit my size 16-18 body. It is a real problem. At home I live in soft old stretchy sweatpants and pajamas, and that works okay. But since I began participating in my own mental health, my life is a constant whirl of appointments. And to go to appointments, you need to get dressed.
I see people in the waiting room of the therapist and the psychiatrist in pajamas and sweats all of the time. But I know that showing up in your pajamas is noticed. I know that not being dressed appropriately is a point of concern in mental health care.
Up until this week, I have been without a Winter coat. In Pittsburgh. In Winter. I am just too fat to fit my coats. In an awesome turn of events, my therapist found me a well-worn thin wool jacket. It won’t be super warm, but it is far better than the thin leather coat I have been wearing.
I obsessively watch the posts of my fat friends, hoping that they will say that they are taking old clothes to the Goodwill, but they never are.
So the struggles are real.
The fear is real.
The scary thing really is how profound the ‘side effect’ of clozaril was. The idea that taking a tiny pill twice a day could translate into 70 pounds in a little over a month is very scary to me. These psych meds are scary to me. I want them to help me. I have a deep need to believe that they will help me. I want to get better, and I need these pills to help me get on the right track.
But the pills are terrifying. They really are.
When you start swallowing the pills, you really never know who you will be, or how you will be when they kick in. I have had pills change my entire personality. This clozaril changed my entire body. I fear taking a pill that might change my entire soul.
I have a mantra. I say it daily, as often as I need to. My mantra is ‘consciousness is not fragile.’ But as I contemplate how easily the meds alter my consciousness I wonder if my mantra is true.