If you've ever been diagnosed with bulimia (like I have) in the past or even in the present tense, then you know the secrets and the downsides of dieting, including at extreme levels.
I'm at Stanford at their psychiatric outpatient clinic, a feat that wouldn't even been possible if it wasn't for the fact that the Medical Director of the Psychiatric Hospital ward haven't written me a recommendation and appealed to the doctors at Outpatient to take me on as a case despite the fact that I live about four hours away--which was directly against their policy.
For the most part, the doctors at Outpatient focus on my caffeine intake. On my latest blood work results, it showed that my cholesterol was high, no doubt a side effect of the antipsychotics I've taken over the years. The resident psychiatrist warned that if my levels didn't go down in about six months, then they might have to take me off of Seroquel, which would be hugely inconvenient for me. The attending physician, however, disagreed with her, and said that if high cholesterol was the worst that would ever happen to me by taking antipsychotics, that I was doing very well. "We can treat the cholesterol," he insisted.
Unfortunately for me, I asked the resident doctor if I should lose weight. They never brought up the subject of weight loss with me on their own, probably aware that I already know it's potentially a problem, and somewhat embarrassed by it.
The resident psychiatrist, of course, said yes, and then she gave me some tips on getting the weight off, all of which I knew. She told me to eat only 1,500 calories a day, which comparatively is a very small amount. She told me that sometimes I should just go hungry.
This is ironic because last time I was hospitalized at Stanford, the doctors there were concerned I didn't weigh enough, and therefore prescribed me protein drinks as snacks, as often as twice a day (the second one, I always threw away without digesting it). But I've gained a lot of weight in the past year. Technically, according to the BMI, I am slightly overweight, a classification that I'm not comfortable with, and one of which I've never previously been included. I was watching an advertisement for "Girls," in which one of the characters complained, "I'm overweight and I have a mental illness!" I thought britterly, join the fucking club.
While I can complain about the weight gain, and trust me, I do every day, every time I walk infront of a mirror, and heaven forbid! All that time in the shower brings me to shame--I cannot forget the luxuries Lexapro and Seroquel have afforded me. I've been out of the hospital almost exactly a year, and the past year has been the best I've had since probably 2007. If you ask my mother about the situation, she thinks that the weight gain was well worth it. Like most other patients you hear talk about this particular subject, the side effect of gaining pounds while on antipsychotics, they will all say that they'd rather be stable and fat than skinny in the hospital (at my thinnest since jr. high, I was psychotic). Even my vanity allows such a conclusion.
Last time I met up with the LSU Professor, he gave me a hug, and said while I had my physical struggles to bear, he was so happy to see me so happy. I know what he meant by this, for the first time in a really long time, I can laugh at myself and at the oddities of life.
No comments:
Post a Comment