Monday, February 20, 2012

Whining like a bitch.


And it's pretty much every day lately.  On some level, my head pumps and throbs like speakers at a shitty concert, leaving me burrowing deep into my bed in desperate search of sanctuary.
From the light.
From the wind.
From the sounds of my childrens' voices.  My poor teenager can barely speak to me, because the sound of his voice literally makes me want to vomit.
My ears are ringing and rumbling, to the point that silence around me makes me stabby.
My stomach is in knots.  I feel as if I ate fire.  This is either a symptom of my condition, or a side effect of the medication I dumped into my belly to try and fight it.

I am unwell.  There's no denying.

As a general rule, I'm a healthy person.  Every physical I have ever had, has suggested that all those mysterious numbers doctors like to see, are right where the doctors like to see them.  I've got my physical quirks, but all in all, a healthy person.  "But you need to lose some weight," they'd all assert. "Fuck you,"  I'd think.

Now they're right.  I'm unwell.  And as much as I hate to admit it, it's because I'm fat.

I do not now, nor will I ever accept that "fat" equals "unhealthy."  My stance has not changed, and I will forever be a militant fat-activist of sorts, insisting that fat people are not immediately lazy or sickly just because of their fat.  This is why I'm so pissed off that my own fatness actually does have a direct effect on my health.

And boy, does it ever.  I'm miserable.  The days I don't spend trying to avoid the very tip-top of the headache-pain-meter, I spend trying to encourage my food to stay in my stomach, since nausea is a prominent side-effect of my condition.

This post is really nothing more than a whine.  I'm sick and I'm resentful and likely only making such a post because the medication has fogged my brain into thinking it's a good idea.
Tomorrow will be better.   I'll be in a state of weakness and near-euphoria once this thumper passes.  And I suppose I'll put in a few extra minutes on my treadmill, in hopes of shedding the offensive weight, and settling back into a somewhat normal existence.

But I'll be bitter.  Harumph.    

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