Street Justice

icecreamhelicopter:

malcolm in the middle was the realest show

When your doctor calls you a liar and fat

I got sick starting March of 2013 through February 2014. Thanks HPV for making my body miserable, tired, in pain and my head and heart too sad to function. (This is a gross understatement). Regardless, as of Feb 21st, 2014 I’ve been medically cleared to live my life per usual. 

Unfortunately, I’ve put on some weight. This sucks, but I’ve been here before. I know I need to work out and improve my diet. I’ve been doing this. Truly. I’ve been eating healthier - with the types of foods and portions - for the first time in my life. I’ve dramatically cut back on my alcohol in-take; going from 10-15/drinks a week to 2-4/drinks per month. 

I jog with my dog regularly (2-3 times a week, 3 miles each run). I do cross training twice a week (this shit kicks my ass). Yet the scale isn’t moving any other way but up.

I see my doctor. We do blood tests. We take measurements. We weigh me. I show her my food/work out journal. The doctor scratches her head and says “This is all very good so…” looooooooong pause. “Is this [my journal of food I eat and work out regiment] the truth?”

I feel my face burn red hot and my defenses sky rocket. 

"I’m not lying. I’m doing everything you’ve asked of me, the weight isn’t coming off. There has to be something else you can test me for."

The doctor looks at me. Looks at her screen. Types something and says, “I just want to be clear here - you’re writing down ALL the food you’re eating? There’s no secret snacks not being documented?” She says this in her sweet, belittling, little girl voice - the way a super annoyed receptionist directs some random asshole with passive aggressive customer service. 

Instead of suggesting additional tests, I’m referred to a nutritionist/dietician. 

I leave the office, sit in my car and look at my eyes in the rear view mirror. They look so tired. They look so sad. I’m so broken; there aren’t even tears to relieve the pressure.

"So not only are you some sorry, fat fuck, you’re a liar." The evil bully in me loves to kick me when I’m down.

I felt so alone. I felt so defeated. I felt angry. 

In group therapy we’re encouraged to share this sort of stuff. These incidents. These feelings. But how can I? I’m so tired of telling sad stories to people; getting the pity, getting the hugs from strangers in group. They mean well, and I’m not trying to be a bitch but - fuck - let me just get better! 

Working through depression is so much harder than any drug regiment or treatment program. The heaviness is more debilitating than any sore muscles after an intense work out. I have a wet, cloak on my shoulders every day and I really don’t have that much to complain about. I don’t complain. I’m actively trying to float above this shit. I’m staring up at the dark sky while surrounded by dark water. I’m just there. Floating. Listening for anything. Too listless to cry out for help. Not wanting to drown, I don’t want to die… 

I’ve had thirty years of crummy fucking stories. I just want to move along, now. I have so much to be thankful for, I have funny stories. Happy stories. Boring stories. 

I really don’t want to look in the rear view mirror and see those eyes again. She has to go away. She just has to. 

I swear to God… if I’m friend zoned one more fucking time…

I swear to God… if I’m friend zoned one more fucking time…