21 December 2014

Untitled and maybe temporary.

I don't want to cry and whine to my friends, but I need to cry and whine to someone, so you, Dear Blog, will be my someone. 

The Remicade is working fantastically. No ulcers, no Crohn's, no colitis, feeling fantastic. I think I just had my 6th infusion and there's no trace of disease. Huzzah! 

However, since March I've gained 20 pounds. After much research, I've learned that weight gain on remicade is actually pretty normal for Crohn's patients, some people gain as much as 60 pounds. 

I can't. I can't even. I can't think of that without crying. I feel so unlike myself. I feel like a blob. My clothes don't fit, I can't look at pictures of myself without melting down, I don't even recognize myself when I look in the mirror. The thought of another 40 pounds or even another five has me in knots. I am pretty much falling apart, because I am not a fat person. Well, the real me isn't. I'm active all day. I don't eat much in the way of extras. I'm not binging on ice cream or eating my feelings. I stay hydrated and I am trying so damn hard to keep this in perspective, but I'm failing. After every infusion, my weight jumps five pounds, and as the remicade leaves my system over the subsequent eight weeks, I start to lose a few pounds, only to gain it back plus a couple pounds once I'm infused again. 

I don't know what to do. If I quit the remicade, I could end up sick again. If I stay on the remicade, I'll continue to spiral emotionally. I'm not in a good place and I feel like all I'm doing is trying to hold it together in the midst of complete sorrow. I want to enjoy the holidays, but I'm not enjoying anything these days, feeling like I'm trapped in a stranger's body. 

That was depressing, I know. But I feel like I can't possibly say what I'm feeling out loud, because I can't draw more attention to the elephant in the room. (Heh. Don't tell me you didn't see that coming.) I feel ashamed every time I put a bite of anything in my mouth, because I obsess over what anyone around me must be thinking. How vain is that? I am gaining plenty of insight into a world I reached through a rabbit hole, a place I never, ever wanted to go. Now I understand why fat people end up with eating disorders. I'm a wreck, here. 

I've never been the skinniest girl in the room, but I've always been healthy. Now, nine months into what should be the best nine months in my life, recovering as I am, I feel completely helpless and tired. Sleep? Forget it. I spend bedtime recounting in my head everything I've put in my mouth all day, trying to decide if I'm feeling positive or downright bummed. And while the kids seem to think extra-fluffy mommy is great, I can't help but feel so ugly and sad when Andrew puts his arms around me only to find More of me than there has ever been before. 

I'll probably delete this tomorrow, but for tonight, I need to send it all out there, somewhere. I'm sure it'll all seem brighter in the morning. Self-pity isn't usually my jam, but I guess everyone needs to have a little rant every so often.

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