Disorderly Eating

I have an eating disorder.  I'm sure I've mentioned it before, but I don't think I've ever talked about it in serious detail. Well, the present time seems appropriate to tell the tale, as I'm currently, right this minute,  in the process of researching the ABC diet.  The ABC diet is also known as Ana Boot Camp (ana is a slang term for anorexia nervosa). In my lifetime, I've had doctors tell me I was anorexic and I've had doctors tell me I was bulimic. I don't know what I am, but it's definitely a disorder.  There's a very loud voice inside me that tells me this is unhealthy, that I'm verging on a relapse, that I should NOT be checking out new, extreme ways to get thin. The ABC Diet lasts 50 days, and is built around a very strict caloric restriction.  Days of fasting are interspersed with days of consuming a maximum of 500 calories.  The calorie intake changes day to day, but the lowest day on the program allows a mere 50 calories. Most days average around 200-300 calories a day. Diet experts say that the minimum recommended daily calories consumed should be no lower than 1000-1500.  So this diet has risks. Any diet has risks, but this particular diet puts the dieter at risk for low blood sugar, which causes low energy and dizziness. Other risks include malnutrition, fatigue, sensitivity to cold temperatures, paranoia, depression, a learned obsession with calories, fat and sugar intakes, and an increased likelihood to participate in other dangerous eating rituals.  Now here's what scares me.  It would be a walk in the park for me to stick to the calorie counting.  There are many days in which I consume less than 500 calories, and I fast at least once a week.  This would just mean getting a food diary and keeping track of every calorie I consume.  So really, it wouldn't be all that hard for me to stick to the diet's rules.  It worries me/us that we are considering starting this diet Monday.  I have a wedding to go to in 4 weeks-that's half the time of the diet.  I really, really would love to shed some pounds before that date. It's a family wedding-I'll be in the photos-and I would hate to ruin a beautiful wedding picture by looking too fat.  It doesn't help anything that the bride has an amazingly hot body. She's tall and thin and gorgeous; I have no desire to stand next to her in any photos. But back to my point-I believe I could do the food part of the diet.  The hard part is that you have to exercise obsessively, preferably something super intense like P90X. There's no way I could handle that kind of workout in my current state of health.  I am simply too out of shape to follow such a hardcore program; sad but true.  I have no strength and no endurance.  It would take me so long to get used to the exercise portion of this diet that half my progress would be spent just getting to a "normal" fitness level.  I just don't know how to remedy this situation.  I can start working out today but there's little chance I can speed up my metabolism and start burning the kind of calories that this diet recommends.  I currently eat so little every day that my body has gone into "starvation mode"-this is according to my medical doctor-and is therefore hoarding calories and storing fat within me. My doctor actually told me that to lose any weight, I'd have to start eating more.  So perhaps this ISN'T the right diet for me, as it certainly isn't an increase in my food consumption, but rather a steep decrease.  I just don't know what to do. 

I remember the very day I first decided that I was fat.  I was in 3rd grade, just 8 years old, and I was not at all overweight. (Have you heard this story before? If so, I apologize for being repetitive.)  The weather was very warm and I was wearing shorts. I was sitting in class, in my desk, and I happened to look down at my thighs.  I couldn't help but notice how, when they were pressed flat against the seat, they spread out much wider than when I was standing.  Something clicked in my mind, and right then and there I decided that I was too fat.  I went home and walked to the store and purchased my very first diet soda. I hate to age myself, but it was a Tab; that was the only diet soda made at that time.  It was sweetened with saccharin, and so it was bitter.  I didn't like it, but I forced myself to drink those cancer-causing ingredients, and so began a lifelong habit of drinking diet sodas.  I've been drinking them so long now that I usually can't tell the difference between a regular soda and a diet soda; I'm just used to the bitter taste.  I've been a Diet Coke fiend since it was first introduced, and to this day I drink mostly coffee and Diet Coke.  I realize now that this is a terrible habit, and that even diet sodas still cause bloating and weight gain.  I understand that I must give up my Diet Coke habit in order to successfully lose enough weight to make myself "happy" (whatever that means). So I'm ready. I'm drinking coffee right now, and after I'm done I shall switch to drinking water for the rest of day. I intend to drink water only everyday from Monday until we leave for the wedding, which is on May 19.  I also intend to ingest diuretic pills so as to shed even more water weight.  I realize that this is a quick fix and that I'll only be losing water, not actual fat, but that's OK right now.  I just need to shed some pounds for the wedding; I can begin to focus on body mass index after we get back from the wedding trip. The wedding is out of state, and my husband and my mother and I are driving down for the whole weekend. Mom has to be there for the rehearsal dinner, as she's the grandmother of the groom.  My husband and I are not in the wedding, but we are attending both the wedding and the lavish reception, which is to be held at a mansion in Savannah, Georgia.  It's a very long drive for us, but since my husband has never been to Savannah, and because I simply adore that city, I am really excited to make the trip.  The wedding and everything surrounding it should be a blast.  I will get to spend time with my big sister, whom I rarely see as she lives in Utah, and my niece and of course my nephew is the groom.  He lives in L.A. and so I only see him once a year or less.  He's very, very health/fitness conscious, and I dread having him see how much weight I've gained since he last saw me.  The weight gain is not due to overeating, but rather is a side-effect of the medication which I must now take.  Worst. Side effect. Period.

I first began my dance with medication and weight gain when I was 16 and the doctor put me on Lithium; I gained about 30 pounds. I was horrified at how puffy my face got.  But I endured it until the day came when my medication was switched. Some of the pills they put me on caused me to lose weight, and that was always a pleasant bonus for me.  But many of the psychotropic medications I've been given over the years have had the unwanted side-effect of weight gain, often substantial.  I'm currently prescribed six different medications: 2 atypical anti-psychotics, a regular anti-psychotic, an SSRI antidepressant, an NDRI antidepressant, and an anti-anxiety medication of the benzodiazepine class.  I have no idea which ones of these drugs are causing the weight gain, but when I began my newest prescription I noticed a jump in my weight, a big one.  And so it could be that more than one of them is causing the weight gain; but which ones do I give up to lose the extra pounds?  And seriously, is it worth it to lose my mind in order to be thin? (someone inside me is screaming "Absolutely!")

Now as far as my eating disorder goes, I've been showing signs and symptoms since that fateful day when I was 8.  After that first Tab, I became obsessed with calorie counting and sugar, fat, and carbohydrate control.  I quit using sugar and switched to an artificial sweetener, and I began buying reduced-fat, low-cal, and sugar-free foods. I also began to regulate how much I consumed and adhered to a strict diet.  It was also around this time that I began to exercise obsessively.  At the age of 10 I went running until my legs turned to jelly, played tennis, did aerobics (with my Jane Fonda videotapes), and wouldn't go to bed at night until I'd done a specific number of sit-ups (100) and leg lifts and other floor exercises. All these behaviors stayed with me throughout my teenage years and by high school I'd begun fasting. There were several occasions wherein I passed out at school from lack of food.  But then my prescriptions changed and I gained weight and it was out of my control.  So I began making myself throw up.  After a while, it was easy.  I got sick every time I ate.  This helped drop some weight but was very unhealthy.  I didn't care though. I continued to starve myself and fast and throw up and eventually, in my 20s, I began using laxatives as well.  It was in my 20s that I reached my lowest weight.  I achieved this through the use of diet pills, which were basically just speed, and also I quit taking my psychiatric medications.  If I got hungry, I'd pop a pill and smoke a cigarette instead of eating.  The diet pills, along with the starvation, the obsessively exercising, the vomiting and the laxatives all helped me achieve a weight of 98 pounds.  I was so proud of that fact, although at the time I was convinced that if I'd only lose "a few more pounds" I would really look good.  I remember the constant weigh-ins. I was always on a scale, and I obsessed over each and every pound. Later, my doctor made me get rid of the scale, and I'm forbidden to own one now.  I remember lying in bed, running my hands along my rib cage, counting each rib to see how bony I was.  I also took great pride in having pelvic bones which stuck out prominently.  And I'd lie there and suck in my stomach and see how concave I could get it.  When I see the photos of me from that time, it's bizarre because I'm torn in different directions--the K(s) with the eating disorder think I look good, while the other K's think I look frail and unhealthy. I remember what a typical day's food intake was back then: no more than 5 saltine crackers and a plain baked potato.  That's it, along with coffee and Diet Coke.  And I fasted every 3rd day.  It's amazing I didn't cause some sort of permanent damage to my body. But this is my life, or how it's been for most all of my life.  I also later went through a phase, at age 30, where I'd gained so much weight due to the medications I was on that I became seriously depressed and absolutely gave up at one point and began compulsive overeating. I'd binge and eat everything I could find.  I could eat a whole package of cookies, and sometime I did.  I'd eat like this at night, so that no one would know about it. I was ashamed and I hid my eating.  No one ever saw me eat-it was my secret. But I reached my heaviest weight during this time, and that was 183 pounds. (God, it's hard to admit that, even though I don't weigh that much anymore.) The throwing up and laxatives and diet pills came into play again and I shed it eventually, but because of the medication I am on, it's been a lifelong struggle with my weight-it goes up and down.  Right now, I'm somewhere in the middle, but on the chubby side in my opinion (thank you new meds). I currently flip-flop between complete starvation and binging and purging.  My husband doesn't know about all these habits of mine, and I intend to keep it that way.  All he needs to know is that I want to look good for him, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes.  So I've stocked up on a variety of appetite suppressants, carbohydrate blockers, metabolic stimulators, and calorie-restricting pills.  Plus some good old fashioned "legal speed".  I'm not sure how all of these things are going to fit in with The ABC diet, or if I can fit them in at all.  I don't know exactly how I intend to shed this weight, but I guarantee you it will be unhealthy as hell.  And I will adhere to my strict diet and exercise program at least until the wedding.  After that, we'll settle into a healthier-eating/daily exercise routine and hopefully I can achieve a desirable, "normal" weight.  I just hope I can properly gauge what a "normal" weight is. I can't continue to live this life of extremes.  It's getting more and more dangerous as I get older, and I'm beginning to fear for my health...but not enough to stop. 

Hospitalized at 16

I had never even met with a counselor before, much less a psychiatrist.  So naturally it never even occurred to me that my parents would do something like hospitalize me.  Yes, my behavior was out of control, but I was 16 and my hormones were going wild and I was terribly depressed and confused and of course, unmedicated.  I was acting out and engaging in reckless behavior, skipping school, smoking cigarettes, cutting my arms, and I was shaving parts of my head. I had been dressing all in black and staying in my room alone, listening to depressing music. I never wanted to go out or do anything. I barely ate or slept. I sat in the dark and wrote poems about death.  These days, I'd just be called goth or emo, but back then it wasn't an acceptable lifestyle. Naturally my parents assumed I was on drugs.  The truth was I'd never even smoked pot before! But they decided to send me out of town to a fancy hospital where young people were treated for behavioral problems and substance abuse.

They had to lie to me to get me there.  They said we were taking a weekend trip, which didn't seem unusual since my family traveled a lot, but I was pissed that they were making me go with them.  I climbed in the backseat of the car and sulked for the hour's drive to the hospital.  Of course, I didn't realize we were going to a hospital until we were there.  Before I knew what was happening, some people dressed in white grabbed my arms and started pulling me towards the door, all the while telling me to relax and not fight them.  RELAX?  When strangers are assaulting me? When I'm being forcefully taken inside what looks to me like a prison, it's difficult to relax and stay calm.  I started screaming curse words at the nurses, my parents (who disappeared as soon as they'd taken my suitcase out of the trunk; they didn't even say goodbye) and anyone within earshot.  I was furious with my parents, for lying to me, for deceiving me, for leaving me in such a place.  At first I didn't know where I was or what was happening so I thought maybe they'd shipped me off to a half-way house. I was both angry and scared.  I remember a desk and some papers I had to sign....they wanted me to read a bunch of crap and then sign if I agreed to it but I didn't bother to read it-I didn't give a shit what those papers said.  I just wanted to be alone.  Just leave me the fuck alone, I thought, or maybe I screamed, I can't remember now.

I do remember this part quite well--the strip search.  The nearly-unbearable humiliation of the strip search.  Full body cavity search, performed by a very large football-playerish woman, and just to be clear I had to stand there completely naked and let her touch me. Everywhere.  Even inside of me. God-I swear I just felt a chill run up my back.  I haven't thought about these events in many, many years.  Apparently, they still get to me though.  She was checking for drugs I suppose, or razor blades or anything else I might use to hurt myself with. The funny thing, if you can call it that, was that I'd recently been sick with mono, and so I had these bruises on my inner arms where the doctors had drawn blood.  Well, to the people at the hospital, these were "tracks" and this made me look like a heroin addict. They started asking about all the drugs I used.  I tried to tell them that I'd never used any drugs at all, but they told me that "Denial is the first sign of addiction" and so I had to get drug tested at random times throughout the course of my stay.  I don't think I ever actually convinced them I was drug-free, despite my clean urine tests. Interestingly enough, not only was I the only person there who did NOT have a drug or alcohol problem, but I learned more about drugs and how to use them and how to hide them than I ever could have learned on my own.

I was placed on Suicide Watch, which meant another nurse came into my room and unpacked my suitcase and removed any and every little thing that I might possibly find a way to self-harm with.  She took my belts, my shoelaces, my ink pens, my jewelry, my razor (of course), my toothpaste, my mouthwash, and any other liquid I had in my suitcase.  I didn't see the point in all of that, but I was powerless to stop it.  The whole while she was searching my things, I was being watched.  I found out the next day that being watched was going to be my norm for months.  I wasn't allowed to take a shower without a nurse in the bathroom with me, watching. I was not allowed to shave my legs.  I was given toothpaste to brush my teeth with, but was not allowed to have it in my bathroom. (Did you know that you can die from eating toothpaste?) I was watched every moment of every day.  I had to have a witness go with me whenever I went to pee. Talk about embarrassing!  I was lower than low already, and the humiliation of all of this just compounded my feelings of hopelessness and despair.

One day I was caught staring out of a window, and because they took this as a sign I might be planning to jump out of it, I was punished and sent to isolation.  This was a tiny room with no windows and only a mattress.  If I had to use the bathroom, I had to call for the nurse, who escorted me to the bathroom, watched me do my business, then took me back to my little cave.  I'm not sure how many days they kept me in isolation; I have no sense of time anyway, plus without windows I couldn't tell if it was day or night.  After I was allowed to go back to my room, I found I now had a roommate.  She was mean.  I did not like her, so I chose not to speak to her. She'd threaten me at times or curse at me, but I just stayed silent. I really didn't talk to anyone much the whole time I was hospitalized. I had no interest in making friends. I had nothing in common with these people-they were all junkies or sex addicts or criminals in my mind. I was different.  I was just depressed.

Every morning we were awakened at the crack of dawn and sent to a large sitting room, where we had "morning meditation".  The counselors gave us pep talks and read "inspirational" materials to us. We were given our schedule for the day and released to go dress for breakfast.  I wasn't actually allowed to go down to the cafeteria with the rest of the group, as I was on suicide watch.  I ate alone at a table in the corner of the sitting room, supervised by an orderly, and given only a plastic spoon to eat with.  I guess they thought I might hurt myself with a plastic fork.  Anyway, this whole eating in silence thing lasted for about a month and a half.  After that, I had earned the privilege to go to the lunchroom with the rest of the group, but I was still only allowed plastic utensils.  The nurses circled our table, making sure we were actually eating, and we were not allowed to leave unless we'd consumed what they considered to be an acceptable amount of food. This was hard to do, as the food was terrible and I'm so finicky anyway.  But I loved mealtimes, as it was one of the only times I got to leave the ward and see evidence of the outside world.  There were windows in the cafeteria, so I would gaze at the trees and watch the birds and dream of running away.

After breakfast, we went to "school". I sat in a classroom with kids of all ages and was given assignments, which to me were quite simple and so I used most of my classroom time to draw or write depressing poetry.  Class time was the only time I was allowed to use a pencil, and I would sketch and write letters to my friends back home (not sure if those letters ever actually got mailed).  After school was over, we had gym.  Now when I'd been at my high-school, I'd gotten out of taking gym by being the teacher's aide in the art department.  I hated exercising. But since it was so friggin' boring in this place, I began to work out in the weight room (supervised of course) and by the time I got to leave the hospital I had lost weight and toned up a good bit.

After gym, we were allowed to shower (again, I was watched) and then got to rest for half an hour, and then we went to group therapy.  This was when all the patients sat in a circle and we went around the room and talked about what was wrong with us.  Everyone had all these exciting tales of drug use and promiscuous sex and shoplifting, but I was innocent.  I had no stories to tell. I was a drug-free virgin.  I remember my shock upon meeting this one little girl who was 11 years old and who slept with men in their 30's; she guessed that she'd had sex with over 25 men.  I just couldn't believe it.  I always listened to everyone's stories with great interest, because my stories were so boring.  I mean, I looked like a delinquent, but I didn't actually do anything wrong. It seems there may have been a suicide attempt at one point in my teens, but I don't really remember that; I just have a scar on my left wrist to show where I'd cut myself. This was the reason I was kept on suicide watch throughout my stay.

What I longed to do was go outside though.  We were never allowed outside of the hospital.  I didn't feel the sun on my face for over 3 months.  And I don't even like the sun, but I was really just wanting to get away from the cold, clinical, all-white rooms which were all I saw every day.  The highlight of the day was when we got smoke break.  I guess this ages me, but back then there were no laws preventing teens from smoking.  So every day at the same time, all the smokers (which was pretty much everyone on that floor) got to congregate in the recreation room and smoke cigarettes.  The lighter was mounted to the wall, one of those things which got hot but didn't actually have a flame, and it had bars over it so that none of us could burn ourselves.  There was just enough space between these bars to fit a cigarette into, and that was how we lit our cigarettes. Naturally we were closely watched during smoke break. We were all allowed one pack of cigarettes per week; if you ran out, too bad. 

Now there were very strict rules at this hospital, and one of the rules was that we were not allowed to share things with the other patients.  One day, a boy had no cigarettes, and I felt bad for him, as he'd been brought in a few days before, all bloody from having punched through a window while high on cocaine. So I gave him a cigarette.  Just one.  And that's all it took.  He and I were both punished for a week, in isolation, in 2 separate locations of course.  After my second stint in isolation, I followed the rules. Now every other day I was visited by a psychiatrist, who determined that I was Bipolar (except at that time it was called Manic-Depressive) and I was placed on Lithium and some anti-depressants. I hated that doctor, and I'll be specific as to why.  She actually had the nerve to tell me one day that I would NOT be depressed if I only dressed in colorful clothes!  She said I felt bad because of how I looked. I was livid, and argued with her about this matter until the day I was released.  I never gave in to her wishes.  I continued to wear my all-black wardrobe.  She did NOT like that at all.

One day, she told me that I was going to be allowed a parental visit.  I had mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, I loved and missed them, but on the other hand I was still very angry with them for sticking me in such a hell-hole.  I recall the day quite vividly, as it was the first time I was allowed to go outside the building in 3 months. I loved the feel of the sun on my skin and the cool breeze...I got to go out to lunch with my folks, and of course they had a million questions, to which I gave the answers I thought they'd want to hear.  I lied and said I wasn't so depressed anymore.  I told them I wanted to come home.  But it'd be another month before that would happen. When I got back to the hospital, I was strip-searched again.  Also, the gift of chocolates my mother had given me was confiscated, because apparently there is a drug in chocolate and I wasn't allowed any stimulants of any kind. No coffee, no soda. Another thing they did was take away the stamps my father gave me with which to mail them letters. The nurse told me that in the past patients had used postage stamps to smuggle in LSD, so they were forbidden.

Although I was only there for about 4 months, it felt like years. Afterwards, when I told my parents how I'd been treated-the strip searches, the supervised bathroom visits, the isolation room-they felt terribly guilty about having made me go through such an ordeal. In an attempt to make up for it, they bought me a new car.  I don't think they ever understood just how horrible the whole experience had been for me, though, because after my discharge I was still made to visit that same psychiatrist for about a year or so.  She was a bitch. I resented the fact that she drove a different luxury sports car every time I saw her; I decided she only went into psychiatry for the money.  One day, my parents were told to come with me for a family session. At some point the doctor told my parents that they had, in fact, played a role in my becoming so depressed and out of control.  My parents were furious at this accusation, and my father cursed at the doctor and pulled me out of there and I never saw her again. I was taken off the medication (my father decided she'd just been drugging me to bill the insurance company) and I wouldn't have another doctor for a few years.  In that time period, I got much, much worse, but I hid this from my parents, for fear I'd be sent back to a hospital.

This was not the only time I've ever been hospitalized, this was just the first time.  To this day, I am absolutely terrified of psychiatric hospitals because of the horrible experiences I had while I was in this place.  I tried talking to my current psychiatrist about my nightmares of this hospital stay just the other day, and she told me that things like that simply do not happen in psych hospitals these days.  She thinks my memories are delusions or false memories or something.  But I know better.  I had nightmares for years after this little hospital stint.  I've been sent back to hospitals several times since then, but I've never had to stay as long as I did this first visit.  And to this day, I get a chill up my spine when I drive past such a hospital.  They scare the living shit out of me. Because of this fact, I have been lying to my psychiatrists for years about my true thoughts and actions; I'm scared that if I tell the truth, I'll be locked up again. I don't think I could handle that. In therapy this week, my shrink talked about how she believed in hospitalization for patients with severe symptoms. This haunts me. I don't know if I'll ever be able to open up to her again, I'm too afraid.

Pills Are Like Candy

A large part of K's life revolves around the use of different medications.  She takes all sorts of pills, and has been taking psychotropic medication(s) on and off since she was 16 years old.  Over the years, the medications have changed-every time K saw a different doctor, that doctor would prescribe new medication(s) for her (often) new diagnosis.  It started out simply enough-K's parents were told that K is Manic-Depressive and the psychiatrist put her on Lithium.  I can't recall how long K actually took the Lithium, but at some point in time, she saw a different doctor, (because her parents disagreed when the first doctor said that they had somehow contributed to K's illness) and this new doctor decided that the Lithium was not working for K (she was still "out of control", in other words) and so he took her off that pill and put her on two or three new pills.  I can't recall now what those medications were-how can I, when I can't remember what pills we took this morning?  Now I'm not going to sit here and recount every trip to every doctor and every diagnosis, for that would A) take too long and B) be impossible without K's medical records and the memory of an elephant.  Let's just say that for the most part, with each new doctor came new pills and a new label.  The doctors love to stick labels on people. This infuriates K, who doesn't want a label, just a life.

                                        
Some of the labels which K has worn over the years, in no particular order, (in addition to Manic-Depressive/ Bipolar II Disorder), are Major Depressive Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Bulimia,  Schizophrenia, Borderline Personality Disorder, Social Anxiety Disorder, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Panic Disorder, and a  few others which I can't seem to recall.  I'm shocked that I was able to remember as many as I did, but I suppose that after hearing and reading these terms repeatedly throughout the years, one becomes accustomed to them and they are ingrained in her mind, and they become a part of that person's subconscious and therefore are "remembered".   K sees her memory as an entity of its own, a location which different K's can visit at different times, but which is never completely accessible to any of the K's.  Certain K's have more freedom to roam in this memory locale than others, and some of the K's can barely remember anything at all.

If we look at a list of psychotropic medications, I am able to recognize many of them as pills we have taken at various points in time, and in various combinations, throughout our physical life.  Sometimes the pills don't work,  and we must suffer through all the dreaded side effects for a long enough period of time for the doctor to determine that the pills are not working, and therefore we have to be weaned off these pills and placed on new pills. Sometimes the pills work well, and we will take them for awhile, until the day comes when either K decides that she is stable and feels healthy enough to live without the pills, (this always happens after she's been diligently taking her meds as prescribed for a good length of time)  or until they no longer work.  This is what invariably happens-a phenomenon the doctors have explained to us is not unusual.  Sometimes medications simply stop working.  At these times, K would either have to change medications, which sometimes meant withdrawal symptoms,  plus new side effects, or else she'd just give up on the meds altogether and go "all natural". (This is something which some of us have tried repeatedly to do, but which always ends badly)  I haven't mentioned the side effects before now, (Or have I?) and I wonder if I'll even be able to satisfactorily convey the discomfort one feels when on such psychiatric medications.  For one thing, you're most likely either a zombie, emotionally empty and unresponsive, walking around in a fog, desiring nothing more than to sleep at all times, or else you're wound tighter than a noose around a neck and spend your days bouncing off the walls and rambling like some hyperactive disc jockey.  Some pills cause tremors, which K has had to deal with over the years, and which makes us look nervous or scared, even when we are not.  It's very embarrassing to be paying for your groceries and have your hands be shaking, trembling so uncontrollably that you're unable to count out coins. Other side effects, which may be slightly less aggravating, include (but are not limited to) constant dry mouth, spontaneous sweating, headache, fluid retention, dizziness, upset stomach, constipation, fatigue and sexual side effects. (OK, that last one does bother us a good bit)  Substantial weight gain is far and above the worst side effect of them all; I'm not talking about 10 pounds, I'm talking about 25 pounds or more.  The K who suffers from eating disorders has an especially hard time handling this fact of life; she is usually quite depressed  because of her intense self-hatred and the shame she feels upon looking at her body.  Because of our medications, or lack thereof, our weight has fluctuated over the course of our adult life from 98 pounds to 183 pounds and everywhere in between.  K is 5'5" tall.

I would also like to tell you the other side of the story, and that is what happens when K goes "all natural" and gives up her medication altogether, but I think that story is best told in several separate posts rather than one gigantic one. Forgive me if I've rambled too much.  It's a bad habit.  Much like K's Xanax habit, although we must admit that she'd be a disaster without it.