Now there’s a title to increase one’s hit count! And not a subject I ever imagined myself sharing with the whole wide internet.
Since starting antipsychotics just over a year ago, my weight has ballooned by over three stone. That’s pretty much 20kg. Imagine carrying a backpack containing 20 bags of sugar around with you 24/7. It’s no wonder I feel despondent and cumbersome. Now, most of that weight has gone to two places. My belly; leaving me resembling a pregnant hippopotamus. I haven’t yet been asked when it’s due but it’s surely only a matter of time. The other is my breasts, which weren’t exactly the smallest in the first place, and have now increased to a quite frankly ridiculous 34JJ-36J. That’s four times the UK average :S This means that, even with quality underwear from the lovely Bravissimo, by lunch time I’m in pain and by evening, I need to lie flat out to relieve the back ache. As for exercise…*boing* I’m sure you get the picture. At night, they hang penduously, stretching still further under their own mass. I haven’t weighed them (that would be weird) but I’m sure if I did, I’d find the location of 5 or 6 of those extra sugar bags.
If I were normal, this is the kind of thing I may consider bringing up with my doctor. Not as an emergency you understand, but as part of those anything else troubling you type questions. However, I already feel guilty for the amount of NHS resources I waste, and couldn’t countenance a discussion on abusing some more. The problem is compounded as I am in the process of locating a new doctor, having finally moved in with the boyfriend. I can just imagine the converstaion:
“Hi, I have BPD, recurrent depression and anxiety which everyone thinks are under control but are in fact slowly but surely tearing my life and my relationships apart. I want you to give me enough drugs to stock a medium sized pharmacy, just to get me through the day and I also want therapy and lots of it. Oh, and by the way, my boobs make my back hurt.”
Or perhaps not.