I have decided that I am bi-polar. I haven't been officially diagnosed by a doctor or a therapist or anything but one Friday night while partaking in a glass (or three) of pinot I extensively googled my symptoms and bookmarked some very pertinent pages on WedMD so I'm pretty sure I self diagnosed myself accurately. Who needs this ObamaCare bullshit and co-pays when you have the internet and a ton of neurosis to entertain yourself with, right?
Why do I think I am bi-polar, you ask? I'll tell you. Or maybe I won't. Get it? Because I'm bi-polar. I crack me up. Anyway....
After a very long winter filled with lupus flares and migraines and rashes and basically wishing I was a bear that could just find a nice pot of honey and a cave to hibernate in until it was all over, I started to see the light at the end of a very long autoimmune filled tunnel. I was finding my energy again. The rashes were subsiding. I didn't feel like throat punching someone every time they told me I "looked tired" or want to rip my ears off at the sound of even the slightest hint of human movement because of my migraines. I was starting to feel less Charles Manson-ish and more like my usual smart ass, hyper, OCD self.
But then.....the body, self love, bi-polar thing started happening out of nowhere. Because for all of these months that I couldn't work out I wasn't gaining weight, but I was obviously losing muscle and strength because I wasn't able to work out and I spent much of my time on the couch, in my sweats, taking my meds and watching the days roll by hoping that the next one would be the day that I didn't hate my body and the world. The only marathons I was a part of were the Netflix marathons where I watched all four seasons of Girls in three days or where me and my daughter watched Mad Dogs in one sitting on a gloomy, shitty, pain killer filled day when I was questioning my life and whether it was worth living it (but that's a story for another day).
So, when I was able to put down the Amazon Fire Stick, take off the sweatpants, put on my big girl pants and start living life again, I had mixed feelings about the person that remained after what I considered to be the lowest point of my life - including that time I went through the Big C. (Hey, remember when I went through cancer for 12 years and I was all fat and in a bad marriage and then had all my lady parts ripped out and had radiation and met my now husband and got my shit together and lost 160 pounds and got all healthy only to find out I had FUCKING LUPUS and fibromyalgia and hypoglycemia and they wanted to take out my pancreas too basically rendering me a fucking diabetic because HEY WHY NOT TAKE ANOTHER BODY PART YOU ASSHOLES and then I throat punched all the cunts that were pissing me and THE END).
Back to my story.
Somedays I feel beautiful and amazing. I am grateful for this body and happy that six years later I have managed to keep the weight off despite all of the crap that has happened. I have battled my depression and anxiety in silence and still not turned to food or alcohol or drugs as a comfort. I have held steadfast to the goals I set for myself and remained in control like a FUCKING ROCKSTAR (cue self back patting). I can get dressed and make it through the day living all 41 years of my life on earth like a beautiful, valuable human being.
But then here come those self diagnosed, WebMD, googled bi-polar days where I literally feel like the StayPuff marshmellow man in the Ghostbusters movie waddling in slow motion through the streets of Manhattan knocking over towers and buildings, eating everything in sight. I feel like a round, blimpyity, sludge filled, disgusting, saggy, fat piece of dog shit. I want to give up and become one of the People of Walmart wearing flesh colored leggings and Winnie the Pooh t-shirts with my Crocs and my trucker hat. Fuck it all and pass me the Twinkies.
But instead, I went out and bought an elliptical. And started my 30 day yoga challenge again. And stopped leaving candy in my desk drawer. And took yogurt to work instead of going to Tim Horton's everyday for the broccoli cheddar soup (YUM). Some days it makes me feel like a total bad ass. Some days I hate it, but I do it anyway because I know that in the end I will thank myself for it. I look back at the old pictures of when I got down to my lowest weight and I just want to get there again SO BADLY, but it seems like a million elliptical miles away. However, the saying goes that the journey of a million miles starts with a single elliptical step. Or some stupid shit like that.
I guess the long and the short of it is that it's time to shut down the laptop and get off Google and WebMD and get my fat ass into gear instead of complaining about the things that can only be changed by actually doing the things that need to be done to change them. I still think I rock at this self diagnosing thing though.