The Prozac Diaries: Chapter 3- It's all fun and games till they diagnose you as OCD

So I went and saw my new shrink on Friday. I don't know why I was so surprised when she held up her hand and said "Um... I don't think you have an eating disorder per say. You're Obsessive Compulsive. It manifests itself as an eating disorder and with these other feelings you're having, because it's an anxiety disorder. But yeah... you're OCD."


Well, huh. Butter my butt and call me a biscuit. 

Apparently folks with OCD have these common personality traits: High attention to detail, avoidance of risk, careful planning, exaggerated sense of responsibility and tendency to take time in making decisions. 

I never had a chance y'all. Dr. Rogers ACTUALLY face palmed when I told her I majored in Risk Management. (Hey! 'Snot my fault I had a natural aptitude for it!)


I was then given strict instructions to stay away from a scale and keep a food diary- not for fear of overeating- but to ensure that I got at least 1,200 calories a day. She said she'd prefer me to take in at least 1,400, but she'd settle for 1,200. She saw my eyes go all big and PROMISED me at 12-1,400 cals/day I would NOT gain weight. That's the caloric restriction they place on peeps at the Bariatric Clinic (You know, the places where you see the 700lb peoples?) and that Weight Watchers routinely uses that range as well. I musta started hyperventaliting because then she explained to me how people with anorexia have the highest mortality rate of any mental illness, not so much because of malnutrition, but because their organs shut down. They shut down cause they start to DIGEST THEMSELVES (Ew?) then their brain goes all fuzzy cause it can't work proper and before you know it you've gone straight to hell in a handbasket. 


1,200 calories a day, you say? Okie dokie then, I'll give it a shot. 


Saturday was day one. Thanks to Drill Sgt Daddy I got up to 1410. I thought I was gonna DIE. After every little thing I ate I wanted to puke my guts up. 


It. Was. AWFUL. 


Yesterday (Sunday) wasn't much better, but thanks to a Little Debbie cake and some cheese grits I hit 1600 calories. Again, wanting to puke all the live long day. 


Today, at 2:48pm Eastern time, I'm up to 940 calories. I figure 260 more at some point before bed and I can call it a day, but durn. This is hard y'all. When your brain has no hunger reflex, nothing sounds appetizing or stimulates your appetite... I imagine it's the same feeling you'd get if you had a stomach virus but were forcing yourself to eat oatmeal and apples and peanut butter. It's not like I'm pouring a vat of molten Crisco into my belly, but lawduh mercy that's what it feels like. Awful cramps and I LITERALLY have to force myself to stay seated and not try to puke it up. 


It's now clear to me that on a "regular" day, I probably wasn't clearing 1000 calories. *sigh* Besides the obvious reasons for needing to eat, she was worried about ol' Gerty. I need to maintain a SOMEWHAT stable metabolism cause woe be unto me if Gerty gets pissed and I drop 10lbs. I'll be a hot mess. And since we have no idea when that might happen... Yeah. Let's just try and keep me fed. 


Then, of course, there's the triggers. I have to try to avoid stressors so I don't get all anxious and compulsive. I have to admit that it's SLIGHTLY easier now that I know what I'm dealing with. And I'm trying to just STOP doing certain things when I think about it, but there's certain things I just can't give up. (The way I lay out CJ's clothes the night before, for example. Not the fact of laying them out, but that I have to lay them out, in a certain way, in a certain order, in the same spot. Same goes for her lunch. It must be packed the night before and in the mornings it must be placed the "correct" way in the car or I can't pull out of the driveway.)


UUUUGGGHHH.


Then there's my Zumba... and the overwhelming urge I have to run and run and run because Zumba's just not enough. To wit: A dear friend is coming into town tomorrow. Not just any dear friend- one of Ed's oldest friends and the MAID OF HONOR in our wedding. She and her family live in Japan now, so I literally cannot remember the last time I saw her. A bunch of us girls from "back in the day" are getting together tomorrow and there's a little part of my brain that is throwing a Veruca Salt-esque tantrum screaming "But I wanna go to ZUMBA! I have CALORIES to burn!!!!!" And I'm twitching. 


I'm going to be twitching the whole time I'm NOT at Zumba. 


And if plans fall through, I'm going to be secretly happy because I get to go to Zumba. 


Seriously... I don't know if Ima make it to mid-May, y'all. At this rate, Bat Shit Crazy is JUST around the corner. 

The Prozac Diaries, Chapter 2: Jack it to Jesus

As much as I tried to ignore it, by late this weekend it was painfully obvious that 20mg of Prozac a day just wasn't cuttin' it. I was feeling more and more miserable and poor Ed was at his wits end. Yesterday I called the doctor to let him know that while I wasn't ready to jump off a tall building, I did feel extreme guilt every time something as mundane as a GRAPE crossed my mouth and if I COULD throw up, I would. (But considering I can barely throw up when I have a legitimate stomach flu, crammin' my fingers down my throat is a lost cause) Misty, his awesome nurse, called me at 8:15 this morning and said that he DEFINITELY wanted to see me because I should be feeling SOME kind of relief now. As luck would have it, Ed was waiting on parts for his service truck and was able to go with me. Not that he thought I was making anything up, but bless him, he wasn't quite sure what to make of it all.

I have to stop and say this: I absolutely ADORE my doctor. He cares SO. MUCH. about his patients' well being. He sat there for an HOUR answering all of our questions- especially Ed's.

And that's when I got the news: "A couple of weeks ago I wasn't so sure, but now the picture is MUCH clearer and there's no doubt in my mind- this is a full blown eating disorder."

Huh. I mean, I "knew" that... but there was something so final about seeing it in black and white. Sure enough, it says so right there on my lil checkout papers "Eating Disorder- Not Otherwise Classified"

Awesome.

I told him about my Zumba. (God love him, Ed was asking if I should join Weight Watchers of the gym to make myself feel better. And God love him, the doctor sat right there patiently explaining the concept of PERCEPTION and how all the working out in the world wasn't going to make me feel better- it was mental) I was pretty devastated that my weight hadn't dropped any... I was even more devastated when the doc cautioned me with my Zumba. He said that it could become a form of purging. I admitted if it was offered more than twice a week I'd be there with bells on... and that the first thing I did after I got home from class was Google how many calories an hour Zumba burned. I may or may not have gotten the stank eye after that comment.

So now, my body refuses to eat my ass AND my exercise is limited by doctor's orders. (Cause if I find myself trying to do more exercise than just this twice a week I won't be allowed to do ANY until this gets under control)

Awesome...er.

So the final verdict was to increase the Prozac to the "go to" dose for eating disorders which is 60mg/day (that's triple what I'm on now for you math majors) and he's doing it muy rapido. I start taking 40mg/day tomorrow and on Saturday I start taking 60mg/day. I've also left a message for my counselor (who I haven't seen in a year, but whatevs) to at least get pointed in the right direction for the cognitive therapy I need.

Jack it to Jesus, doc! Jack it to Jesus.

The Prozac Diaries, Chapter 1: Prozac? Are you there? It's me, Mandy.

You know how when you have a RAGING sinus infection (or strep throat, or some other awful ailment) and you've put off going to the doctor for as long as you can and then you FINALLY go and get the coveted "Z-pack" and you know that this... THIS will finally bring the relief you seek!

Imagine the Z-pack takes WEEKS to kick in.

And in the meantime your infection gets worse. And worse. And WORSE.

That's me right now. Today makes a week I've been on my Prozac (and phasing out the Wellbutrin) and quite frankly I feel like crap on a stick. I had to take yesterday off because, as I put it to Kelly, "I need to get this 'curl up in a ball' BS outta my system."

I am proud to say I went to my Zumba class last night, but alas, the endorphin boost was short lived. Ed ended up getting sent back this way for work, too. But alas, even with a Breathe Right strip he snored, so I ended up in the spare room.

*sigh*

Guess I can't have it all.

But, dear Prozac, if you could find it in my neurotransmitters to fix me up a little quicker than THREE WEEKS, I would most appreciate it.

Love,
Mandy

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall...

I never thought that I would be “the one” sitting here, writing about mental disorders. I’ve dealt with depression since I was in my early 20s, but it wasn’t awful. More like a mild annoyance. The last 6 months or so, however, something has changed. I can’t tell you when, exactly. All I know is that it’s gotten completely out of control. There’s a name for my condition- Body Dysmorphic Disorder. I haven’t talked much about it except with close friends and family. Mostly for the reasons that have been documented in studies: embarrassment and fear that I’ll be seen as vain when actually the opposite is true- I think I’m disgusting. BUT… the time has come to talk about it. I’m hoping that it will be therapeutic for me and maybe, just maybe help someone else out, too.

So what is BDD? Well, in a nutshell, it’s truly a mental disorder (that can go hand in hand with an eating disorder if you aren’t careful) in which the person fixates on a part (or parts) of their body. They can actually become delusional, seeing things that aren’t even there. A small patch of dry skin becomes the object of their obsession. They constantly pick and scrub at it because “Ugh! I know this is all people are staring at when they see me!!! How disgusting! I’m a mess!” When in reality… no one even notices. The smallest imperfections become the deepest pits. A little bit of cellulite… a gray hair… a zit. It goes beyond a simple “Ew. Zit. Go away!” mentality and truly becomes a source of anxiety and sometimes, downright panic.

For me, it’s my hips and thighs. All I see when I look in the mirror is a whale covered in cottage cheese. Huge, dimpled up, nasty-A thighs. I struggle with other things, too. (That dry patch of skin, mentioned above being among them) Personally, the most annoying part in all of this is dealing with the compulsions (I bolded the ones I deal with):

Common compulsive behaviors associated with BDD include:

§ Compulsive mirror checking, glancing in reflective doors, windows and other reflective surfaces.

§ Alternatively, an inability to look at one's own reflection or photographs of oneself; also, the removal of mirrors from the home.

§ Attempting to camouflage the imagined defect: for example, using cosmetic camouflage, wearing baggy clothing, maintaining specific body posture or wearing hats.

§ Use of distraction techniques: an attempt to divert attention away from the person's perceived defect, e.g. wearing extravagant clothing or excessive jewelry.

§ Excessive grooming behaviors: skin-picking, combing hair, plucking eyebrows, shaving, etc.

§ Compulsive skin-touching, especially to measure or feel the perceived defect.

§ Becoming hostile toward people for no known reason, especially those of the opposite sex, or same sex if homosexual.

§ Seeking reassurance from loved ones.

§ Excessive dieting or exercising, working on outside appearance.

§ Self-harm

§ Comparing appearance/body parts with that/those of others, or obsessive viewing of favorite celebrities or models whom the person suffering from BDD wishes to resemble.

§ Compulsive information-seeking: reading books, newspaper articles and websites that relate to the person's perceived defect, e.g. hair loss or being overweight.

§ Obsession with plastic surgery or dermatological procedures, often with little satisfactory results (in the perception of the patient).

§ In extreme cases, patients have attempted to perform plastic surgery on themselves, including liposuction and various implants with disastrous results.

§ Excessive enema use (if obesity is the concern).

Y’all… I can’t drive to work in the morning without having the rearview mirror facing me and checking at literally EVERY. RED LIGHT. to make sure that my makeup is in its right spot and there aren’t any streaks or lines…. to make sure that that patch of dry skin is under control. I take pictures every morning to make sure that I look presentable enough to be in public. The mirror isn’t enough- I need to SEE what other people see. When I walk up the hill to work every morning, I pass a wall of reflective windows. I can’t NOT look. I have to make sure that there’s no muffin top sticking out of my pants… that there’s no part out of place.

And if I try to stop? I twitch. I literally twitch. And then I panic because “Ohmygod! I HAVE to make sure I’m ok. I HAAAAAVE to!”

This is the part where you secretly think “Bitch, please. You’re what? A size 4? And you’re complaining about the way you look? You need to get over yourself.” Easier said than done, my loves. I am the QUEEN of “Just get over it” and it makes me hate myself even more that I’m not strong enough to fight this off.

For whatever reason, I’ve been blessed with juuust enough logic to realize that if I starve myself and became a bag of bones, I still wouldn’t be happy. I want to though, but that one I can fight off. (Thank God for small favors) If I had the money, I know I would try to get gastric bypass surgery or liposuction. I want nothing more than to reduce my appetite and see the numbers on the scale drop. The only problem is, much like with my clothing size, when that happens, it tends to go further. Most people would reach their “goal weight” and jump up and down with joy. Not me. I’d be all “Oh, wow! I’m 126! I could go down to 124!” then “I could go down to 122!... Gosh! Imagine if I was only 120!!!” Same with clothes “Hey… my size 4s are a little loose. If I’m real careful, maybe I could get into a size 2!”

I’ve done the exercise thing, too. But since the reflection in the mirror never changed, I stopped. It doesn’t matter what I do, or how I look, all I see is the whale that I was 12 years ago… and I don’t understand how anyone else can see beauty. It’s to the point where I don’t want to be uncovered AT ALL. I’m afraid that people will stare. Apparently they do… but my friends say it’s guys checking me out. I always think they’re turning up their noses and wondering what I think I’m doing trying to look nice.

I’m miserable. Plain and simple MISERABLE. I don’t even wanna be intimate with Ed because I don’t want him to see my fat ass and jumbo thighs. The man that saw me poop on the table when I squirted out our kid and all I wanna do is curl into a ball and stay covered.

That’s messed up, y’all.

I have what I guess would technically be considered delusions too- beyond the making a mountain out of a molehill when it comes to the smallest imperfection- I feel like my clothes are so, so tight (despite what people tell me) and I will look at food, get nauseated and then get panicky cause all eating is going to do is make my clothes tighter and the number on the scale go up.

Did I mention it’s messed up?

My body and my mind are constantly warring with each other. My mind doesn’t care what my body feels, it just wants relief. Relief comes in the form of doing whatever I can to be skinny. My poor body will have a pounding headache, a stomach that’s about to eat itself, woozy, and my brain flips my body the bird and won’t budge. The end result? I have to force myself to eat. And apparently when I do eat, it’s still not much.

The good news is, I’ve seen the doctor. Apparently I have all the symptoms of an eating disorder without the starvation and binging/purging. (And as I’ve said, the only reason I won’t go that far is because I know it won’t do any good and I can just barely overrule the urge to starve myself) He’s put me on some new medication that should help. It’s the “go to” med for eating disorders, so we’ll see.

If you’re a praying person, I’d appreciate that. If you’re not, I’d appreciate any warm thoughts you can send my way. More than anything, if you know someone who is struggling with something like this, get them help. I know that without my good friends pointing out how bad things had gotten and that little logic I am able to hold onto, I would probably be half dead right now.

I just wanna look in the mirror and see what everyone else sees.

I just wanna look in the mirror and be happy.