“If you are young and you drink a great deal it will spoil your health, slow your mind, make you fat – in other words, turn you into an adult.” ~ P. J. O’Rourke
So, I think I’ve mentioned a few times that the combination of taking mirtazapine and not going out much have caused me to put on weight. And that, while I’m not especially bothered about this I’ve been trying to make an effort to lose some of it, mainly so that I can fit into my favourite clothes again.
It has occurred to me that I may have been somewhat in denial about this.
I was looking through all the pictures of me on Facebook to see whether there were any that I could use for the WordPress weekly writing challenge without compromising the anonymity of the blog. And I’ve noticed that I looked fantastic just a few years ago, and I never even realised it.
And while there was a split second where I compared the pictures from then to the way I look now, and felt a slight pang of regret, that was immediately replaced with a sharper tinge of fear that I could ever look that way again and have people notice me.
You see, I’ve been telling myself that I haven’t actually lost any weight because I’ve never really got started at trying. And that I’ve never really started at trying because the only time that my appearance bothers me is when I look at old photographs.
But haven’t really been honest with myself about it.
Because I did start trying and made a fair old start on it, before Christmas. I’d lost at least half of the weight I’d been aiming too.
And then somebody noticed. And they commented on it.
And then I deliberately undid all my good work by eating a boat load of crisps and chocolate.
And I never even realised what I was doing until now. It hadn’t dawned on me that I’m in my comfort zone just the way I am. Fewer strangers pay me attention now than they did before, and that’s just the way I want it stay.
Because while I might be sufficiently better that I’m able to walk around a supermarket and pick up all the things I that I need without having a monumental freak out and running away, I’m not really ready to engage with the wider world outside the little bubble of my life.
My PTSD is still, to some extent making me afraid.
While I’m reasonably comfortable now around other crazy people, and can I pretty much cope with the people I know who’ve stuck around through all my crazy, I’m still scared of being approached by ‘normal’ strangers, on a ‘normal’ footing, in a ‘normal’ way. Especially if they’re male people.
I’m still as apt as not to find small talk from strangers threatening.
So I’m still doing as much as I possibly can to avoid it. Including polishing off a whole box of Cadbury’s mini rolls in one sitting.
Which is completely irrational really. I have PTSD as a result of something that happened with somebody I knew well enough to have invited into my home for a cup of tea and a bit of a gossip.
But I suppose at least now I’ve actually identified the problem. Now all I need is to decide what I’m going to do about it.
Photo source: Scoop.it