I find my mind wandering often these days to, What if I do finally get a diagnosis? That would be so awesome (possibly scary, possibly disheartening, but definitely awesome). It's been so many years; possibly my whole life of having something crucially wrong, but never having it taken seriously or identified.
I've stumped many doctors. And not to be rude, but many of those just seemed to have egos too big to handle the fact they couldn't easily find it--so they sent me away. Several would start out very gung ho--Oh, we'll get to the bottom of this! But after a few slow pitches (lab tests, mainly), where nothing overt showed up, they were done with me.
It was easier to believe I had these symptoms (weight issues, among 206 other things) because I clearly MUST be a closet binge eater. Sadly, no. I often wish my weight problems were strictly the result of eating like a stoat. Then it would be within my control to fix it. Hard work and sacrifice is not anathema to me, believe me. If self sacrifice were the cure to my obesity, I'd be thin as a thermometer after the many cycles of HCG--heck, way before that. And many of my symptoms have nothing to do with weight. When I was at my lowest weight last spring, while I felt lighter, and more comfortable in my joints, my other health problems were just as present; I just had smaller pants.
It's not just the weight; it's so many things. Things that my brain and spirit says, Hey, that's not right! Things like being all of 42, and finding it too fatiguing to whisk when making a Thanksgiving dessert. Things like lying down and suddenly shaking. Things like walking along, and suddenly the world turns on its axis. Things like that.
It's time to figure this out. And right now, I'm ready to fight again--you know, in my spare time.
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