And then the last straw fell

I have mentioned before that I was diagnosed with PCOS a few years ago. I don’t like to use it, or any medical problem, as an excuse. Like, “It is so hard to lose weight because I have PCOS.” As I eat a cheeseburger. I simply let it be. But today I crashed.

I deal with the fact that losing weight is close to impossible. I’m not one of those people who go for a leisurely walk 3 times a week and cut out my nightly brownie and the extra bulk goes away. I have to work HARD. I have to eat less than the recommended 1200 calories a day. I don’t say anything about it because the skinny people gasp in horror and tell me that isn’t healthy for you. Well, what should I do? As a matter of fact some days I eat less than a 1000. Some days less than that.

Because. Nothing. Else. Works.

And the skinny people try to commiserate with me, and I don’t appreciate it!! I know their heart is in the right place but I just want to scream as I sit down to my dinner of BEEF BROTH.

I run because I have to. My legs hurt and my feet are sore. I walk every day. I do sit ups and pushups and lunges. I try to get to Zumba. I do it because I hope it helps.

It sucks, but I deal with it. I deal with the acne, and the screwed up periods. I deal with the anemia from having a period for 3 weeks out of 4, for 3 months straight. I deal with the hormones and the mustache, and the bald spots on my head. I deal with 7 yeast infections in a 12 month time frame. It sucks and I hate it, but I make it work and I think positive.

But today. I pulled out the magnified mirror to pluck my eye brows. I noticed some strange discoloration across the bridge of my nose and on my cheeks. I rubbed at it. Maybe sand got in my sunscreen. Maybe I have black heads. Up on closer examination I realized it was “dark patches”. Like liver spots on your face. And these were not small. They are like raccoon
rings. This is a side effect of PCOS.

I was horrified. My heart stopped beating for a moment. And for some reason those few discolored areas of flesh brought me crashing down. I don’t cry if I can help it. I hate crying. I think it’s ugly and personal. I don’t like opening myself up that way.

And I cried. I cried a lot. Why? Am I not already ugly enough? Now I have to bear spots like a cheetah? If I can’t cover them, they will be the first thing people look at. Why? My first child was a text book case of a “difficult” child. It was heart breaking. It was HARD. My second child has a host of problems and is a fussy little thing. I have a car payment I don’t think I’ll ever pay off. I
have a mortgage I can barely afford. My husband works a stressful dangerous job and last night he was in a standoff with a man who had enough weaponry to take down an army. The missionaries keep trying to come teach us the 1st discussion because they think we are inactive, but we are NOT. I’m never going to get a yard and the Tahoe needs new tires that will run me around a grand.

And the majority of those who read this will think, “Well why can’t you just fix it? Pay off your
car. Put in a yard. Make your child be good, just read this book. Your husband chose that job. Just be happy with how your body is now. But your kids are so cute. Be accepting, pray harder, be better, think positive.”

I grabbed that mirror. I marched out the back door.And I flung it as far as I could. Then I picked up the shovel in the yard and smashed it into glittering pieces. And I cried some more. Because I think I have earned the right to be angry. I have earned the right to feel bad and be pissed off.

NO. ONE. GETS. IT.

No one understands. So I smashed my mirror.