F you, scale.

So I wrote about how great I feel taking my medication and how being medicated is so wonderful and everyone should do it and how I’m embracing my weight gain, and blahbiddyblahblahblah. And those of you who know me, well two of you who know me, called bullshit on that. Said, and I paraphrase, “I know you, and there is no way in hell you are okay with gaining twenty pounds.”

I’m not. I’m trying to be, but I’m not. The things that I wrote about, the curves, fewer wrinkles, yep, I like that, I’m good with that. What I’m not good with is getting on the scale and seeing a number that I’ve only seen when I had to view the scale around a pregnant belly. Why does that stupid number have so much power over me? Why should it matter so much? Why, when I feel good about everything else, does that number get to strike me down every single day? I don’t know why. I only know that it does.

I eat very well, no meat–lots of fish–no dairy, only whole grains, lots of fruits and veggies. I go to the gym at least 3 times a week and work out hard. I mean seriously? I’m really not sure what else to do. One other time in my life this happened. I took a medication–that time it was birth control–and gained a bunch of weight. I stopped the medication; the weight fell right off, and I was good. Oh, except that I got pregnant, but that ended up with my sweet little L Bears, so that was good too.

I am contemplating stopping the medication. I just read an article about how depression is our body’s (I read that as God’s) way of helping us deal with issues. We get flattened, debilitated, so we have no recourse other than to ruminate on our issues and deal with them. Brad asked me what I thought about the article, and I said, “I think it’s probably true, but I don’t have time to be flattened. I’ve got three people who need me to be on top of my game.”

What do I do? I take the medication, I guess, so I can function. I deal with the weight gain, I guess, because the good outweighs the bad. I just keep on keeping on.