So you find yourself in a depressive state for a variety of reasons, one being the fact that you have an arse the size of Germany and have been fitted with those warning beeps for when you back up. Being of vaguely sound mind, or at least aspiring to be of vaguely sound mind, you toddle off to the doctors and spend your allotted ten minutes wailing and snivelling like a proper mentalist. Lovely doctor cleverly interprets the signs as being depression (again) and off you skip into the sunset with a couple of prescriptions tucked into your handbag.
Fast forward eight weeks when the tablets have had a chance to kick in. You’ve been through the ravenous appetite stage, cried your way through the suicidal phase, slept your way through the fatigue and counted sheep through the insomnia. Then suddenly, it’s like stepping out of a coma into the sparkling sunshine. You regain a spring in your step, you get motivated and sort out the fiddly jobs you’ve been putting off and life seems okay again.
Until you try on your slim jeans and see that you don’t only have a muffin top you’ve got a whole bakery tucked down there. I’ve only gone and got myself a little pot belly haven’t I… It’s yet another side effect of non crazy girl tablets I’m on but it’s also bloody unfair! I know I should be counting my blessings that I’m now slim enough to be able to tell that I’ve got a buddha belly but it doesn’t seem right somehow.
Ooh you’re depressed, about lots of things but also we know it’s about your weight. Let’s put you on these magic tablets that will make you skip about and grin like a loon whilst pissing rainbows and humming S Club 7. The only problem is they’ll make you pack some of the weight back on that you fought so hard to lose. What’s that? You’d rather be a slimmish yet morose depressive loon than a fatty again? Really?
Yes really! Well actually in an ideal world I’d be a slimmish non morose non depressed loon but I know, I can’t have everything. If I could I’d already be married to David Tennant and living in a fuck off massive house with our children Bergamot, Lullabelle and Ptolemy. I’m left with a couple of choices, I can either come off the current tablets and go through the madness that is SSRI withdrawal before trying a new tablet and going through the hell that is titrating another medication and dealing with all the side effects or I can go on ‘Pooch watch’.
‘Pooch watch’ (which makes me hum the Baywatch themetune) will involve quite literally, lots of navel gazing in order to monitor my hopefully not too much more expanding waistline. I suspect it might also involve stomach crunches (ghastly) and using the weird rubber toning thing that has been languishing in my wardrobe for months (potentially dangerous what with my legendary uncoordination). If you see me out and about whilst I embark on ‘Pooch watch’ don’t you dare ask me when the baby is due for this will result in me smacking you upside the head with a housebrick and I would hate that to happen. It might make me smudge my nails and I’ve just spent all afternoon painting them. Capice?