While pregnant I was diagnosed with Gestational Diabetes and I pretended to look shocked as I was told that my sugar was dangerously out of whack. It was an emotion not easy to fake as I was so tired all the time I was virtually drooling onto the Informational Packet and Epipen-like needles in front of me. I woke up a bit when I was told to start sticking myself like a misinformed Voodoo doll.
But I digress.
I managed to actually lose weight while pregnant. My baby was born a healthy 8 pounds and was 21.5 inches to boot. And I was down almost six dress sizes.
And then came the Depression.
That was a DOOZY. I was planning my escape to Tijauana on $20 when I finally asked for "help."
So I was prescribed Prozac. For those of you who have met me, read a thing or two about me or by me you know that I pride myself on being able to turn a phrase and can sketch a completely dead-on imitation of most anything on the planet - so imagine my surprise when I could barely string together a sentence or draw a straight line. I would stare into space for hours at a time.
Prozac had made me less of a flight risk to my new family but, unfortunately, managed to shut off my brain -- including that part that said "Woah - another cookie? Really?" So I gained back all my pre-baby weight. And then some.
And then maybe a little bit more.
It wasn't until a few weeks ago that I finally broke down and called my general doc and said "Hey - I'm a freakin' mess - can I go have some tests run and then you can yell at me about how I'm all unhealthy and stuff?" Okay - so I'm paraphrasing - but you get the idea.
So tomorrow I am going to voluntarily go and get yelled at.
It's like that show but this version would be: "Scared Straight - Fat Girls."
Just thinking about it makes me wanna throw up.
Or down a tray of freshly baked cookies.
Oh -wait -what's that over there on the stove??? hee hee .