250ish. That's All I'll Admit

Fingers don't fail me now. Or not. Does it matter? No one listens or cares about the woman behind the fat. The struggle behind the fat. The struggle not to get fatter. The struggle to not just totally give up that tenuous at best grasp on reality. They just see a totally out of control fat woman. "Goodness, who would want to fuck that?" Hey, if my dad's mom thought that (and uttered it outloud no less) about my mother, I'm sure folks think that about me, despite that I'm a good "buck and a half" less than my mother tips in at. But who gives a shit anyway? I'm just a fat woman. Who gives a rat's ass if there's actually something WRONG?

Did you know Metformin zaps your body of your precious "B" vitamins? The feel good vitamins? Despite my knowledge of this, and despite taking a good multi-vitamin for diabetics (which should be great for PCOSers, too), aka Multi-betic, I also augment my daily regimen with two more "B complex" tablets, as well as ALA, Milk Thislte, CLA, Omega-3, Calcium-Magnesium-Zinc tablets (for my "touch of" osteoporosis as well as to overcompensate for my Quinipril/Quinaretic for my hypertension, as the "Q" zaps my body of precious zinc, thus making my psoraisis flare up into a scaley mass on my scalp. Mercifully my hair camouflages most of it). Who gives a shit anyway? No one looks at the fat woman. Case in point: I've walked around for Lord-knows-how long with a long, BLACK, stray whisker about a half inch long, on my cheek. Not even my husband has brought this to my attention. Shouldn't husbands be on whisker patrol?

Back to the Metformin. I'm on three tabs a day: total consumption of 1500 mg. We might boost it the next visit to the specialist. Yay me. I might just slit my wrists from being so underwhelmed when that happens.

Allegedly it's supposed to help me lose weight. My response to this, which I deem nothing short of a fairy tale or an urban legend is, "Go sell crazy some place else; we're all stocked up here." Yeah, I'll believe it when I see it.

Doc switched me off Actos, which I loved. No side effects (other than an inability to drop weight, even while being on Atkins diligently. I plateaued after 35-40 pounds lost). Switched me onto Metformin (again), presumably to help my "fertility" and to get pregnant.

The irony? Since I've been on it, I can tell you without looking at my blood work that my testosterone has shifted and lowered. How can I tell? A mere fat woman, lay person, how can "I" tell? Because the last thing on the planet earth I want to do is, fuck. And the last time I looked, fucking is essential for one to get pregnant; and well, let's face it, my name ain't "Mary."

More disturbing to me than the lack of desire for shween is, all the enjoyment of masturbation is gone, too.

Went back on Metformin in September. My period disappeared for two months. Again, I'm the only one alarmed. Me, bloated. Miserable. More depressed than I've been in years. But again, let the fat woman deal with this alone. As usual.

So, not only am I fat (thank you mom for your shallow gene pool!), and not only am I staring down the barrel of the possibility-becoming-a-reality that I might not have a family of my own; but, the one thing in life I enjoy more than sleeping and a good meal, followed by a good dump is, an orgasm.

See, I'm only 37. I'm still menstruating. According to my androgen panels, I'm not even teetering in the realm of "peri-menopause." At least if I were not menstruating and thought this were a transient phase just to get over, I might be able to choke back the disappointment long enough to get thru this. But I'm not.

I feel old and fat and alone.

So not only do I not want to fuck. Not only do I no longer derive any enjoyment out of "self-love," but I am going thru this, much like everything else, ALONE.

"But, Maven, you're married. You're not truly alone," some might say. If my husband were unable to "get it up," I doubt if it's appropriate or whether it would be appreciated if my husband heard me make light of this. After the attempt at levity, I somehow went into auto-pilot mode, welled up with tears and drove home totally amazed I got home in one piece (actually wondered how the hell I did that), only to sit, stunned silent, feeling truly paralyzed vocally, and sitting totally inert.

A normal person would attempt to comfort me. A selfish person wouldn't sit down and make some comparison to our sex lives, that I've had 20 years of sexual activity, and he's only had what? ten? Thus attempting to make him a martyr or a victim.

Despondent doesn't begin to describe how I feel. Dejected. Rejected. Unloved. Misunderstood. Unsexy. Unwanted.