For those who have not been with me for the last year and a half, I have had to adapt to a lot of weight changes. In early 2011, my doctor put me on a drug that let me gain twenty pounds. Great for my body! Not so great for my closet. Staple pieces stopped fitting. Jeans, especially on a small-framed woman, need to really fit — not pinch, not sag, fit. Except for my jeggings (one pair from H&M), I had no more blue denim. Workwear? On the off chance that I got a professional opportunity, in any profession, I was SOL when it came to jackets, skirts, and pants. My go-to pinstripe trousers had gotten tight by 95; at 105, fuhgeddaboudit. Ditto my favorite short black blazer. Ditto my black pencil skirt. I was even beginning to have gap issues with blouses. Me! Gapping!
So I bought replacements and gave away most of the casual stuff. “Goodbye, stick me,” I thought. “Hello to CURRRRRRVES.”
The universe, as usual, laughed. My panic attacks had been gradually amping up until I could no longer function. I had to come off the drug. Do yourself a favor: do not go cold turkey off Remeron. Not even from three piddling milligrams. Both my appetite and the weight fell away. The stress on my body, plus a new semester, plus grief for my uncle Gene threw me into a CFIDS/fibro relapse; in the course of figuring out that it was, in fact, CFIDS/fibro, testing revealed that I’d been exposed to Lyme disease. Do yourself another favor: avoid oral doxycycline. I wasn’t really myself again until this spring… by which time I had fallen back below 90. Whoops.
This is not the same below-90 body I had before. Initially, I failed to gain weight and crucial fat deposits during puberty — massive stress and an eating disorder will do that. I had no hips. I had no ass. Now I have both, and a bit of belly. So my breasts have gone back to “an undershirt will do”? Eh, bras are a pain. But outfitting the rest of me is not as simple as retrieving what I did store from the other room. My jacket is still fine. My old pants and skirts cut into my middle. Waistbands need to be wider, or hit me at my narrowest point, which is still narrow but a touch wider than before. This is called “being 26”. And I have decided that I am no longer willing to wear clothing that hurts.
Unless I find a doctor who wants to give me the really good drugs, I doubt I’ll see 90-93 on the scale for some time. Reality, for me, is a BMI under 18. Whatever has happened to me, I can’t run around naked, and I certainly don’t intend to give up and live in my pyjamas when I’m relatively healthy.
It’s time to reconsider my closet.