Things I don't talk about.

Breaking with tradition of naming my posts after songs I'm currently listening to, here I offer you a serious post. Plainly, things I don't talk about.

I didn't know what purpose my blog would serve in the beginning. I had read somewhere a long time ago that people who write down their goals are more likely to succeed. I guess I just wanted a journal to keep track of my progress, to officially state my wishes and expectations, to document what I ate and when I exercised. A secret, private, sacred place to keep myself honest.

My first post was short and misguided, but it served a purpose. It was the first time I made an official, documented step towards a better life. I thought I was going to crash diet myself into a skinnier, sexier body in a little over a month... just in time for a summer trip to Las Vegas. Spoiler alert: I failed miserably. I made it to Las Vegas only a few pounds lighter and it had little to do with my intentions to lose weight.

Less than a month after starting this blog, I was blind sighted by a medical diagnosis: Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension. If I had been more aware of my body I might have seen this coming, but the simple truth was that I was sublimely ignorant to the state of things at the time. What you need to know about this condition is that it causes headaches and vision problems, and that 90% of those diagnosed with it are overweight and female. But it is idiopathic so the collective scientific community cannot say for sure whether weight plays any role in the development of this condition. I took solace in the ambiguity of the term idiopathic and convinced myself that anything could have caused this, even though logic and reasoning, several doctors, and the voice screaming inside my head said otherwise.

It's not me, it's not my weight. It's something else.

I played with that thought for a few months, thinking that the meds I was prescribed and my regular visits with my neurologist would prove that I was healthy and this condition would sort it self out independent of my losing weight. Reality check: it did not. I'm still "sick."

Everything above this line is public knowledge; my family knows it, my friends know it, the pages of my blog will tell you the same story. This is what I've been holding back:

The first year of my weight loss (starting in October 2011) was straight up deprivation. I took my meds without complaint, I exercised without complaint, I ate salads and veggies and tiny portions of grilled fish and chicken without complaint. Day in and day out, I kept my head down, my mouth shut, and I was pretty miserable. The moments of happiness during that time came on the scale when my weight would slowly inch down, but even then the happiness was short lived because the numbers on the screen were still too high.

I lost a lot of weight and I am extremely proud of what I've accomplished, but the power of hindsight has given me an opportunity to express those things I couldn't articulate back then.

First, being sick sucks. And the truth is, for practical purposes I'm not sick. I don't look or feel or act differently, but I know that on a paper in a chart somewhere a diagnosis is written under my name and that's going to follow me everywhere. The first thing I do in the morning and the last thing I do at night is take my meds; I am a slave to my prescriptions. I have to continually be aware of the last time I took my meds because it affects what I eat and drink, how I exercise, and how I live my life in general. Whenever I go out I have to know where the bathroom is at all times because it's guaranteed that I'll have to go at least once (I'm taking two powerful diuretics). I haven't slept through the night in months. The side effects of my meds are worse than the condition they treat. I am prone to dehydration and muscle cramps and an awful tingling sensation in my extremities, it's like a hangover that never ends. And the worse part, I don't even get to experience the fun part of being drunk.

That's another thing: I can't really drink. I mean, I do, but all things considered, I shouldn't. There's a lot of sacrifices that need to be made if I am to even consider having a few beers with friends, and even if I do things right my body pays dearly in the end. I eat differently, I act differently. It's what runs my life these days, and if you don't believe me look at the banner on my blog. "Navigating the strange world of eating well, exercising regularly, and not freaking out the people around me." I can't go on vacation without knowing where I'm going to run. I have to sacrifice precious space in my luggage to dedicate to tights and FiveFingers and sports bras. I'm that person in your group of friends who orders a salad (but really, I spend the whole time reading the desserts section wondering how happy I could be if I had a sundae for dinner instead).

I can't think about what's next in my life because I'm stuck in the now. I can't consider kids because it would complicate my treatment. I don't want to be sick and overweight on my wedding day so that's on the back burner too. I can't move forward until I'm healthy.

It's because of those things I just mentioned that I never talk about my life with IIH, because I'd rather just live my life. Instead of continually indulging my self-pity, I much prefer to continue running and eating salads and thinking positive thoughts each morning on the scale (even if it's not good news). I gave in to the sadness today for one reason only: to write about it and move on.