Thursday, May 29, 2014

Bad Medicine

"Do you have an endocrine problem, or do you just have an enormous appetite?"
I'm at the doctor's office.  I hate new doctors for just this reason.
I'm seeing a nurse practitioner; they apparently didn't have a doctor free or something, although I made an appointment to see a doctor.  Not that it matters.
She's already talked with me about my medication. She knows I have a serious thyroid issue.  Knows how high the dosage is.  She knows I'm also treated for depression, anxiety, PTSD.
"Do you just have an enormous appetite".  Fuck you.  You know better; it's on the damn chart.
"No" I say, "and most people don't get my size that way".
I'm almost in tears, and the fury is streaming off of me like steam or sweat.
She backs off a little bit, though not much.  We were talking about gastric bypass.  I'm not opposed to the idea, but I hate the fact that most people support it as a knee-jerk, want me to do it so they can be more comfortable, so they don't have to look at me.  It makes it hard for me to be okay with losing weight for health, as much as I want to. I hate making bigots feel better.  Even more, I hate the part of me that hates my fat body because I've seen the same bigoted crap about fat people they have.  It hurts.
I don't really listen to her next few sentences.  She can feel my rage, and she's not comfortable with it.  She's sitting back slightly, is winding up the conversation, when she says something about all the harm that my weight has done to my body.
I say "You know what?  For all the harm that's done, I've been harmed much more by the way people treat me because I'm fat.  That's why I'm fighting to change it."
She says "Oh no, don't do that.  Just work on yourself".
Work on yourself.
"Do you work on yourself when someone treats you like you're stupid or useless or worthless because of how you look?" She blanches a bit; she's Asian, and she's no doubt gotten something like that.
"Their bigotry is the problem.  Oh, I'll work on myself too, don't get me wrong, but I'm going to work on them.  They need to change."
She doesn't have anything to say to that really, not that I process.  I leave without the simple blood test I came for.
I don't start crying until I'm in the waiting room, quiet tears, the kind that stream down a bit at a time.  My best friend is there, waiting for her appointment.  She goes in, and I have a panic attack while I wait for her.  Someone offers me a tissue.  Not everyone is awful. I hold on to that as best I can.
Just work on yourself.
Because she thinks my body is what's wrong.  Because she thinks people have a right to treat me like crap as long as I'm fat, and that the reasonable solution is to try to make me thin.  Like I'd never tried that in my fucking thirty-seven years.  Like my body is the problem, and not their prejudice.
I manage to keep the tears somewhat tamped down until I get to the car; then the crying is hysterical, helpless.  My friend understands.  She gives me a hug, listens, watches True Blood with me.  When he gets home, my fiance understands.  He holds me for a long time.  We order in; I'm not up to making dinner.
It helps until it's time to sleep, and then my head runs around in circles, hurt, angry, helpless.  Another panic attack.  Not the last.
I have to find a new doctor..