Last night, I found a book called A Patient’s Guide to PCOS and I’ve been reading it most of the day. It’s a very interesting look at this syndrome that has plagued my life for so many years, and even more interesting (read: exciting)– a look at how to control it! The book provides detailed diets and caloric intake goals, as well as ideas as to how to effectively introduce exercise into your life.
As I scanned the book last night at Barnes & Noble, I was shocked by a chapter that discusses the psychological and emotional impact of the syndrome. I honestly have just thought myself lazy and… well, bad. While I fully recognize that there are spiritual implications to my situation and lack of will-power, it was nice to find that there is hope.
Is it weird that I didn’t really realize that before? I’m not typically a “hopeless” person, but I guess I’ve been pretending that I was fine and had it all together. It’s ok that I don’t. At least that’s what I’m trying to convince myself.
Not too long ago, I heard a sermon in which my pastor explained that to live in community with one another doesn’t require that we have our homes in perfect order. He went on to tell us that pushing people out of our lives because our homes didn’t look “perfect” was sinful. Although I intellectually agreed with what he was saying, I don’t know that it connected.
I recalled that sermon as I listened to a fellow member of my church and friend talk about how he was struggling against an idol in his own life: expectations placed on his children that were impossible to reach. It occurred to me that I have unreasonable expectations placed on myself. I’m unable to give myself a break. I’m sure that a lot of that comes from my legalistic religious background, but maybe moreso due to the fact that I don’t believe that God is who He says He is.
I know I’ve said that before on this very blog, but I’m learning that it’s an on going struggle that obviously requires more than just my acknowledgment that the problem exists. Acknowledging that the house is on fire won’t stop it from burning up, if I don’t call the fire department.
Friends, my house is on fire.
By all medical standards, I am obese. That’s such an ugly word. Obese. Not just fat anymore. I’ve passed that threshold. I’m at a point where I’m considered at very high risk for heart disease, diabetes, and all sorts of serious health issues. It’s not that I didn’t already know that, but I never want to come off as some sort of hypochondriac. I just don’t admit it out loud very often, and therein lies the problem.
So I don’t know really what else to say about all of this except that things are bad, and I’m trying to take care of them with the help of willing friends and professionals. And I am trying hard to fight the desire to hide these things from my community. I don’t expect you to be the water for my fire… but I’d love to have help in carrying the buckets.
