My name is Dyskinesia, and I am an addict. All together now: Hiiii, Dyskinesia.
(Seriously, is that the modern “Shave and a haircut” or what?)
Tomorrow morning, I have an appointment to meet with a dietitian. The reason? I am an addict, and my body is now suffering the repercussions in the form of “metabolic syndrome” — aka syndrome X, aka insulin resistance, aka pre-diabetes. My addiction? Carbohydrates — the good ones, the bad ones, the ones that get up and dance on a stripper pole and shake their hooters in your face until you are just dying to give them every dime you’ve ever made. I’m not picky; I want them all.
Two years ago, I went to one of my pocketful of doctors and said: I’m developing insulin-resistance, and I need help. I refused to take the standard test that all doctors want to run for this (a 3-hour glucose tolerance test, which nearly killed me the one time I did it when I was pregnant, and as far as I’m concerned is probably one of the most dangerous things you could do to someone who has an insulin resistance), so we did a fasting insulin, which of course didn’t show much because the problem isn’t obvious when I’m fasting. The test should really be run after ingesting a high carb load (NOT glucose, thank you — that would be like taking a bottle of ibuprofen when 2 would do the trick). But, instead of putting up my fight, I gave in and did things her way. The last time I did that left me menopausal at 32. You’d think I’d learn.
Two years later, things are bad enough that, yes, now the even the fasting insulin is a bit high on its own. The triglycerides are also out of whack in comparison to the rest of the cholesterol values, another of the checklist indicators of metabolic syndrome that comes with its own pretty number on a piece of paper and not just my, “No, really, I cannot possibly explain to you the level of exhaustion I’m feeling — particularly after I eat something that is a high carb food, like pancakes and then basically pass out dead to the world for hours.” Even the endocrinologist I went to ignored the obvious signs and talked about taking medication instead; yeah, I didn’t bother going back to her after that silliness.
This time, though, pretty printed numbers in hand, my doctor called me personally. Because that’s always a fun message to have on your answering machine when you can’t get them on the phone until the next day. We’d actually tested all my hormone levels, and I was prepared for something weird and icky on that front. I wasn’t prepared for her to finally say, yes, you were right. Well, technically, she didn’t say that; she asked me if I’d heard of metabolic syndrome, and I somehow managed to not laugh at her.
You might say, well, if you knew it was the problem all this time, why not handle things yourself? There’s a ton of information out there on the internet, books to read, etc. Hell, South Beach makes their own food products in the store; it isn’t rocket science. And you’re right. Except that I point you to the title of this blog. I am a JUNKIE. I’m not someone who eats all crap all the time either; I eat lots of “good” foods too — but you can be sure that I eat them in the wrong portions, the wrong mixtures, and mostly in a way that will get my body nice big glycemic load — because that is what it wants. It’s physiologic. I am an addict.
Anyway, tomorrow, I see the dietitian, who specializes in dealing with this thing and who will most likely want me to cut out basically all carbs (yes, South Beach-esque if not the actual thing). And I will look her in the face and ask her what is my food equivalent of methadone. Because cold turkey will kill me, kill my family for having to live with me, and leave me in a puddle of cold sweat, screeching at my husband to bring me some Pepsi or I will never, ever have sex with him again.
This has got to be how it feels knowing that you’re checking yourself into detox in a couple of days — except that I will not be having a binge first because there almost nothing that feels good about my addiction. My only ‘high’ is the absence of the agony it will cause me to stop. Caffeine being the possible exception.
Actually, the detox statement isn’t entirely accurate. When they go into detox, they know that there will be no drugs to be had right around the corner, right down the street, lining the roads I drive, or in the cupboard for my son (because his habits will have to change too, but not to THAT degree). No, they have someone to lock them up and tell them NO. In my book, that’s called “someone to protect them.” I don’t have that. (A spouse cannot have that job because, by definition, it needs to be someone you can openly hate.)
Anyone who thinks I’m overblowing my addiction and making false comparisons should have to move into my house for the next couple of months. In fact, I’m going to encourage my husband to openly blog about the ramifications of all of this along the way. I am honestly very hopeful for the best. I want change. I don’t want to feel this way. I want to have energy. I want to be more like the person I used to be, and if I were to hope beyond hope, to feel better than I ever have because I’ve had glycemic issues from the moment I was born.
Pardon my whining and bitching and woe is me bullshit here. I’m a junkie; what did you expect?
Wish me luck. More to come.