I spent four rather formative years (8–12) thinking I had a bad metabolism and would spend my life overweight. Sometimes these effects aren’t immediately obvious. These vary from sweatiness to sleepiness to-you guessed it-weight gain. But it felt a hell of a lot better than wanting to die.Īlthough the medications have changed throughout the years, the one unfortunate constant is the side effects. It did not feel good to feel unattractive. (“Managed” being the operative word-not to be mistaken for “flourished” or “excelled.”) There have been times where I’ve needed medication and times when I’ve managed without. I’ve had moderate to severe OCD pretty much my entire life, along with ever-present anxiety and bursts of depression. I have been on and off antidepressants since I was four years old. After a moment of deciphering, I managed to make out “125 to 135.” He announced that this was the healthy weight for my age and height and that he was pretty sure I was over it.īefore everyone starts hating on my dad for body shaming me in my family home, let me provide a little more context. I was feeling especially accomplished, and just as I was getting up to celebrate my responsibleness with my parents’ rescue dog, my dad announced there was “one more thing.” He handed me a Post-it with illegible scrawl on it and asked me to read the note aloud. I was home for Passover, sitting in my parents’ office-whenever I come back to New York, I always sneak in some financial guidance from my father.
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