Prednisone = 1; me = 18

Okay, so 18 is (hopefully) an overly generous guesstimate of the number of pounds I’ve put on since being on Prednisone (nearly four months)… And it’s a guesstimate because, yes, I can’t bear the idea of actually getting on those scales to find out for sure.

Apart from finding clothes that still fit me, one of the hardest things to cope with is seeing photos of myself. I’ve learned how to cheat when taking pictures of myself (camera held up, tilt your face slightly downwards while looking upwards… suddenly, I’m three stone lighter i.e. back to what was once my ‘normal’ weight). But if someone else is behind that camera, their priority is taking the shot, rather than making sure that I look less like Jabba than I feel.

I recently saw some of the photos taken at our annual awards show ~ our flagship event of the year ~ who was that fat woman wearing my dress? And (humiliating confession time) what stings the most is the realisation of how pitifully much I still wanted someone to tell me I look pretty.

At least four or five times every day, I swear I’m going to lose weight. Then Pred kicks in, with depression nipping at its heels. I look at myself in the mirror and hate what I see. The sugar craving overwhelms me like a tidal wave and I think “f*ck it, who cares anyway”.

Then of course there is the shame. I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to see people that I haven’t seen for a while. I hate the thought that ~ as I undoubtedly would ~ they would privately say to each other afterwards, “wow, she’s really stacked on the pounds”. Not unkindly, but merely as observation. And I don’t want to have to stand there and explain it’s not me, it’s the f*cking drugs, because it sounds like I’m making excuses. Asking for pity. And if I have to explain it’s the f*cking Pred that’s making me bloat out of control, I also have to explain the RA. And whenever I’ve done that in the past, about 8 or 9 times out of 10, I’ve then had to listen to very well-meaning, caring, concerned people give me advice.

I know it’s coming from a loving, good place in their hearts, but honestly? I can’t stand to listen to another freaking word of advice or descriptions of someone they know who had the same thing and cured it miraculously by doing X, Y, Z.

I know I’m teetering on the edge of a dangerous trap. Depressed because I’m fat, so I don’t go out. I don’t go out, so I stay home and eat. I eat and I get fatter. I get more depressed. And so on, and on.

I’m down to 6mg of Pred a day now, down from 10mg originally, then dropped to 7.5mg before this. Seeing my rheumy in about 10 days so am keeping fingers crossed that he’ll knock another 05.-1mg off the dose. I need to get off these things.