Witch, its been rough

If you read my last post and thought, “wow, that was heavy”— Grab your broomsticks and brace yourselves. Because now we’re diving into the kind of heaviness that doesn’t come from emotional trauma (for once) but from… my actual body.

Let’s talk about weight. Because nothing screams “fun blog post” like a conversation about the flesh prison I’ve been cursed to inhabit.

So—once upon a bloated nightmare—I gained 40 pounds in 3 months. Not gradually. Not over a sad winter with a comforting rotation of mac & cheese and self-loathing. No. This was dramatic, suspicious, and medically alarming. So, like a responsible adult, I took my increasingly puffy self to a doctor. You know, someone who’s supposed to help.

Silly me.

I poured my symptoms out like I was handing over sacred scrolls. Weight gain, fatigue, pain, hair loss—the works. I was practically handing him the plot to House, M.D. and this man (and yes, it’s always a man) had the audacity to look me dead in the eyes and say:

“Well… if you didn’t weigh this much, you wouldn’t be having these issues.”

Ah yes. Clearly the issue isn’t that my body is acting like it’s possessed—it’s that I’m fat. Revolutionary. Give this man a broomstick and a one-way ticket out of my life.

I responded—politely, because I hadn’t fully given in to my villain era yet—“Well, if you listened to what I just said, you’d know this weight gain is why I came here, and maybe we’d be closer to a solution and not just fatphobia in a lab coat.”

I never went back. I don’t know what curse I left behind in that exam room, but I hope every pen on his desk runs dry forever.

Fast forward five years. I’m still fighting for answers, but I’ve upgraded to doctors who pretend to care. Progress! I’ve done more bloodwork than a coven initiation ritual, more scans than a haunted library, and spent more money than I’d care to admit just to be told, “Huh. That’s weird.” Groundbreaking.

So far, we’ve discovered thyroid nodules (cute little growths that might turn evil—like emotional support polyps). They’re benign for now, but considering cancer runs in the family like a generational curse, it’s a constant low-level panic.

They also tossed out the idea of Hashimoto’s. She sounds like a glamorous villainess, but no—just an autoimmune disease. Bloodwork says no, symptoms scream yes. So now I’m gluten-free (RIP to garlic bread and joy), but hey—I lost 65 pounds and maybe 10 demons. Trade-off.

BUT WAIT. THE CURSE DEEPENS.

Another doctor now suspects Lupus. Which I’m convinced is just the autoimmune version of “maybe it’s Maybelline”—it might be real, but nobody’s ever sure. And testing for it? Hah. Only if your blood performs jazz hands and sings show tunes on the lab table. If the markers don’t show up perfectly? No test, no help, no hope. Good luck, cursed mortal!

Meanwhile, I’m living in a body that malfunctions like a discount crystal ball. Some days my hands forget how to function. Some days I can’t get out of bed. Some days I brush my hair and half of it abandons ship like it knows something I don’t. I’m tired all the time and not in a quirky, relatable way—like, “sleeping 10 hours and still dragging my corpse through the underworld” tired.

And honestly? The worst part isn’t even the illness. It’s the judgment. The friends who stop inviting you places because you’ve canceled one too many times. The side-eyes. The “she’s just being dramatic” comments.

Spoiler: I’m not flaking. I’m fighting a war inside my body every single day. I’m doing battle with invisible monsters while smiling like everything’s fine. It’s not. I’m just really good at fake it ’til you make it—and I haven’t made it yet.

So if you’re dealing with a body that feels like it’s running on expired magic and vibes—welcome to the coven. The chronically cursed, the medically misunderstood, the warriors with heating pads and sarcasm for armor.

You’re not weak. You’re not too much. You’re not imagining it.

You’re surviving something most people couldn’t handle for five minutes—and still managing to function (mostly), smile (sometimes), and wear pants (on occasion). That, my friend, is sorcery.

As for me? Still unraveling the mystery that is my existence—one gluten-free disappointment at a time. Still exhausted, still suspicious of anyone who says “just try yoga,” and still fully prepared to curse the next doctor who shrugs and blames stress. (It’s never just stress. It’s usually stress and a demon.)

I’ve got another 50 pounds to go before I hit my goal—making it 100 pounds total. Which, frankly, is enough to conjure a whole new person. Maybe I’ll name her Karma and let her handle my appointments. 

But I’m getting there. Crystal in one hand, Diet Coke in the other, and just enough spite to keep moving.

🖤✨ Blessed be the burnt out and still trying