Fife. Frank about the hard bits, which is what I put on my profile in January and I may as well live up to it.
I stopped three weeks ago, at week nine, and I have been avoiding this circle since because I did not want to be a cautionary tale in anybody’s thread.
Why. I work on my feet, in a kitchen, six shifts most weeks, and from about week six I could not get enough into me to do the job. Not because I was frightened of eating — I want to be clear about that, because I know it is the first thing people wonder. I would put a plate in front of myself with every intention and get four forkfuls in and simply be unable to continue. By week eight I was getting through a shift on a yoghurt and a slice of bread, and then on the Tuesday I went light-headed at the top of the steps to the cellar, sat down on the third step from the top, and my hands were shaking badly enough that Kenny took the tray off me.
That was the moment. Not a diagnosis, not an emergency — I did not go anywhere, I sat down and had a fizzy drink and was fine in twenty minutes. But I stood at the top of those steps and thought: I cannot be somebody who is light-headed on stairs while carrying things. That is the actual job.
I rang my prescriber on the Thursday and she agreed to stop, and she was kind about it, and she said something I keep thinking about — that a treatment you cannot live alongside is not the right treatment yet.
So that is it. Nine weeks, stopped, no drama, no shame that I can find in myself when I look for it, though I notice I have been braced for other people to find some on my behalf. Appetite has come back. Some of the weight has come back and I am choosing to report that as a fact rather than a confession.
109