“I’d rather be skinny and psycho than fat and sane!”
“What will your husband think about that?”
“He’ll get used to it…”
“That’s your thyroid talking Mrs Robinson.”
“No, it’s me, this medication better not make me fat or I won’t take it.”
“The medication doesn’t make you fat, what you eat makes you fat.”
Just over 7 years ago I was sitting in my endocrinologist’s consulting room finding out just how unwell I was, and all I could think of was how I looked in a pair of jeans. I was the craziest person I knew, but I was a size 8 and thought I was killin’ it.
At some point after the birth of my daughter Kira, I had developed Graves’disease and was in a state of extreme thyrotoxicosis… in simple terms… it’s kinda like menopause on speed. I was eating like a horse, but was the skinniest I’d been since my teens. As an ex-swimmer, I was so proud my new Miranda Kerr arms, but I knew something wasn’t quite right. I’ve always been muscular and strong, even as a kid. Suddenly I was as weak as a kitten (I literally could not jump… like I could NOT get both my feet off the ground at the same time). Back to back gym classes had been a norm, but I felt faint and overwhelmed less than 10 minutes into a Body Step class.
Other signs you may have an overactive thyroid…
- sudden onset of extreme road rage
- sudden onset of Tourettes (f**k, slut, dick, asshole and the “c” word become prominent in normal conversation)
- your husband/significant other begins applying for FIFO jobs (3 months on, 7 days off), or starts channeling funds into an escape account
- everyone is a useless asshole
- sleep… what is sleep? Why are there so many hours in a night?
- fuck you
- more assholes… assholes everywhere
- appetite changes: breakfast, 2nd breakfast…. Lunch… oh its twelve oçlock? Lunch again… can I eat yet? Snack, dinner, are you eating that?… dessert… midnight snack
- your hair starts falling out by the handful, so you stop brushing your hair to keep it on your head
- your “friends” don’t want to hang out with you anymore (you think it maaaaay be because you’ve been a bit of a psycho bitch, but really you’re convinced it’s because you’re suddenly skinnier than they are)
- you can’t deal with your kids… your job… your family… your husband… your life… or assholes… so many assholes everywhere
- OK, now you’re super skinny… but it’s not “toned”… you’re skinny-fat and only look OK in super tight jeans and long sleeves… otherwise you look like a cross between the saggy-baggy elephant and a hail-damaged car
- even all the assholes are scared of you
- fuck you… asshole
- can’t think, can’t concentrate, can’t focus, can’t sleep, can’t… even… deal… panic… fuck, shit…. more coffee… or wine… or Valium… or all of it……. WHO ATE ALL THE MILO…. ASSHOLES… oh… that was me… I’m the asshole….
Of course this is a non-exhaustive list of symptoms… but if you are catching my drift and feeling all the feels, it may be time to take yourself to the doctor for a blood test. It could very well be your thyroid talking… or you could just be a complete psychopath… or just an asshole…
Aaaannnyway… fast forward three years (a period of medication, an allergic reaction to it, a change of medication, a remission, another baby, then a complete and utterly disastrous relapse) and I’m back in the absolute shit-pit of uncontrolled Graves’ disease again. I’m still trying to breastfeed, but I’m maxed out on the amount of medication I can take whilst breastfeeding, so I’m mixed feeding. I am so anxious and stressed and skinny… but skinnier than before. I won’t look in the mirror… I have hardly any hair and I look like I’ve just walked out of a concentration camp. No one is jealous of skinnyAF Rachael anymore… skinnyAF Rachael looks and feels like a pile of shit, and is making all the assholes miserable.
I’m back in the endocrinologist’s consulting room facing the sad fact that conservative measures are not working. My choices are thyroidectomy (surgery… and I COULD LOSE MY VOICE… fuck that, you can’t yell at your kids in sign language) or radioactive iodine ablation (sounds a little too “Chernobyl” to me… but better than a scar on my neck and NO VOICE… ugh). I choose the latter, and lesser of two evils.
“I think you’ve made a good choice Rachael”
“I’m not so sure, I’m worried.”
“What are your concerns?”
“What if it’s not my thyroid, and I’m actually a complete pyscho???”
“I promise you, that’s your thyroid talking Mrs Robinson.”
Four and a half years on, I’m quite possibly the healthiest, fittest and strongest I’ve been in my entire life (and that’s a nice thing to say at 42). It’s pretty safe to say, my thyroid is no longer talking… I think it might be menopause…………………………………..FUCK!
Feralville 