And so I slink back into the deserted blogosphere with the utterly inconsequential findings from my blood tests of the previous month.
In conclusion, then, I do not have PCOS. In the words of the Hairy Toed Lady’s sister, “I’m just spotty, hairy and overweight.”
So enough of this repellant and grotesque self-loathing. Already. I have decided to turn a new leaf, so to speak. Prepare yourselves for the new and improved.
And so I crawl back to the deserted wasteland of my lonely, bitter blog, to report on my short-lived progress, and ensuing series of setbacks, since my last visit.
Unwilling to refresh my memory with a quick foray into previous posts, this will undoubtedly sound confusing if not completely schizophrenic, but here goes, as they say, here goes…
A brief experiment with the G.I. diet showed promising results, however the diet was inadvertently abandoned a couple of weeks later against all better judgement.
This was followed by a roughly three-month panic attack centred on what was perceived as the extreme weight gain of the last year or so.
However, gradually this was superceded by the shame and humiliation of the gradually growing volcano colony upon my face.
I am now planning a visit to the doctor tomorrow. I am not sure what this will entail, but a modicum of hysterical sobbing, pleading and grovelling at her feet while begging for the swift and blood-testless prescription of life-changing medication will surely be involved at some point.
I’m just not myself at the moment.
My face is like a mask upon my face. It’s not just the velvety growth (real? or imagined?) nor the lavafield (which has in fact subsided quite significantly), but something other than all this, a certain coarseness of the skin, the strange unfamiliarity of which strikes me every time I cast an anxious glance towards the mirror. Who am I now? What have I become?
I took an interesting quiz today to determine the sex of my brain, wondering if perhaps this could shed some light on the supposed torrent of testosterone flowing through my veins. The results were inconclusive, other than an alarmingly one-dimensional sense of space and an almost sociopathic lack of empathy.
However I was pleased to learn that us right-minded folk may make exceptional artists and fighters. If there’s one thing I’ve always wanted to be, it’s a fighter.
That’s when I realised the truly ironic aspect of it all. There’s really nothing I’ve ever wanted more than to be a boy.
My God a lot has happened since I last came around. I can hardly believe it’s been only a week. Well, I don’t know how to put this, but I’ve lost 5 lb in one week. Not quite sure how. Starving myself probably helped. I’ve also been following a vaguely high-protein diet (studied Atkins but it was not for me – being vegetarian there was hardly anything on the list of permitted foods which I could eat) and lifting weights (they say a professional weight-lifter burns more calories sitting around doing nothing than a marathon runner does while running a marathon).
And what of the rest? Well, my face seems to have calmed down somewhat. The Temple of Doom is a mere Tombstone of Doom at the moment, although that could be but a temporary setback as it was accidentally razed by a passing fingernail during the the Grand Make-up Cover-up of Last Weekend, 2008. And where Discreet Damian et al. once lay there has sprung a field of baby mines just waiting to explode (but currently well-concealed by the aforementioned foundation).
So I can once again permit myself to be seen in public.
However, I have started seeing, or perhaps imagining, a forest of hairs where once there was none – or was there none? And strangely, the profusion seems to be somewhat one-sided in nature. Could my disease be limited to one side of my body? I have for several years now experienced (or imagined) a vague tenderness on the right side of my pelvis, where I imagine my right ovary to be. On the other hand, perhaps I am “merely” developing that bizarre manifestation of body-dysmorphic disorder where the sufferers believe themselves to be unnaturally disproportioned. (Google it if you want to know more, and also take a look at Shannon Doherty’s face – she is apparently their poster child.)
The bizarreness continues.
Calories : 900
Exercise : 3.2 miles running, 3.8 miles walking
Weight : +0.2 lb
I suppose the only conclusion I can come to is this: I do not actually need food to survive. This shocking revelation is not without some financially interesting consequences, however. I could save around €200 a month, and potentially, once my mortgage is paid off in the next ten years or so, need never work again.
As for my facial geography, the situation is mostly unchanged, with some minor improvements, I would say. Jawline Jones has moved to the right side of town, perhaps to facilitate worship at the Temple of Doom? Discreet Damian has all but disappeared. Conehead Detective seems likely to follow in his footsteps. Chin Mountain is hanging around for now, but has suffered some losses from erosion. Only Lip Lurker and the Temple of Doom are still going strong, having even made some gains, I might say.
Oh well, that’s day 1 over now, only 121 left to go.
I woke up this morning with six beautiful “boutons”, as the French would say. They have made themselves so at home upon my face that I have decided to give them names to go along with their distinct and different personalities. We have, for instance, Discreet Damian, lurking in the shadows beneath my left temple. Then there’s Jawline Jones, shyly positioned beneath the visual spectrum of most non-vertically-challenged adults. Unlike Conehead Detective and Chin Mountain, whose more flamboyant personalities can be less easily ignored. Then there’s Lip Lurker, a small but ambitious social climber. And last but not least, Temple of Doom, alone and unchallenged on the hitherto pristine territory of my right cheek.
On the scale of Adult Acne Anguish I attribute to these denizens the following ratings :
Discreet Damian gets a 4/10 – for potential
Jawline Jones gets a lowly 2/10 – not likely to go far in life
Conehead Detective shall receive 5/10 points, making up in visibility for what it lacks in redness
Chin Mountain surprisingly scores only 3/10 – could do better, with a little effort
Lip Lurker has come bottom of the class with 1/10, as is often the case with its kind
And finally, Temple of Doom makes the honor roll with a staggering 8/10 points – not quite a cyst, but almost!!
Who would believe that a mere six weeks ago, my cheeks were as smooth and unblemished as a baby’s bottom? Just two months ago I mocked the plight of a blighted friend with a single red pustule at the centre of her nose. In some cruel twist of fate, I now find myself unable to step from the house without the burning stares of a hundred imagined spectators boring holes through the quilted cover of my face.
And that’s not all. My thighs rub together like a couple of pygmy hippopotami mating. I have gained 13 lb. in six months. And upon my face a few strands of jet black hair – instantly removed – point the final whiskery finger at some as yet undiagnosed hormonal malady. PCOS? Is my face not the only thing about me that is riddled with cysts? Or is it the onset of cold weather that has sent my hypothalamus into hibernation for the winter? Whatever the case may be, many hours of online research has revealed that an excess of unopposed testosterone could be to blame for all my varied ailments. A renowned binge-eater in my wilder days, I can only wonder if the unchecked insulin spikes of many an eating spree could be the source of this hormonal surplus circulating so freely in my bloodstream. And so I came to the decision, this very morning, on my way to work, that rather than end my life in a train-anointed flurry of sebum, and cellulite, and stranded passengers, to give myself 122 days to “resolve” this problem on my own, through diet and exercise, before seeking medical counsel.
My first plan was simple – just not to eat. Ever. I certainly don’t feel like it in my current condition. But I’ve felt like this before, and it’s never lasted. Not more than a couple of hours. So it’s not a very realistic course of action. Next idea : Atkins. Or any other high-protein variant. But that’s not very practical either. They say milk and dairy products could be linked to adult acne, and I’m vegetarian, so what else have I got? I could take the opposite course of action – turn vegan. But is that the best way to avoid the notorious Insulin Spike?
Finally, I settled on a combination of the three. First of all, I have to retrain myself to go hungry. To convince myself that I don’t need to cater instantly to every stirring of stomach or appetite. To give in only at times of absolute necessity, be it physical or social. But not emotional, because we all know there is no such thing. After all, I wouldn’t eat for hours, even days at a time, as a youngster, and not because I was starving myself but because I was simply too busy (most likely doing something completely crazy, but nevertheless). Secondly, to favour as much as possible, and in this order, the following four five groups : vegetables, fruit, nuts, eggs and cheese. And thirdly, to balance carbohydrates with protein at all times, preferably drinking a glass of water beforehand but drinking water is torture for me so that might be too much to ask.
So anyway, here begins my quest.
Thank you for listening.
