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A quick note on medical anxiety
Content note: weight-shaming, medical consent, disordered eating.
I tend to be very nervous when I get my blood pressure taken, because medical appointments are stressful even when they're with people I know: I'm a complex patient, I ask for things doctors aren't always comfortable with, and people can't always (or even often) tell me what's wrong with me. Being an expert patient can get very lonely. Better even than that, usually the person who's checking my blood pressure is someone new, doing intake, with whom I have no trust and no rapport and no pattern for how the appointment is likely to go.
I am always congratulated on my blood pressure being slap bang normal to low normal, even after I've told them I'm anxious. The only time I've ever had a plausible reading is after an outpatient medical procedure: I was sleep-deprived, I'd been nil-by-mouth for somewhere in the vicinity of six hours, and I'd been given IV sedatives without anyone checking in with me about the idea first. I was sufficiently far into "low blood pressure" that the nurses insisted on keeping me in for observation. It was eminently avoidable, if they had only thought to seek appropriate consent.
I have a history of disordered eating. I am still astonished every time someone touches my stomach and I don't flinch. I don't actually know how to process that sometimes I enjoy people touching my stomach: my brain just... shuts down around the idea, and I don't want to push it.
I benefit from thin privilege. I pretty much always weigh the same amount, regardless of how much activity I'm doing - exercise shifts my body composition but doesn't tend to make any difference to numbers. I cheerfully wear twinky tight-fitting clothing.
A few months after I started antidepressants, I had an appointment with a GP. "Oh," she said, looking at me, happy and congratulatory, "you've lost weight!" "... I'm pretty sure I haven't," I said, and moved rapidly onwards.
I had not lost weight since the last time she saw me. I had gained it because the antidepressants were working and I had started eating again. I was happier. I was comfortable. I was proud.
And I have a history of disordered eating, and being praised for having lost weight when (1) the exact opposite had happened, (2) this was a good thing, and (3) weight loss would have been cause for serious concern was... unhelpful.
I am periodically reminded of this incident by my awesome fat-activist friends talking about their activism and their own experiences, and I don't have the words to explain how resentful I am that that GP diminished my capacity to listen and empathise and provide support.
I tend to be very nervous when I get my blood pressure taken, because medical appointments are stressful even when they're with people I know: I'm a complex patient, I ask for things doctors aren't always comfortable with, and people can't always (or even often) tell me what's wrong with me. Being an expert patient can get very lonely. Better even than that, usually the person who's checking my blood pressure is someone new, doing intake, with whom I have no trust and no rapport and no pattern for how the appointment is likely to go.
I am always congratulated on my blood pressure being slap bang normal to low normal, even after I've told them I'm anxious. The only time I've ever had a plausible reading is after an outpatient medical procedure: I was sleep-deprived, I'd been nil-by-mouth for somewhere in the vicinity of six hours, and I'd been given IV sedatives without anyone checking in with me about the idea first. I was sufficiently far into "low blood pressure" that the nurses insisted on keeping me in for observation. It was eminently avoidable, if they had only thought to seek appropriate consent.
I have a history of disordered eating. I am still astonished every time someone touches my stomach and I don't flinch. I don't actually know how to process that sometimes I enjoy people touching my stomach: my brain just... shuts down around the idea, and I don't want to push it.
I benefit from thin privilege. I pretty much always weigh the same amount, regardless of how much activity I'm doing - exercise shifts my body composition but doesn't tend to make any difference to numbers. I cheerfully wear twinky tight-fitting clothing.
A few months after I started antidepressants, I had an appointment with a GP. "Oh," she said, looking at me, happy and congratulatory, "you've lost weight!" "... I'm pretty sure I haven't," I said, and moved rapidly onwards.
I had not lost weight since the last time she saw me. I had gained it because the antidepressants were working and I had started eating again. I was happier. I was comfortable. I was proud.
And I have a history of disordered eating, and being praised for having lost weight when (1) the exact opposite had happened, (2) this was a good thing, and (3) weight loss would have been cause for serious concern was... unhelpful.
I am periodically reminded of this incident by my awesome fat-activist friends talking about their activism and their own experiences, and I don't have the words to explain how resentful I am that that GP diminished my capacity to listen and empathise and provide support.