My (earnest, irate) thoughts

I was having the worst headaches. Every day from morning till night, and sometimes even in my dreams. Pounding or dull, they never really went away. At first I tried to be stoic. But deep in my heart I am a pill-popper. I started allowing myself one Excedrin at work and two Advil at night. I read once that women feel pain more than men, and respond better to medication. Sounds made-up, but I’m going to pretend it’s true. My husband, being naturally suspicious of all pills (even vitamins), made me go to the doctor.

I always want to burst into tears when I go to the doctor — something about my weight being written down, and an acquaintance listening to me, with concern, as I talk about myself. It’s very moving. Sometimes I do cry a little. Sometimes the doctor then tries to prescribe me an anti-depressant. But after a brief, torrid affair with Paxil in 2002, I just say no. (Paxil made me think it was OK to make fudge a couple of times a week. And eat it by myself. Thirty pounds later, my low self-esteem was good common sense.)

The doctor listened with concern. Tears idiotically sprang to my eyes. I wanted to talk forever. I simultaneously wanted him to leave me alone so I could sob. I struggled to limit my symptoms to one or two. When I start to talk to a doctor the way I talk to a friend, veering crazily between laughter and tears, the doctor is always like, ‘whoa.’ It’s like when I tried therapy. After knowing me exactly thirty minutes, the psychiatrist wanted to write me a prescription for Lexapro. Doctors, they’re all the same. A bunch of drug pushers. But it’s understandable. Western medicine has evolved on the assumption that the human brain is the be-all, end-all of this entire universe. Doctors don’t understand that a little insanity, a few neuroses, are vital to tell a good story. And that this is what I do for a living. I’ll take my contemplation with a side of crazy, thanks.

Anyway, this doctor politely overlooked my teariness and took me through the results of my blood work. No surprise: high blood pressure. I’ve been overweight and sedentary since college. And until I got married, 50% of my caloric intake was Mountain Dew. But I’d really been trying to turn my life around. I gobble up salads, and go for walks — maybe not every day but more than before — and I no longer drink or smoke, and I’ve really, really cut back on soda and coffee.

But the doctor laid down a new law: No salt. This sucked. I was never really into salt until I married a Turk who eats sunflower seeds like regular people eat M&Ms. Suddenly, it came to me in a flash: sunflower seeds! My headaches were the worst in the evening, pounding all through the night. The saltiness of our nightly sunflower-seed-bonanza in front of the TV had sent my already-high blood pressure over the top, and given me hypertension headaches.

Now I’m under orders to exercise daily and eat no salt and a long list of other tasty things. And calm down. I’m really trying. But I have been a bad kid, as my husband would say, and it will take time to undo the damage. I want to treat my body as a temple. It really bothers me, actually, because I am so disciplined in other ways. Like when it comes to reading, considering, learning. Every night I read several pages of A History of God: The 4,000-Year Quest of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. (After I’m done, I will know everything there is to know about the Abrahamic religions. You can quiz me.) But when it comes to eating right and exercising, knowing the right thing doesn’t equate to doing it. My nafs is a jerk, and makes a good case for adding an order of Macadamia-nut cookies to my six-inch Gardenburger sub, or for watching Prison Break from the couch rather than the treadmill.

The worst thing is how these shortcomings have led to a skewed self-image that tears me up emotionally. In your prayers, please think of me, and ask God to help me with my struggle. In this world where so many people don’t have enough food, the least I can do is not eat their share.