![]() ![]() At the age of 32, I began to hate my body.įriends grew silent over my unreliability, my future husband visibly uneasy with the fear of what our marriage would look like with my failing body. I thought I found my cure, but my hopefulness was soon dashed when I didn’t improve much. I was deficient, and required injections to get them back up. One doctor finally listened to the possible causes I had found after hours of online research, and agreed to check my B12 levels. That spring, I visited doctor after doctor, most of them shrugging at my unrelenting symptoms that by then should have dissipated. The Prozac didn’t make me feel healthier, either. I did as I was told, but my body remained stubborn. The nurse who called to inform me advised I rest for two weeks. In turn, after some insistence on my part, she agreed to order a mono test. The first doctor I went to, in January 2013, smiled smugly and said, “You’re just nervous about your wedding.” I agreed to go back on Prozac. I had by then spent half a year trying to convince countless doctors that the weight loss, nausea and weakness I was experiencing were the result of something more than general anxiety. ![]()
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