Husband and I joined at Crossfit Richmond about 12 months ago. Those first couple months were fantastic. We were exercising together, eating really well and we both felt fabulous.
Gradually I started noticing changes in Mr. He looked terrific. His beer belly had transformed into a tight abdomen. His arms started to get bigger. Even his face looked terrific. People started commenting about how fabulous he looked. He would tell them about Crossfit and how much we both loved it. I would wait in the wings, patiently, hoping someone would then turn to me and mention how great I was looking. But no-one ever did.
I'd look at myself and in the mirror and think 'I feel strong and I'm so much fitter' I must be looking better. I'd dismiss the paranoia and just continue what I was doing - Crossfit-ing five times a week and eating a strict paleo (cave-man) diet.
One night, as I got ready for bed I finally broke. I remember balling my eyes out. Resenting Mr for looking fabulous and hating myself for, well, not looking so fabulous. Mr was perfect - he said all the right things, encouraged me to to keep going. Told me I looked perfect to him.
But the outbursts became more frequent. I could no longer hide my jealousy. Every time he jumped on the scales I would yell at him and ask him not to be so obvious about his weight loss. Every time someone complimented him about how lean he was looking, I would rudely interject with an obnoxious 'but what about me, goddamit! I've been training as hard as he has. What about me?'. People started to look at me like I was crazy.
My motivation began to wain, as did Mr's patience. He kept saying 'but you must be doing something wrong, you must be snacking too much, you must be cheating'. I would get angry. I knew I wasn't snacking too much. I knew I wasn't cheating. I just knew something was wrong.
I was tired. I was having acne breakouts every-other week. My mood-swings were all over the place. And my periods had become very irregular.
That was it. I had had enough. I booked an appointment for the doctors and off I went. I really didn't expect much at all. But I told her everything.
She looked at me sympathetically. She could understand how upset I was. She referred me to a couple scans and blood-tests and off I went.
A week later, I found myself back in her office. She flicked back and forth through the results. Then she looked me straight in the eyes. 'So I think we may have uncovered the reason for the symptoms you've been experiencing lately. You have what's called poly-cystic ovarian syndrome'.
At this point I let out a cheer that almost lifted her from her chair.
I have something! I have a reason. Not an excuse. But a reason.
She kept talking for what felt like forever. I listened. I nodded. I couldn't stop smiling. I was giddy with excitement.
The second I walked out of her office, I sent an SMS to Mr - 'I told you I wasn't snacking too much. And no I wasn't cheating. I have PCOS. A medical condition. It's not my fault. I knew it. I knew something was wrong'.
...six months have since passed. The excitement has worn off. I now understand, really understand, what it means to have PCOS.
I'm now permanently engaged in battle. This time it's not with Mr, but it's with myself. With my body that refuses to co-operate. My body, that is so determined to fight against me.
The greatest betrayal of all.
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