Scars of Depression

Many people think that only surgery and cuts can leave scars. False. Depression left its scars on me. They are called stretchmarks. If you would rather not hear about me drone on about something that looks like a tiger scratched me, then I understand. After all, who wants to talk about their flaws?! Yet, the psychology major in me feels that I must address this if I want to move on with my life. In this case, I mean move beyond my weight gain. While I hope moving beyond comes by weight loss, acceptance of my body and finding myself beautiful would suffice. However, I hope it is both. In case you didn't know, Prozac takes a toll on your appetite. Hungry. All. The. Time. It is absolutely dreadful. Between that and the emotional eating tolls of depression, I have found myself 30 pounds heavier. Now, all of you that have speculated some serious weight gain can now rest assured that I have verified that piece of juicy information. And guess what? With it came these sexy little scars--stretchmarks. I admit that they make me feel somewhat nauseous. After all, they are fairly recent and I do not tan so my pale skin constantly illuminates them. However, I am trying--hence this piece--to embrace these stretchmarks, to love them as scars and remind myself how far God has brought me. By the way, I speak so openly about depression because I am constantly baffled by the Church's response to it. And yes, I gained thirty pounds, and until I get it off I am still going to find myself beautiful. If you wish to call me a fatty, have your way, I will just dance with my sexy stretchmarks. Peace & Blessings