Skip My Meds Quotes

Its a beautiful day.I think I'll skip my meds and stir things up a bit_Bumper Sticker

It’s a beautiful day. I think I’ll skip my meds and stir things up a bit. —BUMPER STICKER

Hunter was bipolar, for crying out loud. He had checked into the nut house on more than one occasion and, honestly, I was already starting to feel the anxiety of living together. I would need to get my martial arts skills up to par to deal with this lunatic. I knew that I would also need to pick up a copy of Kill Bill at my next convenience and take notes as I watched, just in case a fight happened to break out in the kitchen. Also, at night, I had decided that I would need to sleep with either a small pistol or a flamboyant hunting knife under my pillow for a quick grab, in case he skipped his meds one night and decided to kill me. I needed to be prepared for the unthinkable.

Hey cupcake!” he says, like he just had a great idea. “I’m so glad you’re here.” “Me too,” I say. “I thought you were ready to kick me to the curb.” I was. But when I found out he was hurt, it nearly gutted me. “Would if I could,” I say. “Do you think you could fall in love with me, cupcake?” he blurts out. I’m startled. I know he’s medicated, so I shouldn’t put any stock into his words, but I can’t help it. “You should get some rest,” I say. Tap. Tap. “So, that would be a no.” He whistles. Then he scrunches up his face when it makes his head hurt. “I’m in trouble,” he whispers quietly. “What?” He squeezes my hand. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you, cupcake,” he says. “I just wish you could love me back.” “You’ve had a lot of pain meds,” I say. Suddenly, he grabs the neck of my shirt and jerks me so that I fall over his chest. His lips are right next to mine. “Listen to me,” he says. “Okay,” I whisper. “I don’t have much going for me, but I know what love feels like.” “How?” “It just is, cupcake. You don’t get to pick who you fall in love with. And God knows, if my head could pick, it wouldn’t be you.” I push back to get off his chest, because I’m offended. But he holds me tight. “You’re not easy to love, because you can’t love me back. But you might one day. I’ll wait. But you got to start taking my calls.” He cups the back of my head and brings my face toward his. A cough from the doorway startles us apart. I stand up and pull my shirt down where he rucked it up. “Visiting hours are over,” a nurse says. “She’s not a visitor,” he says. She comes and inserts a needle into his IV, and his eyes close. He doesn’t open them when he says, “She’s going to marry me one day. She just doesn’t know it yet.” His head falls to the side and he starts to softly snore. His hand goes slack around mine. I pull back, my heart skipping like mad. “They say some of the most ridiculous things when they’re medicated.” The nurse shakes her head. “He probably won’t remember any of this tomorrow.” Pete

The seven deadly sins were first spelled out by Pope Gregory I in the sixth century—and one of them was gluttony. He said overeating is a sin, and sin requires punishment before you can get to redemption. It is very deep in our culture to believe that obesity is a sign a person is greedy, so suffering is the just and necessary response. The only forms of weight loss we admire are ones that involve pain—extreme exercise programs, or extreme calorie restriction. If you go through that, we’ll just about forgive you. But if you’re suddenly thin at no cost in pain and sweat to you? We are outraged. I realized I had internalized this. I felt ashamed of being fat, and at some unconscious level, I believed I deserved to be punished for it—and taking Ozempic was skipping the punishment, a get-out-of-jail-free card. But when these ideas were brought to the forefront of my mind—once I had to say them out loud—I began to question them. I thought about this more deeply when I read an essay by the Irish journalist Terry Prone, who wrote about how a similar debate had played out two hundred years ago. When modern anesthetics were first introduced, many doctors resisted giving these painkilling options to women going through childbirth, believing that suffering was a crucial part of delivering a baby. Christ had suffered on the cross, and women should suffer when delivering a child. Suffering was ennobling. (I suspect there was also a strain of misogyny and Puritanism to it: a woman delivering a child has had sex, and that, too, should be followed by the infliction of pain.) To have a child without pain was cheating the laws of nature. The beliefs around this only changed very slowly. A key moment came when Queen Victoria revealed she had used anesthetics during her childbirths. Today, few people would say that a woman was “cheating” if she dulled the agony of childbirth with meds, and you would regard me as crazy and misogynistic if I told you that a woman giving birth deserves to suffer. So I asked myself: Why should recovering from obesity involve pain? Do I really think Jeff deserves to suffer? Or my late friend Hannah? Or my grandmother, who was obese for most of her adult life, ruining her knees and likely contributing to her dementia? Do I think they are sinners who deserve punishment—or have I moved beyond the ideas of a sixth-century pope?