Thyroid inferno… or, how I learned to stop worrying and love my body

Yeah, I’m back. Sort of. I have a story to tell and this seemed like a decent place to tell it. It’s pretty personal, but I think telling it might be of help to others. (At least I hope so.) That said, content warning for discussions of disordered eating and weight loss, as well as some slightly gross descriptions of symptoms and general salty language throughout.

Thyroid issues have a tendency to run in my family. My paternal and maternal grandmothers were both hypothyroid, and my older brother is, also. So it didn’t come as a total shock to me, nearly four years ago, when my doctor told me that I, too, was hypothyroid. It’s kind of a Wicked family tradition. Endocrine and degenerative disorders, that’s how we roll.

If you’re curious, being hypothyroid means that one’s thyroid gland (the little butterfly-shaped gland that hugs your windpipe at the base of your neck) is slacking off. It’s not doing its job. (It can go on strike for a variety of reasons, but an autoimmune disease called Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis is the most common culprit. The body starts to think the thyroid is an intruder, and begins attacking it. And the thyroid reacts by saying, “Fuck this shit, I’m going on break.”)

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