A Break from the Breakfast Brunch Buffet

Unlike Aunt Bessie, my parents are much more sympathetic to my compulsive overeating and have taken steps to alleviate my holiday food-related stress. Opting for a more healthy Christmas day brunch, my mother decided to forego our traditional breakfast biscuit and gravy buffet and instead cooked a small amount food and offered healthy options like veggies and fruits. The desserts were gone and so were all the starchy, high fat foods.

We had a small, and I mean small, prime rib roast, a small amount of broiled pork filet and sliced turkey breast. All of which only filled up three paper plates. We had veggies, fruits, and salad. That’s it. No desserts no dips, no high sugar foods. I don’t think anyone missed a thing. If they did, they didn’t say anything. Now my mother called everyone ahead of time and told them what she was doing and why. I didn’t know she did that until later, but I don’t mind. She told me that I didn’t have to worry about Christmas brunch and so I didn’t. She took care of it. I’m pretty open about my weight issues and don’t mind if people know.

Honestly, I didn’t feel like I was missing out at all. I had second helpings on the salad (and a touch of the meat) and then stopped. I did not feel the least bit cheated, I was not over full, and my gi tract was thankful that I didn’t eat biscuits and gravy. I love them, but they do not love me. Christmas at Mom and Dad’s house was nice and I didn’t overeat the entire time I was there. I ate healthy because there were only healthy choices available. The only desserts in the house were small, individual cups of ice cream (which I did not have nor want) and sugar free Klondike bars (of which I ate two over the course of four days.) Now that is love. It is that kind of support that will help me make it through my journey of a healthy lifestyle.

The Cookie Rapist

I decided I wasn’t going to Aunt Bessie’s Christmas party because of all the food, and I told her so. I’ve received support for that decision. In the end, however, I backed out. Not because of lack of resolve or fears of Aunt Bessie’s wrath. Nor did I do it out of respect for her feelings. I agreed to go for two reasons: Aunt Bessie agreed not to serve the traditional buffet and my parents asked me to.

I told Aunt Bessie, during a Sunday meal at Ruby Tuesday, that I wasn’t coming because there was too much food and it is too hard. She says she doesn’t understand what I mean when I say it’s “too hard”. I think she’s full of crap. She understands it exactly; she doesn’t agree with it. She would rather me come and refrain from her constant barrage of stumbling blocks that she seems to enjoy throwing my way. It’s a game of some sort. Anyway, she was very unhappy that I was not coming. At first she tried to negotiate a way for my daughter to still be able to come. I will have none of that. Call it what you will, I am spending Christmas with my daughter and I will not subject her to that which I am unwilling to endure. I am the only thing standing between Aunt Bessie and my daughter and if you think she enjoys stuffing food down my gullet, she enjoys doing it to my daughter as well. I do not allow that.

Since that didn’t work she switched tactics. She unselfishly announced that she was changing the entire menu just for me. We talked about what that meant exactly: no buffet lines, small amounts of food, no dips and junk, and forgoing the desserts. I know my Aunt Bessie too well and I knew that this was an empty promise – a ruse –engineered in order to manipulate me to come to her party. She was not going to serve only turkey, salad and green beans. My upbringing dictates my behavior and I cannot bring myself to accuse her of such a deceptive plan. After all, as everyone points out, I just have to learn not to eat so much. That phrase is starting to piss me off a bit. I am not at the point where I can attend events where my drug is readily available and sitting out, and not partake in it. Maybe someday, but not right now. First I have to learn why I overeat, how to overcome it in my everyday life, and then attempt the big holiday parties.

My parents and wife agreed to help me at Aunt Bessie’s party, which is a huge help. I went, but rather than spending time in the kitchen, as we always do, we all hung out in her den, playing with the kids and talking. Aunt Bessie was not too happy about that because we were not eating the food, which was the point. I kept a glass of water with me to help satisfy my desire to eat. When it came time to eat, I had turkey, salad and green beans. I ate nothing else, but it was very stressful and difficult. I was exhausted after the ordeal. There was much more to the feast:

• Turkey
• Dressing
• Green Beans
• Chicken Stew
• 4-5 dozen Crescent Rolls
• Olives
• Pickles
• Crackers
• Chips
• Dips
• Mushrooms
• Cheese
• Canned Cheese
• Nuts
• Pumpkin Pie
• Cheesecake
• Angel Food Cake
• Cookies
• Peanut Brittle

I know that Christmas is a time for family and big parties are common. I understand that and I accept that. I don’t ask anyone to change their parties, and I didn’t ask Aunt Bessie to change hers. I change my behaviors, not those of other people. If I cannot attend a party because of the food, then I do not go. Aunt Bessie would have no part of that and agreed to have only turkey, salad and soup in order that I could attend. It was her idea to change things and to hear her tell it she was already planning on changing the menu all along.

I was fully prepared for the buffet. To her credit, it was better than usual. There weren’t mashed potatoes or sweet potato casserole, but there was dressing (a dish I love). She said it was okay because she made it with sage and I don’t like it with sage. That is true, I prefer it without sage. But that doesn’t mean I won’t eat it. If I can’t get real heroine, then I will take her lying and serving it anyway. Besides everyone was watching. There is something to be said about anger and its use to help one overcome and succeed. Truth be told, I really didn’t need all of that food that day.

I was strong and being watched, so I stayed in the den and my family stayed with me. We played cards and talked and had fun. Every little bit Aunt Bessie would bring food from the kitchen to the den and pass it around. My wife and parents, supporting me, always politely declined. Then Aunt Bessie would make her way to me and entice me to take the food. I always declined graciously, to which she would ask again.

Once she brought me the guacamole and asked me to try it. I just stared at her, letting her know that she was crossing the line. She didn’t care. She stayed the course. So she asked again and again. She knows that I love guacamole. It’s one of my favorites. After watching this for as long as she could stand it, my wife chimed in and politely mentioned that I didn’t want it and I didn’t need it. Aunt Bessie swatted her hand at my charming wife and asked me again to try it, saying that it was vegetables so I could have it. I stayed firm and just continued my stare.

Then she says to me: “I’m not trying to get you to eat it; I just want you to try it.”

I really don’t know what on Earth that is supposed to mean. To try a food is to eat a food and it baffles me why she would insist that I eat something I don’t want to eat considering I am struggling with my weight. We had just eaten dinner for crying out loud. If I wanted any food I would have gotten up and helped myself to the abundant buffet. I take that back; it doesn’t baffle me, really. I know what this is and it is about power and control.

She did the same with the pies and cakes. She asked me several times to eat the desserts she prepared. I didn’t want to eat them because I was full and I was trying to be healthy. That didn’t make her happy so she took every opportunity to get me to eat them.

The last straw, and you’d think I would have hit this point a long time ago, was when we were getting ready to leave. She pulled me aside, away from my supporters, and waved cookies right under my nose. She quietly begged me to eat them, stating that they would not hurt me. I did nothing. I stood there in horror, trembling with anger, and I realized that she does not care for my health. I looked into this woman’s eyes and understood that she does not care a thing about how I feel. Telling her “no” is nothing more than a double dog dare and she will do anything to win, even if that entails guilt, pain and lies. Her desire to exert control over the family is overwhelming. It is about power and control for her. In a weird way it is a form a rape. The more I say “no” the harder she pushes the food into my mouth. Cookies and cakes, peanut brittle and pecan pie are her penises. She is my food rapist and I am tired of having to endure her constant raping of my stomach and soul. God love her, I’m tired of it.

She has some kind of mind control over this family and enjoys seeing people suffer at her hands. For some unknown reason my family continues to put up with it. Years ago we traveled the state of Missouri going to Aunt Bessie’s on Christmas Eve, then on to see the extended family an hour away, and finally to my maternal grandmother’s home two hours away, where we spent the night and celebrated Christmas that next morning. We have Christmas at our only at our house now, because years ago my family said they wanted to be home for Christmas. That is, except for Aunt Bessie. We still do her little ditty even though no one wants to. Well I for one am done with it. She lied to me about the menu and then tried to rape me with her cookies, cake, and guacamole. I am drawing the line and I will not attend that party next year. I am done and there will be no backing out of it, come what may.

I have finally had my fill.

What To Do; What To Do

The holiday buffets of butter are a compulsive overeater’s deathtrap. A food addict, especially a new one, just cannot handle or tolerate a smorgasbord of croissant-wrapped smokies, bacon greased green bean casserole, and pecan pie. Judas Priest!

I have several of these parties that I am obligated to go to during the holiday season. They are all the same hog trough of goodies and delights. Some things have changed this year. My family and friends are changing their parties to have more healthy food choices. Some are even getting rid of the buffet altogether. The truth is, I never thought anyone would change their traditions for me, so I never bothered asking. They took it upon themselves to make changes and to tell me about it ahead of time in order to relieve my stress.

My friends Paul and Linda are having a healthy vegetarian buffet.
My parents are discontinuing the famous breakfast buffet entirely.

Aunt Bessie is a different story. She is worried that we won’t have dressing and dips for her party. My parents and I talked to her about this party. I didn’t ask her to change her party, but I did say that I would not attend. It’s a daylong buffet event with all the traditional Christmas dinner and appetizers to boot. Here’s a sample menu:

1. Turkey
2. Ham
3. Dressing
4. Turkey gravy
5. Mashed potatoes with cream
6. Sweet potato casserole with glazed pecans
7. Green beans
8. Salad
9. Corn
10. Corn casserole
11. Pecan Pie
12. Pumpkin Pie
13. Cheesecake
14. Peanut brittle
15. Sugar cookies
16. Croissants
17. Chips and salsa
18. Crackers and cream cheese dip
19. Vegetable dip
20. Vegetables
21. Nacho dip with chips

All of this food is out and about all day for a mere eight adults, one teenage girl, and three children. I think my Aunt Bessie is a bit obsessed with food. It’s been this way every year since before I was born. It is another tradition to take that food and make us take it home so we can continue to stuff our gullet. It’s just too much. So I told her that I could not attend these types of parties anymore. I offered to stay at my parents’ home and relax. I really don’t mind doing that. The idea of attending this event is terrifying to me. I have explained (and explained and explained) that these appetizers and other traditional foods are death to me. I literally eat all day long, even after I am stuffed to the gills. I just can’t help myself.

Well she’s decided that she will change her party, a very gracious thing to do. She will have turkey, salad and green beans. She even agreed to leave off the pies, cookies and dips. I couldn’t believe and I didn’t’ believe it. I know my Aunt Bessie and she will say one thing and then do another. That is proving true. She’s decided that we must have dressing and she let is slip that she already made the pecan pie and is making a cheesecake. The cheesecake you see will have Splenda in it and that I should just not eat the crust. Well, I can’t just not eat the crust. It doesn’t work that way for me. Then she announced that she is working on a healthy dip for me. If she were doing it for me, then she wouldn’t do it at all. She keeps saying that she is worried that we will not have enough food to eat. Mind you, no one wants that much food. They have said as much. It’s not really for us; it’s for Aunt Bessie.

We won’t just have turkey and salad and green beans. We will have croissants and pies and dressing and there will be cookies because Heaven knows that the kids need cookies. My Mother already told her that if she makes all that stuff, then it would be the last time Aunt Bessie gets to host the event. I have to say, I kind of like it when other folks stick up for me. It makes me feel loved. I do not like causing controversy with Aunt Bessie. She’s in her late 80’s and I don’t want to upset her, but her food – her love – is killing me and she refuses to stop. I wish all of this didn’t have to revolve around food so much. I wish we could just be together and enjoy one another’s company rather than the food. Company is love. I like that much better.

Christmas is About Love Not Food

I have been worried about the holidays, especially Christmas. This is the super bowl of the year for my family. Christmas is it. We go all out, spend a lot of time together, eat enormous amounts of food, spend more time together, gobble more food, and eventually open presents in a frenzy of paper and ribbon extraction. It is insane and wonderful. We really look forward to it every year.

That is still true, but this year is different in that I am not looking forward to the food. I am, but I’m not. We have several parties and celebrations that are all centered on food and lots of it. My cousins have a huge party and they are some kind of good cooks. That is the first weekend of December. It’s a great time and I love seeing all the extended family, but the food is buffet style and it is nearly incomprehensible.

I’m not going this year and I would love to say that it is because I am strong and I am refraining from parties that have too much of an emphasis on food. I don’t know if I am strong enough to say that and stand up to the family that way. I really want to only for self-preservation, but it’s hard. I hunger for that celebration with family and food. This year I don’t have to give that party up for that reason. I am in school and have too much homework to do. I can’t spend the day driving to another town and spending the day. My wife has a work party (the bosses boss) and that is a must-attend event.

Unfortunately that is like my family parties, just worse. There is food in every room of the house, and every level. There are at least 100 people that attend this work-related event so it’s big. They start cooking two months before hand. The problem is that I can’t get away from the endless buffet tables. They are in every freaking room of the house. So we are choosing to go, fraternize, and then leave. The big boss’ wife makes some delicious desert that is so buttery and addictive that it calls to me weeks before that party happens. I don’t remember the name of it; I call it baked heroine. It’s buttery and gooey, artery clogging, heart stopping, fat building goodness and I don’t need one single piece of it. I don’t know that I can keep out of it, but hopefully we won’t stay long enough for me to eat much of it.

Then comes Aunt Bessie’s party. She cooks enough food two feed 35 people and she expects all 12 of us to eat it all … every morsel. What we don’t eat is forced on us to take home. It consists of the traditional turkey and stuffing dinner with extra sugar and salt. It’s good, mind you, but it is not good for me. It’s laid out in buffet style, of course, and we spend several hours there. I pick and pick at the food, then over eat during the meal, and then pick some more. It is absolute insanity. Then I am forced to take home the food that is bad for me.

On Christmas Day, we get up at the crack of God and open presents – usually around 6 a.m. or so. The kids get up and so we all get up. Afterwards, the rest of the extended family comes over for Christmas Breakfast. This has been a tradition in my family for years and it is a big food extravaganza for at least 15 people, sometimes more. The typical buffet consists of:

Biscuits
Sausage Gravy
Pancakes
Sausage
Bacon
Fried Fresh Side Pork
Ham
Egg Casserole
Fried Eggs
Hash Browns
Fruit
Butter and Jelly
Peanut Butter (for the pancakes)
Milk
Orange Juice
Apple Juice
Syrup

Sometimes we throw in extra goods like banana bread french toast, cinnamon roll french toast or pork chops. Don’t get me wrong; I love every bite sopping up any leftover gravy with a biscuit. And if it were just one meal, then it wouldn’t be a problem. But it’s the last in a long line and it’s becoming dangerous for me. I don’t want to give it up. Like an old friendly blanket, I want to curl up with my biscuits and gravy. I have to draw the line somewhere.

How exactly do I tell my family about my concerns? Do I ask them to change their long traditions for me? That feels selfish, partly because Aunt Bessie has told me so. Others have told me that I can’t avoid the parties. That is wrong. I just have to learn not to overeat. I don’t know how anyone else will feel about me wanting to change these traditions and I don’t want to ruin their Christmas. That’s a lot to ask. They know about my food addiction; maybe I should just let them come to a decision by themselves. What if they don’t? Then what? Controlling my eating has proved a fruitless endeavor. I have been worried about it for some time. I don’t want to the reason. Like the one student in class who ruins it for everyone else.

“Because of one student, boys and girls, we are no longer going to let you do such-and-such. I’m very sorry, but someone has ruined it for the rest of us.” That is a lot of stress and actually makes me want to eat more. That doesn’t work at all. There has to be a better way, but I have not been sure what to do, until recently.

Turns out I didn’t have to say a word. Just expressing my concerns on my blog has yielded results. My family reads my blog, a thought that I try to keep out of my mind so that I am honest in my writing and honest with my audience. I figure it’s my space and if they want to read it then that’s fine, but they can choose not to if they find it hurtful or offensive. Turns out that isn’t true either. I think it has helped my mother and I to have a closer relationship. We talk about things we’ve never discussed before. She came up with the solution on her own and it doesn’t really involve me so much. I haven’t asked them to change anything. I’ve just talked about my concerns. The other day she told me on the phone:

“I do not want you to worry about Christmas. You hear me? You are not to worry about it anymore,” said my mom.

That’s all it takes I guess. I don’t really know what that means. Is she going to make a new breakfast menu or is she going to make me an alternative breakfast? Maybe it’s something I have not thought about. I don’t know, but I’ve decided not to worry about it. She said she’s taking care of it and that’s just going to be enough for me. It feels nice not to have to think about it. I don’t want my Christmas taken up with obsessive thoughts about food.

Christmas is about love and contrary to our cultural traditions, food is not love. Parties are not about food. Celebrations are about family and community, love and peace. I have a hard time with that idea. I want it to be about food just like the next guy, but I can’t do that anymore. I have to change that before anything else can happen.

I’m not worried about food or about what others think. Mom said she will take care of it and I’m going to let her. She’s good at that kind of thing. No one argues when she makes changes in the family. When she says something is a new tradition, then it’s a new tradition and everyone just accepts it. When she says that we are doing something, then everyone does it, like it or not. And they don’t put up a fuss. She wields some kind of super mind manipulation power, kind of like a girl version of Professor X from the comic book and movie franchise, The X-men.

I’m excited about Christmas and about the prospects of not worrying and fretting. It’s about family and that’s exactly what I plan on focusing on. I will be out of school for a month and want to spend my time with my family, not with food. Christmas is about Love and I am determined to keep it focused there.

The First Thanksgiving

Every year we spend Thanksgiving Day with my wife’s family, which is thankfully not the typical engorging binge fest of the traditional type. Always a health conscience family, they instituted a turkey day change many years ago. It’s a wonderful day of family playfulness and Christmas tree decorating, and oh yeah, we have some food too.

A small pot of homemade beef vegetable soup, chili, turkey breast, cheese and crackers and fruit are the main ingredients. There isn’t much more than that. There is usually a pumpkin pie, but it stays hidden for most of the day. Something for which I am indeed thankful.

This year, the family called and asked us what they could do for me. That’s right, they asked. Unlike Aunt Bessie, who is more concerned with her preferences and traditions than anyone elses health, they offered to include or exclude any foods, including the pies. That makes all the difference in the world. I was okay with the pie. I probably shouldn’t be and in truth I probably should have asked if they might go without it, or at least to offer a sugar-free version, but I didn’t. I guess, deep down inside, I really wanted that pumpkin pie. I am concerned for my health, but I still powerless sometimes. I want the smorgasbord just like everyone else.

I did pretty well, except for the pie. There wasn’t stuffing and sweet taters and homemade bread and corn and all that other crap that does me in. That’s important to mentioned. I made changes. I didn’t gorge on all that nonsense. I ate soup and a few pieces of cheese and crackers, veggies and fruit. Pumpkin pie aside, that is still a big change and I celebrate that success. Could be better, but more importantly it could have been much worse. I could have chosen to … well you know.

I’m feeling pretty good about this holiday season, so far. It’s only just gotten started, but I am optimistic and ready to plan for it.

It's Not All Success

Busy nights are always a deadly trap for me. We had parent-teacher conferences and didn’t have time to make supper beforehand as it started at 5:30 p.m. When we left, it was dark outside because of the end of daylight savings time and we were hungry. We decided to … celebrate our child’s excellent report card.

I still have a way to go in my search for healthy eating behaviors. It’s a long and treacherous road and some days are better than others. Last night was not such a good night. I had salad, soup and sushi, so that’s a pretty healthy choice. A much better choice than say a country staple (and personal favorite of mine) chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and gravy, corn and rolls.

The real issue is that fact that I used food as a celebration. Here I go, criticizing others for brining me food and always having elaborate parties centered around food and yet I run out and celebrate a good report card with food. That’s a problem for me and one paradigm that is some kind of hard habit to break.

It’s one thing to refuse to attend someone else’s party because it centers around food or has too much food just sitting on tables and crying out to be eaten and sit in the comforts of a warm belly. It’s another to tell yourself “no” when it’s your little party and you want to celebrate with dinner out.

Dinner out. That is the thing, isn’t it? Many of our cultural rituals center on eating. Some tell me that I just have to learn to deal with those parties because they are going to come up. Yeah, I don’t really like that answer. I think it’s a cop out and is only valid so long as I accept it.

A Helpful Halloween

Halloween was my first Holiday since making my rules and changing my life, and I was nervous about it. We had a party to go to at the house of some friends from college. We tend to fix really nice meals and I was scared that I would eat myself stupid.

Didn’t happen. First of all, as soon as I got there our friend (and nurse practitioner) Kimmie came up to me and handed me a special package. It had sugar free chocolates and a pedometer. She smiled so sweetly and said that she had been reading this blog.

I was surprised. Not surprise that she would do such a thing, but I was just taken aback by the whole thing. I am used to how Aunt Bessie responds and tend to assume everyone will respond the same. This was the first party that we didn’t have tables of food. It was wonderful. We had a pot of soup, nuts, a few snacks (but not many) a few cupcakes, a mincemeat pie and a pile of apples.

I will say that I eyed that pie and those pretzels dipped in almond bark, but I didn’t do it. I had something sugar chocolates for me, soup and some apples. That was enough. I did it. I didn’t eat the pie; I didn’t even cut a sliver. I didn’t have a cupcake. I did enjoy a few nuts, but that was it.

It helped knowing that my friend cared enough to have something for me. I didn’t expect it and I didn’t ask for it. That’s the best part. She just did because she knew and as a medical practitioner she wants to see me succeed in my weight loss. It’s nice to have friends who care and who get it, or at least try to get it. This group does. These friends are very supportive. We encourage and stick up for each other, and genuinely love and care for one another.

A few days later, Halloween came by. I had three pieces of Halloween candy on that night, but that’s all. I didn’t beat myself up over it. I feel good that I didn’t eat a pound of Butterfingers. Interestingly enough, as soon as that night ended, the basket of goodies disappeared. My lovely wife hid them and then took them to work the next day.

My daughter’s candy is hidden in the house somewhere. I don’t ask and I don’t search. I don’t really think about it. I have my own snacks which I enjoy such as smoothies, gala apples, yogurt and some sugar free frozen treats in the freezer. A lot of folks don’t have a spouse that is supportive of weight loss. I’m lucky that I do. It was a good Halloween. One holiday down and two more to go. We have lots of parties this time of year: family, work, and other events. I still haven’t decided what to do about those.

Damn The Pusher Man

I called Aunt Bessie to check on her persistent cough the other day. I think it is due to allergies, but she doesn’t believe in such things. Allergies exist only in one’s head, which includes allergies to cats and food. My poor brother-in-law is weak because he can’t be around cats. I suppose those puffy eyes and inability to breathe is really just some character flaw rather than a medical condition. We talked for a minute and then she mentioned the letter I sent her:

“I got your letter,” she said to me in a pleasant voice.

“Oh yeah?” I responded. I said nothing more about it, giving her the chance to talk only if she chose.

“I went to the store today,” she responded. And here it comes my friends. Hatches are securely battoned down. “I bought some chicken thighs like you had the other day.”

Says I: “uh huh.”

“I won’t bring them to you.”

My God, the letter worked? I am actually making progress? She gets it; she really gets it? I was so hopeful until she made her real intensions known. She found a loophole in my rule and is just letting me know who is the real boss.

“I won’t bring them down there. You can come here to get them. I know you like them; they are the same kind you cooked the other day.”

That’s how it begins. First it starts with some healthy food that I can have, and then she will bring the cookies and cakes too and if you take one then you have to take it all and then the cycle degenerates into the same habits of old. Doesn’t Steppenwolf have a song about this?

“Yeah, well, I uh, well … Aunt Bessie we’ve decided to not accept any food or groceries from anyone. That just makes it easier. It’s too hard otherwise.” I thought that was a good response to her – proper, kind and still keeping my ground.

“I know it’s hard,” she says. “I guess that’s what you have to do … for now.” I didn’t fall for it this time. “Soon you will get in the habit and lose a little bit of weight and then you can break over.”

Break over? Isn’t that the problem with weight loss? We work hard, lose a bit of weight, then we get tired, give in and gain back the weight plus a few more pounds to boot? She’s not talking about my losing weight. She’s talking, deep down inside, about her compulsive desire to feed me. If she just waits me out she will be able to feed me again, just like the old days, and then she can have the life she wants – not the life that is healthy for me. She’s prepared to sabotage me later on the down the road and just letting me know about it. It’s always been this way with her.

No one understands that except my family. Everyone in our family gets Aunt Bessie. We know how she works and are used to it. She doesn’t show those sides to people outside the family. To the rest of the world she presents as the finest, most caring little old lady with lots of spunk. That cute spunk to the rest of the world is translated to control and domination to the immediate family. My parents, sister, other aunt, several cousins and her siblings see it, but no one else does. The domination is something one has to experience to truly understand.

I don’t know what’s harder: resisting my eating addiction or resisting the relentless pursuit to ensure my health failure by my Aunt Bessie. She is bound and determined to watch me fall flat on my fat and wallow in my own utter inability to control my hunger.

That’s how it feels anyway, but the truth is it really has less to do with my failure and more to do with her desire to wield control over me. She is more concerned with her feelings than my health. It is all about control. The only rules to be made are those that she imposes on others. She doesn’t take kindly to anyone else setting rules, even if those rules do not affect her directly.

In some very dysfunctional way, she enjoys seeing others struggle and fail. It gives her a sense of peace knowing that she is in utter control of her life while we are not in control of ours, giving her fodder to discuss our shortcomings when and with whom she chooses. Usually that discussion is held until there is a audience around, with you standing aside and taking the lashing by her cat-of-nine-tails.

My making a rule about only eating healthy food and ridding my own home of junk food is perceived as an affront to her. We need sugar. My daughter needs sugar. She will miss out on needed vitamins and minerals. Forget about the fact that cookies and gravy contain no essential minerals and nutrients. We need them, by golly, and I am depriving my daughter of these things. She will become malnourished if she doesn’t get cakes and chicken fried steaks.

But Aunt Bessie is determined. She has made known that it will be okay for me to break over soon and she expects me to return to my old ways. And who will be there during my weak times, when I am ready to give up and succumb to my urges to gorge, but my old pusher, Aunt Bessie, with a basket full of biscuits and gravy, and a cobbler or two. Then she will have her old eating buddy back and all will be right with the world.

My Skinny Goggles

I am tired of being obsessed with food and my weight. The oppression, the perseveration of thought is overwhelming. I am always thinking about what I’ve eaten, what I’m eating, or more often than not, what I am going to eat.

Focusing on losing weight does not address the issue at all. It simply moves the obsession from one thing (eating) to something else (not eating). The constant barrage of food is still there. The scale, that godforsaken piece of plastic, is nothing more than another reminder of food, triggering one to not eat, or is some circumstances triggering a frustrated response to gorge.

I hate the damn thing and yet that is how we – the doctors, our friends and family, the world, weight loss programs – gauge the fat guys progress. Oh they also use the fabric tape to measure that belly and man boobs, but that is the same thing – just a flatter, more flexible version of the weight scale. We take before and after pictures and measure our success through those skinny goggles.

I’m tired of substituting one obsession for another. I’m tired of thinking about weight all the time. I want to be free of it all. I don’t have to weigh or measure or gauge my success through traditional means. After all, my goal really isn’t to lose weight at all. I am okay in my big skin. It’s my health that I am concerned about. My fat is the standard by which everyone else measures me, but it is not how I measure myself.

I’m done with scales and fabric tapes. I’m done with before-and-after pictures, and with proving that I am successful at weight loss. I don’t really care about losing weight; I care about being healthier and making healthier choices. That’s it. I’ve had it with all this nonsense – the stress caused by losing weight and the devastating and destructive feelings when I gain it back.

The rest of the world can measure my success through my size if they wish. It doesn’t really bother me. That’s how it is when folks wear their skinny goggles. That’s okay. People are supportive and I accept their good vibes however they decide to offer them. But my response will not be the same.

“Hey, Jack. You’ve lost weight,” say they.
“Oh yeah, maybe.”
“How much have you lost,” they will ask.
“I don’t know; I don’t keep track anymore.”
“You don’t keep track?” they will ask.
“Nah. I don’t think about it anymore. I just try to do my best.”

It will probably make some uncomfortable and I may find myself having to explain the idea. I don’t mind that either. People want to learn about things they don’t understand, and if I don’t answer their questions, then I may be helping to further fat discrimination. Can’t do that. So I’ll be patient and just tell them how it works, if they really want to know.

My focus is on my own healthy choices. I am not, like many new religious converts, out to change everyone to my own ideology. Although I do recognize that in order for me to have personal success, then I may need those very close to me to make some changes too. But I’m not out to help other fat people to lose weight, change their lifestyle, or take off their skinny goggles. I’m focused on me and that entails several things, which require a few more rules.

RULE 1: Focus on Healthy Choices
RULE 2: No Sweets in the House
RULE 3: Do Not Accept Groceries from Anyone
RULE 4: Do Not Keep Track of Weight Loss
RULE 5: No More Scales or Fabric Tapes

In order to focus on healthy choices, I need to have an exercise plan, which I do. The best way to make life-changing habits is to form an action plan that makes specific statements that are declarative and positive.

MY GOALS
I will exercise five days a week. (bicycling or walking)
I will practice my martial arts during breaks from school.
I will drink herbal tea every night, which helps my stress.
I will study hard, but B’s are okay.
I will make healthy food choices at home and at restaurants.
I will eat until I am full. (It’s okay to leave food on my plate.)

I still haven’t decided what to do about Thanksgiving (which is now less than a month away) and Christmas (which will sneak up on me and bite me in the hindquarters if I am not careful). It’s time I thought about how to make healthy choices at these horrible, holiday diabetic death traps. I’ll have to give it more thought and talk with my supportive team of family and friends.

The First Supper

We had Sunday lunch with Aunt Bessie last weekend. It was the first time to eat out with her since she received my letter. I was a bit nervous about it, which of course makes me want to eat. She had asked us if we were still going to eat out, considering all the changes, but we assured her that we would.

For all the pressure and conflicting messages she sends, she is family and we love her. Sunday lunch is our time together and she adores seeing our daughter. So I don’t want to change that if I don’t have to. She may be my pusher, but I don’t want to push her out of our life; I just want to change a few things. That’s all.

She was great. She didn’t bring any food with her. She did offer that she had food at the house, but we declined and that was that. I think she was dearly afraid that we would pull the plug on the Sunday lunch and that would crush her. While I have no intent to do that, I am not above using that against her to encourage more positive behaviors.

It worked pretty well and we had a nice lunch. I made a good choice for lunch. I had chicken fajitas and a salad. Well, I suppose the fajitas are not the best choice, but I made a better choice than I would have. I typically would choose fried something-or-other, steak and taters, or ribs. So fajitas were a step in the right direction. They tend to have a lot of oil on them, but that fight is for another day. I am proud that I left food on my plate.

I ate until I was full and then I quit. That’s a big deal for me. Skinny folks don’t understand that. My stomach may think it is full, but my brain seems to send me signals that indicate that I am still hungry. It’s the weirdest feeling, really. I don’t get it. My body is full, but I don’t feel full. I still feel hungry. There is a deeper hunger I guess.

To me, feeling full does not feel good. There is no satisfaction in full. The contentment comes with feeling overfull, stuffed, and almost miserable. That is the good stuff, baby. Oh yeah, that is when I feel happy and peaceful and so that is what I do. It’s a messed up process; I don’t question that. I have a hard time articulating the sensations, but they are strong.

For a first Sunday lunch after the letter, things went well. I can’t anticipate the end of the honeymoon stage, but I can plan for what I think may be the worst of it: the name-calling, the anger, the incessant lecture and the guilt of punishing my daughter for my diabetes.

This last Sunday was nice and it feels good to focus on that for a while and remember when she was respectful of my eating addiction and my wishes. Aunt Bessie did comment that it would take us all to help me. That sure seems like a step in the right direction. She’s right about that. I can’t do this alone and I desperately need my family’s support.

I am considering going to an Overeaters Anonymous meeting. They have several to choose from in my area. Don’t know much about it except that the 12-step program has helped many alcoholics and it may help me too.

Even the 6-Year-Old Gets It

An effective home, like an effective classroom, should be a safe, inviting environment. Major decisions should be discussed with everyone and made clear in the beginning. Including all participants in the decision making process allows everyone to take ownership of those decision – ensuring pride and lessoning dissenters.

My wife and I have been talking about new rules in our home such as not keeping sweets around. Culturally that is pretty hard. In Jack culture it’s even worse as my family has strong roots in food and feeding. My Aunt Bessie is quite convinced that refusing to have sweets of all kinds in our home is a direct punishment against our 6-year-old daughter for my having diabetes. I maintain that my daughter would gladly give up cookies in order to keep Daddy alive longer, but I never actually asked her – until last night.

My wife was reading her some Halloween books and when they finished, I sat down and wanted to talk. I told my daughter that sweet treats like cookies and pies and cakes make Daddy sick and Mom and I were thinking about making some rules … that’s about as far as I got. She chimed right in with her own idea:

“I got an idea. How about … a rule that says no more sugar.”

There it is, all laid out on the table. She stated that she’s heard us talk about this, but we have never discussed it with her. Actually I was surprised that she picked up on our conversations, but I shouldn’t be. She has a wonderful command of the English language at her age and she understands a great deal. So I asked her if she was okay with this – that it meant we wouldn’t keep cookies and cake in the house anymore and she didn’t seem to mind. She took pride in the fact that the rule was her idea and we gave her the credit. She offered to help remind family of our rule. This includes Aunt Bessie who tries to sneak snacks to my kiddo when we aren’t looking. A child who takes ownership in the rule will then enforce the rule willingly, at least in most cases.

Now I doubt this will deter Aunt Bessie in any way. She is nothing if not persistent. The more you tell her no, the harder and longer she pushes until she gets an inch. Then she pushes for that mile. It’s just her nature and her brothers and sisters attest that she’s always been turned that way. However, we have a unified front – our own version of nationalism I guess. She was included and made up her own mind and that is important.

This rule is important to our household; it may very well be the most important rule our home puts in place. It’s about my health and longevity, not about deprivation and punishment. My 6-year-old gets it. The elder Aunty, a teacher of 33-years with a Master’s degree doesn’t. How about that?

Fatty Fatty, Two-By-Four, Throw Those Cookies Out The Door

Apparently, I am one selfish son-of-a-biscuit-eater for no longer allowing sugary sweets in my home. You see we recently came up with some household rules to help me curb my dangerous eating habits. Well, it’s actually just one rule right now, but it’s a big one:

Rule 1: No Sweets

This includes, but is not limited to: cookies, cakes, pies, cobblers, tarts, turnovers, ice cream, scones, chocolate chip muffins, yummy fudge brownies, gooey raspberry butter cake, any form of Andy’s Frozen Custard including the diabetic coma known as the Andy’s Turtle, and any other diabetic deathtrap that is slowly but surely kicking my rear end toward an early grave.

I make concessions. We do keep sugar free treats in the home for me and I also have a nice new blender (thanks to the supportive parents) in which I can make healthy yet satisfying smoothies. We are not, however, keeping junk in the home. I can’t stay out of that tasty crap so we have to rid our home lives of them. I understand that temptations lie everywhere, but we can control what goes into our home. Sugar and junk has to go.

This rule is not going over well with my number one drug pusher and matriarch of our family – Aunt Bessie. (The name has been changed to protect the guilty from loving and caring friends and family who may seek to punish her for her evil deeds.) She has reprimanded me openly for my sugar-free decision. I’ve tried such rules in the past, you see, but she has managed to wear me down and lure me back for my drugs (chocolate and other sugary badness). Pushers do that and she has a remarkable ability to rapidly grind even the strongest rock into sand. I am much easier in that I am a bit weak when it comes to goodies. Wave them in front of me and I won’t be able to resist for long. She is nothing if not persistent – to a painful and terrorizing fault.

I am making the attempt to set the rule again in order to preserve my life. That whole fatty liver thing really isn’t a good deal. Like many times before when I have tried to do this, I received the same old speech. The cookies aren’t for me; they are for the baby. The baby, mind you, is 6 years old and doesn’t need to be hopped up on cookies or candy either. I’m sure my child would gladly give up snicker doodles to have Daddy around for an extra 10 years. And really, I don’t think it should be a big deal. A person can live a healthy life having never again eaten a piece of pie or a cookie. Not that I won’t have one now and again, but I’m just saying that it’s healthy to not have them ever again.

Nothing would do Aunt Bessie but to let me know that this decision to rid our lives of surgery sweets is “selfish” on my part. “That baby needs a little sugar,” said the former school teacher. No kidding. She actually calls me selfish and argues that my daughter needs more sugar. She also argues that I also need more sugar. It is obvious that a diabetic needs to ingest more sugar. Nine out of 10 unlicensed, third-world doctors say so.

It’s a ridiculous argument, but she makes it with fervor and intent anyway and somehow I come back feeling guilty for depriving my daughter. Not this time. This time I am mad as thunder and I have a blog.

It has been three days since my gallbladder surgery and I am recovering well. I feel good and only have moderate discomfort. My Mom has been staying with us to help out while my wife is at work during the day. Mom cooked supper tonight. Dad drove up from Branson and we invited Aunt Bessie.

She brought over food; imagine that. It’s her third grocery delivery in three days. I had to explain to my Mother that a thrice-a-week food delivery is common place. Aunt Bessie brings food at least twice a week every single week. If we are not there, she leaves food on the front porch.

One time she came by on a Saturday and we were really busy working on the chores. She was mad that we declined the food. So she left it in the garage but didn’t tell us. A week later we had this smell in the garage. I couldn’t figure out what it was. There was no trash in the garage. I thought maybe an animal got in and died. Finally I found the stashed food in a chair we have stored in the garage. It was rotting and leaking and stinking up the whole house. Just a normal week in the loving world of Aunt Bessie.

Three days after my gallbladder surgery, Aunt B made her third delivery of jellies, jams, three loaves of bread, some various other items I can’t remember, and two containers of homemade cookies. Those I remembered. I know to check the bags first thing for contraband and we found them. I asked her about the cookies and she said they were for my parents … and the baby. That part was said in muffled tones. Well she got jumped by my Dad who is trying to protect me from what he knows is bad for me. He tells her that I don’t need those cookies and that she shouldn’t bring them into the house. She is mad and puts them back in her basket, but she’s not done. There is much more drama to come. Stay tuned.

After dinner there is much cleaning up – up to five people in one kitchen. That’s too many in my kitchen mind you, but I can let that go. Aunt Bessie comes up, leans against the counter and in one breath she utters:

“We need to do something about this liver … what did he call it … this fatty liver. You have got to get that weight off.”

When the surgeon took out my ballbladder he informed my family that my liver was fatty and I needed to lose weight. He is right about that. I do and I am trying, but it’s pretty hard when my family brings over unhealthy food choices. After dinner she leaves, mad that I won’t take the cookies. Dad, being the gentlemen, escorts her to the car. In the driveway, Aunt Bessie gives him the extra package of cookies (about a dozen of them or so) and says to him:

“Here, take these cookies back in there.”

She was refused and left in quite a huff. Dad came back in all flustered. I guess he’s in dutch with Aunt Bessie. To hear him tell it, he explained in no uncertain terms that she cannot continue to bring over junk food and sugary sweets. He refused to take the cookies back into my home. To which she replied, get this: “I can’t believe he’s punishing the baby for his diabetes.” They exchanged more words that he didn’t share, but I can imagine how it went as this isn’t the first time we’ve had an argument over this issue.

Dad didn’t intend on telling me, but I knew something was up. They were outside too long and he looked irritated when he came back in. So I persisted until he told me what happened. It hurt me at first and at last, but in all that space in the middle, it just made me furious. Somehow, in an attempt to regulate our own home and control my eating addiction, the whole thing gets turned around and we become the bad guys. Shame on us for refusing her food, even if it’s bad for me. Shame on us for making ridiculous rules that punish my child for my lack of self-control. Shame on the alcoholics for getting treatment – those selfish butt holes. Shame on my being fat.

The last time I tried to makes these rules Aunt Bessie got very angry with me. The conversation went something like this:

Says Aunt Bessie: “Take this, eat this, try this, keep this,” or some other variation.

“No thanks, Auntie B. I can’t have that.”

“It’s not for you; it’s for the baby,” she will say.

“No thanks, Auntie B. We don’t keep that kind of food in the house.”

“Well I don’t see why.”

“Because it’s bad for me and I can’t keep out of it.”

“It’s not for you; it’s for the baby. She can have it.”

“Aunt B, I can’t keep out of it, so we don’t keep it in the house. Besides, the baby doesn’t need it either.”

“Everyone needs a little sugar everyday. She needs some sugar. You have to have a bit of everything.”

“We have decided not to have this kind of food in the house anymore. It’s not good for us.”

“Well you are being selfish, not letting that baby have this. She needs it.”

It will go on like this for 30 minutes or more, back and forth, the great discussion of food. And when she gets ready to leave I have to watch her. She will stash the food or try to sneak it to my daughter or my wife. My wife puts up with it, but it’s hard for her. She gets very angry over this, but she does a good job keeping her cool. Aunt Bessie is on my side of the family and so my wife restrains herself. I don’t think that’s going to last much longer as my wife has just about had her fill of it.

Now you might think that a rational compromise would be to give her a list of good, healthy food that she could deliver. You would be right in most instances, but not in this one. Aunt Bessie, like myself, is obsessed with food – addicted really. Her addiction comes in the form of feeding. I am addicted to eating and she is addicted to feeding. She loves to see people eat her food and is compulsive about it. She has some narcissistic and oppositional defiant tendencies. Telling her no, will guaranty the opposite reaction and next time it will be with more persistence and anger. It becomes a game of power and control and she will work to win.

Offering a compromise only places rules in her way and she will find ways to break those rules. She will spend weeks and months bringing over contraband just to prove that she can. God help you if you ever take it, because that means she wins and only encourages her. It’s an experience that cannot really be shard in words or conversation. It is an event that must be experienced in order to truly appreciate.

For example, if apples and fresh vegetables are on the list of compromises, she will bring a five pound bag of apples found on sale, 3 cans of apple pie filling, 2 jugs of cheap, sugar-added fruit punch, four containers of sugar added apple sauce, an out-of-date bell pepper, six onions found on sale, sweet relish, and a whole apple pie for my daughter. Her excuse will be that it is all fruit and doesn’t have any sugar in it – “not enough to hurt you.” The apple pie is for my wife and daughter, although my wife doesn’t like pie and Aunty knows that and a six-year-old doesn’t need a whole pie. She brought apples so it’s okay and I have to take everything. This will happen for each of the two to three trips she will make every week. Every single freaking week until the end of time.

The worst part is that I know there are people in this city and state who are starving. There are people who would eat every single morsel of food she brought and thank her up and down. I am thankful for my Aunt Bessie. I love her dearly and spend time with her every week, but I am a fat man. I cannot eat like someone who is starving. My problem is that too often I eat like a starving person. I have to have different rules. I appreciate the effort she puts in, but the effort is not about helping us. At the core, her drive to give goodies is about her own obsession with food and more specifically, it’s an obsession with feeding and control. She and I have some things in common as I think my eating addiction is related to control as well. It just manifests itself in other ways.

So here I am. I have an eating addiction on one hand and an aggressive pusher on the other and I don’t know what to do about it. After last night’s cookie fiasco, my wife cleaned out the fridge and freezer, ridding us of all the junk that Aunt Bessie has brought over – sugary treats, junk food, food that is expired to begin with, junk that is near rotten when it arrives, or food that no one in our home will eat. All in all it ended up to be three trash bags and three grocery sacks full of food that is either inedible at the best or killing me at worst. Some can be shared with neighbors, but I must confess that it’s hard for me to reject food being brought into my home only to turn around and force it on others.

Pictured above: The food that we purged just
from our freezer. The majority are items that
Aunt Bessie has brought over, but are
out-of-date or just foods that we don't eat. Three
trash bags and three shopping bags full.

I don’t need lectures about my fatty liver. I have all kinds of fatty things on or in my body. I don’t need those close to me purposefully being stumbling blocks. I just need some support from those who love me and maybe some ground rules. So I guess in the end we have formed two rules that are related to one another:

Rule 1: No Sweets
Rule 2: Do Not Accept Groceries From Other People

We’ve tried everything. I’ve talked to Aunt Bessie. The surgeon talked to Aunt Bessie. Mom and Dad have talked to Aunt Bessie. We scolded, we’ve begged and pleaded, and we’ve been rude. Nothing seems to work.

So I’m writing her a letter and I told my Dad so. He’s scared of the fall out and so am I, but I don’t know what else to do with her. She just won’t listen to anyone. She won’t concede and she won’t give in. her relentless pursuit of a empty stomach has always stopped with me and today I am taking a stand. I say no more food. We’ve cleaned our appliances out, arranged the cabinets and battened down the hatches. We are prepared for war against all those who seek to inject me with deep fat fried snicker’s bars and home made cobblers. (Oh God, those sound so good.)

I am a food addict and I am tired of sitting down in front of the hog trough to feast on my own slow, buttery death. I am comfortable with a grey world, but in this instance I am taking a more black and white approach. I’m sticking to these two rule like barbecue sauce to ribs.

I wrote the letter the day after the cookie incident. I typed it, signed it, sealed it, stamped it and put it out at the mailbox before I could change my mind. I don’t know that it will do any good, but I have to try. Besides, writing about it makes me feel better. Here is the letter I sent to Aunt Bessie:

Saturday, October 21, 2006

Dear Aunt Bessie,

I love you and I need your help.

I am overweight and it is doing my body harm. I know my gallbladder surgeon told you as much, referring to my fatty liver. He wants me to undergo radical weight loss surgery (gastric bypass) in order to control my weight. I am considering the weight loss surgery option, but first I am trying to lose the weight on my own.

That is where I need your help.

I am struggling to lose weight and control my eating. It is a very difficult road for me as I love to eat. My problem is made worse when other people bring food into my house that is bad for me. Cookies, cakes, cobblers, pies, turnovers, tarts and other sugary treats are tasty but they are slowly killing me. Those foods are making my diabetes worse and pushing me toward an early death. I don’t want to end up like Uncle Jerry and die in my 60’s, leaving a wife and young adult behind. Yet, that is what is happening.

I love you very much, but when you bring these things into my house you are being a stumbling block to me. I stumble enough on my own and I don’t need others to trip me up. I need my family to support me. That means I need your help.

I appreciate your help and sometimes I need your help, but in this case I have to tell everyone around me not to bring me food. I am asking everyone – my friends and family – to stop bringing me food of any kind. It seems to be the only way that I can control the food in my home. People have trouble determining what is the right type of food to bring me. So I ask that they bring nothing.

I know you have objections to me not allowing sugary sweets in my home. I know that you believe me to be selfish by insisting that our home is sugar-free. I acknowledge that you feel that I am punishing my wife and daughter for my diabetes. You have made those concerns perfectly clear to me on more than one occasion.

However, I have spoken to my wife and daughter about your concerns. We had decided, as a family, to rid our home of these treats that tempt me and fuel my eating obsession. Therefore, I am asking that you no longer bring any food to my home. It is too hard for me and I don’t want to worry about it any longer.

I know you love me and my family dearly. We love you very much too. You have been so helpful to us over the years. You fed me in college and have helped us with so many things throughout our marriage. I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me and my family. We sincerely appreciate what you do for us.

I have to ask you to do something else. It will be hard, I know. It will be hard for us to. But if I am to get my weight under control so that I can live healthier and longer, then there must be sacrifices. I have to make sacrifices; my wife and daughter must make sacrifices. My entire family must make a few sacrifices. Not bringing food to my home must be one of those sacrifices. There may be others that I ask of you later on. I don’t know. But I ask you now to pray for me, and help me by making this change and also being willing to make other changes later on, if it’s required.

My family and I are ready to make changes and try our best. There may be times that I am very successful and there may be times that I am not successful. But I cannot have people who love me tempting me. Just because I run into unsuccessful times does not mean I wish to give up. You may or may not see me losing weight, but that does not mean that I am not trying. You may witness me making a poor choice someday. That does not mean that I have given up or that it’s okay to bring food into my home again. The Japanese have a saying: Even monkeys fall from trees. That will happen to me. But please be strong for me and remember not to tempt me by offering me treats or bringing food into my home.

You are the matriarch of our family and you set the tone of the family. People watch what you do and follow your lead. If you bring me food or offer sugary treats at family functions, then others will do the same. If you follow Christ and do not tempt me then others will do as you do. I need you to set the example by which the rest of my family should act.

I need you to help me because I cannot seem to do it alone. I ask you to pray about this and pray for me. I love you very much and I need your help. Please do not bring food to our home.

With the deepest love and sincerest appreciation:

Jack

Liver and Onions

I had my gallbladder surgery and it went very well. I couldn’t have asked for a smoother surgery. Right after my surgery the doctor came out and spoke to the family: my wife, parents, an aunt, my pastor and, of course Aunt Bessie.

He assured them the surgery went well and showed them the pictures of my gallbladder. As he did when I saw him for a surgery consult, he didn’t focus on the gallbladder at all. During our office visit he talked about my weight and asked me to consider weight loss surgery. During his after-surgery pow-wow with my family he discussed my terrible, fatty liver. That shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone. I am fat and that’s not saying anything that the average Joe couldn’t deduce on his own.

He reiterated to them that I needed to get the weight off. According to him, if I lost 100 pounds then my diabetes would be cured and I would have no health problems. As one pointed out, I would also be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, enforce world peace and cure cancer. He’s a cutter and cutters like to cut. That’s what they do. They like to fix you. I’m not convinced at this point that weight loss surgery is all it’s cracked up to be. You have to stick to a strict dietary regiment. If I could do that, then I wouldn’t have an eating addiction in the first place. I am having a hard time figuring how weight loss surgery will fix that. At least that is today. Tomorrow I may be more in favor of it. I go back and forth.

The funny part is Aunt Bessie really wants me to lose weight. She loves to mention my eating habits at parties and in front of other people. Then she hands me a chicken fried steak and gravy, salad with sugar hidden in it, corn with salt and sugar, fresh baked rolls and a hunk of pie, which is really more akin to a quarter of a pie. She does all this with a smile and love and all the while being overweight herself. Food is love and I still need to do something about that fatty liver of mine.

A Curious Thing – This Blog Business

It’s an interesting thing, this weight blog. I’ve had a few surprising telephone calls in the last couple of weeks. Family and friends have called to talk with me. It usually starts out with something like:

“I’ve been reading your blog,”

or

“Hey, I’ve, um, just finished getting updated on your blog.”

Something of that nature, anyway. Some have called to talk about my weight issues and offered help. Some have called to share their own stories of weight control or food addictions. Weight is a funny thing. People wish to talk about it, but they are so afraid to hurt the BIG person’s feelings, so they don’t address it. I understand that because weight can be, and often times is, a source of embarrassment for those with BIGness.

The skinny world may find it surprising that the embarrassment may not lie in the size of the person, as is my case. True, many out there are ashamed of the way they look. There are eating disorders centered around a person’s view of him or herself, but that should not be assumed as the case for all living a BIG life. The embarrassment for me is a deeper connection with the addiction itself. It has more to do with the reasons that I over eat and my inability to overcome that physical need to eat and the psychological reasons for the compulsion.

I have never wanted to discuss my weight before as the shame and embarrassment was much too strong for me to bear or to discuss out loud. I haven’t wanted to talk about it with my wife, my friends, my family or most importantly, myself. That is, I haven’t wanted to discuss it in a meaningful, deep, introspective, or powerful way. I have always been comfortable talking about weight on a superficial level. I can joke about weight – mine and others – and I can talk about being fat (or if you prefer: BIG, heavy, husky, solid, large, robust, obese, whatever your preference).

Discussing my eating, and the causes behind it, has been off limits to everyone including myself. It was an unspoken thing and most people, except one of my grandmothers who has no boundaries, have understood. One day that changed. There was no real catalyst or trigger point that I can point to as the defining moment of clarity. In a rare instance, something life changing crept up on me and is still creeping (and creepy for that matter). The time has just come, I guess, for me to explore myself. It isn’t a real exploration of myself so much as it’s a quest to finally choose to drop my facades and become free from my internal shame. The time has come for me to be open with myself, and those close to me. Unfortunately for me, there is no real way to do that without being overwhelmingly candid about me as a person, my life, and my experiences.

I am finding some peace by not confining the discussion – the sharing of the information – with only my small, intimate circles. There is something powerful happening with the sharing myself on a global level. It is very uncomfortable and strange, yet freeing at the same time.

I think part of it is that I am a writer and as such I am used to putting things down on paper; I am comfortable with the sound of the keyboard and the visual characters on the screen. That is a natural place for me to express myself. Writing is not only natural but also compulsive for me in many ways. It would only make sense for me to explore my eating addiction through the written word. I have shared my work before, through my poetry, prose, and newspaper reporting. However, those are either fictional, controlled, or about someone or something else. This journey is different, in that it is autobiographical. Everything I write is about me, my experiences, or my friends and family. People can be hurt; I can be hurt. That makes the sojourn both treacherous and exciting.

I haven’t written in a long time since, basically since I left the newspaper. I have made some feeble attempts, but they were fleeting. My word pool was drained and my desire to write was overridden by my disdain for the media. Now I am at a place where words are flowing and thoughts are bubbling and I can’t seem to contain myself. I am carrying my journal again, which I haven’t done in years. Things are changing and I feel a bit hesitant, but the journey goes on without out me. I’m not sure that I could stop it now even if I choose to.

The blog, the thing that is the blogosphere, has contributed to my change. The blog has acted as a trigger point allowing me to find myself again – find my writer again. So maybe I am wrong when I say that nothing significant has happened to start my rebirth. It has come on slow, but it could very well be that my blog is that which has allowed me to think and feel and breathe and write again.

I am thinking and sharing and talking about my weight, and I’m sharing it with the world, and in essence I am sharing it with myself. I am finding that there are many out there who secretly battle with fat. Like myself, they seem quiet about their weight. This powerful phenomenon of sharing myself using the written word is somehow transferred to others. They feel free to contact me and talk about my weight, their weight and BIGness in general. I am discovering how my weight affects others, how other people view themselves. I didn’t expect that. I’m not sure what I expected, but I didn’t expect the phone calls from others. Quite frankly I didn’t really expect anyone to read the blog, as it’s just about me and not humorous or political.

I’m happy that I am finding a readership that seems to need this information, even if it’s just my friends or family. I didn’t plan the blog to help anyone and wasn’t sure it would help me, but I’m glad it’s doing both. If nothing else, I am glad that it’s opening the door for folks to discuss weight with me – theirs or mine. I am becoming comfortable with sharing my weight problems and food addiction with those who are interested. With each sentence things seem differently. I’m not sure how to describe the feeling, but maybe that will come with time. For now, I will share and open the communications for others to share as well. Maybe we can all help each other. It’s no longer taboo. We’ll just talk and think and see what happens.

You can contact me by leaving comments on the blog, calling me or emailing me. If you’ve always wanted to know about weight, then now’s the time to ask or share your own experiences. For those of you who have contacted me, I have enjoyed speaking with you.

'I've Been Reading Your Blog'

My Mother called me yesterday and gave me quite a fright, at first.

“Hello,” say I.
“Hi, honey,” says Mom. “I-‘ve b-e-en r-e-a-d-i-n-g y-o-u-r b-l-o-g.”

And right there I knew she wasn’t talking about INCONCEIVABLE, my shared movie blog, or FAT JACKS ERRATIC RANTS where I’ve been discussing some politics lately. She was talking about my new weight-related writings.

Talking about my addiction with my Mother is a lot like have the condom discussion we had when I was 16-years-old. One Saturday afternoon, Mom and Dad called me into the living room. They were sitting on the hearth of the fireplace, not on the couch or chair, but on the fireplace. It wasn’t cold out.

All I could think of at the time was “Oh God, I’m caught.” Now I didn’t know what they had caught me doing, but I was sure they found something out. As it turns out, I had been doing plenty of things of which to be punished; I just didn’t know which one was coming.

Much to my chagrin my Mother wanted to talk about condoms. It was horrifying. I wasn’t used to the sex talk with my parents so the idea was quite uncomfortable. I could imagine them pulling one out and blowing it up or maybe getting a cucumber and demonstrating its use for me. My father said nothing. He just stared at the ground. My Mother asked me if I knew what a condom was. This was our first real sex talk and at 16 it was too late. I was aware of the item known as a latex condom, thank you very much. She, of course, also asked if I knew how to use and what it was for. That was the line my friends, which I did not wish to cross. I am glad we had this little talk but I am so out of here. The stomach wasn’t happy with the circumstances then and I had that familiar feeling this time as well.

“I’ve been reading your blog. And, well, um, I, well honey, I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know what to do for you.”

“I don’t know how to help myself,” told her.

And so started a short discussion on our lives, hers and mine, and it made me realize, for the first time really, how my food addiction affects everyone around me. Not just my inner circle – wife and daughter – but everyone in my many circles. An addiction of any kind not only affects the user, but the friends and family. Now I’m lucky in that a traditional addiction affects a person’s daily functions at home, work, school and life. Many hit a point where their addiction takes over their life, to the detriment of other relationships or enjoyments. Not so with food addiction. My overeating, in a very strange way, enhances those experiences and offers comfort in dealing with them.

A food addiction affects my health, but not my ability to have healthy relationships. I don’t choose my drug over my friends or family. My addiction is used in conjunction with those relationships. My drug is used to bring important relationships together, and helps keep them cohesive. Most social events center around food and eating. We host parties, family get-togethers and celebrate holidays using food as a catalyst for togetherness. Food is our glue, our reason to get together and stay together. Many times it is that celebration that connects our outer circle relationships; indeed, I only see some people at family food functions or annual celebrations. It all centers around the food.

It’s a natural thing because we have to eat. But that is what makes my addiction difficult to understand and even more difficult to treat. If you are an eating addict do you refrain from those drug events in hopes of keeping yourself clean? Or do you attend and work hard to only taste a bit of your drug?

“I don’t know how to help you,” said Mom.

“I don’t know how to help myself.”

The interesting thing about this was that my Mother wasn’t calling about her; she was calling about me. That doesn’t surprise me as my Mother always thinks of other people and how they are being affected. She is very good at that and it seems to come natural to her. I, on the other hand, have to work at that sometimes.

We talked about my addiction, and yes we used the term addiction, an idea that has only just recently come to me. It is a term that I am using with more comfort each and every time I say it out loud.

“I want you to know that your Dad and I will do anything we can to help you. We will do whatever you need us to do. I don’t want you to worry about that. This family is here to help you and we will all do it.”

She meant that. My Mother has a tone about her sometimes. When she makes a decision about something, when she has her mind set on something, she develops a powerful, loving tone about her that when confronted with it, makes it hard to buck. You just don’t say no to her when she counts to three and says her piece.

That’s the same tone in which she stated this and there is comfort in that, knowing that the family is ready to help. My family is very helpful that way. When it comes to crisis, and I suppose we could label this as a crisis of sorts, my family is very strong in its response. It has always been this way.

My family has always been respectful and scared of my weight. Scared in the sense that they don’t want to be offensive or judgmental about it. It’s been a delicate subject I guess. That is changing as I write about my weight on my blog. By writing about it in this way, it gives light to the problem and gives my family permission to discuss their concerns as well. Not something I planned. I really didn’t plan for my family to read my blog although I have no problems with it. I offered a warning early on, that they may want to steer clear as I am preparing to talk even more candidly about my weight, and the reasons for my weight. Some of that information will be unpleasant for everyone involved. Not from a blaming perspective, because I take responsibility for my weight. That’s an important aspect to understand, but I know that I my decisions were shaped by my experiences. Still I choose to deal with those experiences through eating.

It is interesting, however, to think outside myself for a while and feel how my eating addiction affects those around me. How do my parents view my weight and how does it affect them? As a parent of a child, I am beginning to understand how take on our children’s successes and failures. We worry about our children, even when they are not aware of it and we can, if we are not careful, blame ourselves when they do not meet their own potential or when they stumble.

And as parents, we think a lot about how we could have acted or reacted differently in order to better help our child. The world was a different time when I was a child. There was still a clinging tradition of eating all the food sitting on the plate, regardless whether you were full or not. My Grandmother still tries to hold true to that and would like nothing more than to force feed my child. But this is a different time and most have rejected that. Now, we know better. We didn’t then.

In those days children didn’t have care seats, there was no seat belt law, children could buy cigarettes for the parents at the local convenience store, and schools did not have a comprehensive health curriculum based on national standards. The world was, indeed, a very different place and I am not convinced it’s helpful it is to try to go back and assess our missteps as parents. My Iaito (the art of drawing the samurai sword) instructor always quotes a Japanese saying, which translated means:

Even monkeys fall from trees.

I like that a lot, because it humanizes us and reminds us that try as we might, we sometimes fall from trees. Some days we manage to catch a limb on the way down and sometimes we manage to clop into every one of them on our way to meet the grassy knoll. Lord knows I’ve lost my grip and hit my share of limbs and I’m not done.

My eating disorders, while being affected by my experiences (positive and negative), are not the responsibility of my parents, friends or family. The responsibility lies solely with me. Sometimes life is shit and it’s up to each of us to deal with that. Unfortunately I have found solace and comfort in food. I don’t really understand it all yet, but I know that food offers me something, consoles me and calms me.

I can imagine my family wishing that they had done this or that differently or maybe addressed my eating addiction when I was young. Maybe they feel they were responsible for allowing it to happen or not for dealing with it. I don’t know, but I can image that my pain is indeed linked to them. We feel for our children and want so desperately to help them. I imagine that my parents feel the some version of this guilt or some other.

It cannot be easy to watch your own child slowly destroy his body and contribute to his own early death. They must at times be fearful that they will be forced to bury me. If there thoughts are like mine, the idea can be overwhelming and frustrating.

“I want you to know that your Dad and I will do anything we can to help you. We will do whatever you need us to do. I don’t want you to worry about that. This family is here to help you and we will all do it.”

She knows, or has an idea, what this could entail. They’ve read my blog and know that I am considering undergoing a life-altering weight loss surgery. Mom watches Oprah and they’ve seen news stories on bariatric (obesity) surgery and how much it changes people’s lives.

It is comforting to know that they are willing to change our family habits and traditions, or at least consider it, in order to help one person. That is a lot for me to ask and a lot for them to offer, and I’m sure they didn’t consult the rest of the family before making such an offer. My Mother doesn’t really have to, though. She sets a lot of those types of rules and just informs the rest of the family how it’s going to be and everyone is expected to follow suit.

I’m jumping the gun a bit. I don’t know what to ask them to do that will help. I’m not sure what to change or how it should be changed, if at all. Maybe a good registered dietician (as suggested by one reader) or a weight loss physician (suggested by another) may be the answer. Then there’s the question of payment. Does insurance pay to see these folks; does it pay for the bariatric surgeries?

Right now, there are more questions than answers, but at least I know I have some folks on my side who will help me make changes. I guess that’s all the beginning of dealing with an addiction. That and being honest with everyone including myself. I’m hoping my blog will be a productive outlet to deal with this disease or disorder or addiction or whatever we will call it. I want it to offer insights into my eating addiction and myself and help me to find a new path and help others become more educated, tolerant and supportive of those with compulsive overeating disorders.

We had a good phone call, my Mom and I. We talked about my weight in ways we have never done before and we were frank with each other. We came to an understanding that it will take more than me to fight this fight. I can't do it alone; God know's I've tried. I have failed in that respect. In order to be successful in this lifetime weight loss thing, I will need the help of many. My life, their lives, will change to differing degrees. Unlike the case with the condom, this time I was glad to have our little talk. It was a long time coming and after many years I was finally ready to have it. I have an eating addiction and I am going to die if I don't do something more. I need their help and they offered before I asked. That's a good place to be.

I still maintain that there will come some posts (not parent-bashing posts) that will be too personal, too revealing, for them. They are welcome to read anyway if they think it will help. But they've had their warning.

The Ugly Side

My recent health problems, which turned out to be the gallbladder, have given me pause. I have been thinking about death a lot, while sitting around and wondering what was wrong with me to cause me such pain. It’s made me realize just how delicate our bodies are.

My health isn’t going to get better on its own, and my weight isn’t just going to pour off miraculously. I am a food addict and like any addict I have to take responsibility for my own decisions. Now I have made serious attempts. I joined Jenny Craig and lost 60-70 pounds. I started the Atkins diet and lost weight. I have done the cabbage diet and other fads and I have worked out.

One of my major problems is over eating and not enough exercise. My pain, which went undiagnosed for so many months, also prevented me from exercising. Even with the pain I have been riding my bicycle with my friends on the weekends. Unfortunately it’s just not enough.

My gallbladder surgeon discussed my health at length. Surgeons like to cut; it’s what they do. So I take that into consideration, but he is suggesting that I consider weight loss surgery. He offered me two options: Gastric By-Pass and Lap Band. I have to admit, that I’ve been thinking about this for some time, but I have no pursued it. That is, until he discussed it with me and made the comment that I was a good candidate.

According to the saw-bones, I carry my weight in the middle region. Combine that type of weight with my diabetes and he believes I am a heart attack waiting to happen. He’s right. Diabetes is a degenerative disease; it gets worse with age. So the longer I carry this weight, the great my chances of dying at an early age.

Everyone around me already recognizes this – my family and friends – but I have been reluctant to accept that fact. Over the last few months I’ve been wondering about my health, concerned that something dreadful and fatal was wrong with me. True, there is some relief that it is only the gallbladder, but that doesn’t change the reality that if I do not address my food addiction, then the inevitable bomb will come sooner than later.

There aren’t any real treatments for food addiction that I know of anyway. Maybe there are behavioral psychologists who specialize in food addictions? Maybe there are treatments to help – really help – addicts like myself.

The more I think about the surgery and my health, the more I realize that something needs to be done. But I really don’t know what to do. I know that I am scared of leaving my family alone. I am also scared that I will try – once again – to lose the weight only to gain it right back as I have always done. I am afraid that I am my own worse enemy and that I will foil my own attempts to change. I am scared that I will fail and everyone will know. I am terrified to talk about it for fear of how the skinny folks will shake their heads in confusion. I am afraid to fail and let everyone down, especially my wife and daughter. I am terrified that my family and friends, who love me dearly, will continue to host our social events around food and that I won’t be able to resist the temptation.

In my family, food is love. To feed is to show love. To eat is to accept, appreciate and reciprocate that love. I don’t know if I can take it; I don’t know if I can stand it. I don’t know that I can resist.

I just don’t know what to do or what to feel. I feel guilty for asking my family and friends to change our historical traditions and habits just for me. That’s asking a lot. The more I ask the higher the stakes and the farther the drop if I happen to fail – again. I know that is stinking thinking. I understand the power of positive self-imagery, but I also know that addiction is hard.

Drug addicts get a specialized drug rehabilitation program. People understand drug addiction. There is no specialized food rehabilitation program and most people do not understand the ins and outs of overeating. I don’t know that I understand it either. I know that when you stop drinking, then you quit. With me, I always have to take my drug. Everyday I am forced to eat my drug, but I can only enjoy it in small quantities. I can’t just quit eating like people quit alcohol. There is no such thing for food addicts. We just have to monitor how much of our drug that we consume.

The thoughts and fears consume me and I don’t know what to do, what to say, and what to feel or who to ask. And yet, I can see my own end on the up ahead and I don’t know how to change lanes. I just don’t know what to do. My fat consumes me and my fear overwhelms me. After sharing all of this I feel like eating a Twinky. Can you understand that the Ding-Dong or Pecan Pie would make me safe and content again? That, my friends, is the ugly side of my food addiction.

Gutting My Gizzard

We have finally found what we think ails me.

I am scheduled for surgery to have my gizzard yanked on
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
and I am feeling relieved.

(Hopefully they will take my gallbladder laproscopically in a procedure similiar to the above photo. The traditional gallbladder surgery is much more invasive and the recovery time includes a hospital stay and two weeks off.)

After nearly a year I believe we have found the cause of my pain, which happens to be two fold, making the diagnosis much harder. I’ve had severe pain in my upper left abdomen, right under the rib cage, for a long time. I saw a specialist when I was on Cox insurance. He thought it was intercostal neuralgia, which is some kind of inflammation of the intercostal nerve. That nerve, as I understand it, comes out of the spine and runs along the rib cage. We were assuming it was caused by some kind of karate injury, although I couldn’t remember any specific incident. I will say the doctor came up with that diagnosis without running a single test. He treated the injury with cortisone, which did nothing.

When my insurance switched to St. John’s I was very nervous about my care. My primary doctor sent me to a pain specialist who assessed me and decided to run some tests before making a diagnosis. That God-forsaken death hole known as an MRI machine is no fun place to be. I am a bit claustrophobic (from a past trauma which I will discuss in a future post). I had to have an open MRI because I couldn’t stand to be in that coffin case with the closed MRI. They also ran a nerve conduction test where the doctor jabs you with needles and measures the electricity in the muscles or some crap like that.

After the MRI and the nerve conduction test came back negative we had to look at other things. Gallbladder disease runs in my family, but no one seems to think it could be my gizzard. One night my pain was so bad that I was on the floor. It hit me between my shoulder blades and ran down both arms. Now you might be thinking heart, but it wasn’t. It happened right after I ate a meal and I thought I would hurl my guts before we got out of the restaurant. I begged the ER doctor to test my gallbladder. He told me it wasn’t my gallbladder and reminded me that I was fat.

“Has anyone – has your doctor – talked to you about your weight?” he said as he leaned with one arm against the bed.

I’m fat. No shitting Hell. You might as well tell me the sun is a big hot object. I know I’m fat, but I also know that the sharp stabbing pain, for months on end, is not some kind of fat pain. He also asked me three times if I was allergic to any meds, then followed that with a “I think I asked you that already.” He sure as Hell did ask me that over and over. He also interrupted me every time I tried to tell him about my pain, where it was located and my family history of gallbladder disease, but assured me it wasn’t my gallbladder; it was because I am so overweight. Big hot object, kids. And I had the pleasure of paying good money to be ignored, interrupted and insulted.

Indeed, two people in my family have had gallbladder disease that presented in the exact same way. Both endured months or years in one case, before a doctor would test the gallbladder. I made an appointment with my primary doctor, who has only seen me once since I switched to St. Johns. This physician was glad to run a test of the gallbladder. Thankfully for me she didn’t just run the ultrasound. That test came back fine. She ran the nuclear medicine, which tests the function of the gallbladder, and sure enough we discovered that the little bastard isn’t working correctly. So I am scheduled for gallbladder surgery this month. I was able to schedule it over fall break, so I should only miss one class. The university and my professors all appear to be working kindly with me regarding my missing classes. Of course I sit in the front row, take notes and am genuinely interested in learning so they are much more willing to work with a student who care about his education.

(The gallbladder is shown in green and it sits below the liver. And apparently you can live just fine without it. I can't hardly live with mine.)

Now it should be mentioned that my pain specialist recognized early on that one of my medications might very well be causing some of my pain. I was taking Tricor for cholesterol. Now, no one had mentioned it before, but Tricor is known to cause back pain. So he ordered the MRI and in the same breath told me to stop taking that medication for a week.

I haven’t taken it since. Much of my pain has subsided. Not all of it mind you, as I have a Hell-and-gone gallbladder. But a significant portion of my constant pain has been reduced greatly. I had no idea how much pain a prescription can cause. That also makes the diagnosis harder to make if there are multiple causes of the pain. In my case it appears that the medicine and gallbladder were working together to give me months of sleepless nights and stabbing pain.

Emotionally, it is very difficult to deal with pervasive and persistent pain. And at my age (that is the same age as when Jesus died) constant pain can lead to emotional worrying. Indeed, over the past few months I have felt that I was losing my mind and my body. I have been perseverating on my own death and fearful that something was terribly wrong with me. I internalized most of this, choosing not to worry my wife. That was silly as she was worrying enough for both of us. My parents have been worried too and try as they might, they don’t hide it well. They don’t say so, but I feel strongly that they have been worried about me dying as well. I have diabetes and am grossly overweight and so that makes me a good candidate for heart issues.

Not knowing the cause of my pain has led to a great deal of death oriented thoughts by everyone. No one says so, but it’s there. And their worries cause me to worry. Funny how that circular thing works. I understand their concerns. It is a horrible thing to bury a child and I don’t want that either. Having an eating disorder, and I consider myself as having an eating disorder, is a hard thing to deal with for everyone. It’s hard for others to understand and it’s hard for me to battle.

For now, I am feeling better. I am relieved that there is an end in sight. Not knowing what is wrong causes me more stress than hearing news, good or bad. If it’s bad I’d rather know and deal with it, because I can’t handle the not-knowing.

Now that I’m not taking Tricor and I know what’s ailing me, I am feeling better and ready to deal with this gallbladder head on. I am concerned about the surgery, of course, but I am not scared. I am ready to feel better. In a way, I’m looking forward to the surgery.

But my battle isn’t really over, even if the gutting my gizzard makes me feel better. I am still overweight, the sun is still hot and I have more work to do regarding my weight loss. I have lost about 15 pounds so far and I am riding my bicycle every week. Last week our bicycle buddy club grew to four and we increased our ride from 7 to 10 miles. That’s not enough, but I’m making baby steps. I hope to do better when my gizzard is gone.