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.

It's Good To Have Friends and Family

I’ve had a hard semester. I’ve had a difficult two-years, but the last few months have taken a toll on my mind and stability. I have been concerned with dying – with falling apart at the seams – and consumed with constant, stabbing pain in my gizzard.

I am beginning to understand my mother; and see her in a new light. My mother developed polio as a young child. It affected her leg and her growth and the polio has wreaked havoc with her bones. It has caused her constant, agonizing pain, which she rarely shares, but I am vaguely aware of. She is too strong, and a bit too hard headed, to admit to her pain. I can relate as I do the same. But the pain of living can, at times, overwhelm her. It can be hard to be happy when you hurt.

I have had a taste, a mere glimpse into the world of chronic pain as of late, and I am able to sympathize with my Mom’s struggle over the years. For nearly a year I have developed a sharp, stabbing, burning pain in my upper left abdomen directly under the rib cage. It started in slow and has increased steadily over time. I have gone days, sometimes weeks, without sleeping much and unable to do any activity but sit and rest. The pain has affected me in horrendous ways; it still does at times.

For nearly a year I have been unable to practice karate, help my friends with their weekend home projects, or do simple household chores. The pain has been too great. I am unable to take my family to Silver Dollar City for a fun outing because the amount of walking required is almost unbearable for me.

The worst part, one of the emotional pains associated with long patches of pain, is that I am not able to give my daughter the beautiful memories of playing with her Daddy that she deserves. She is a good girl, a creative child, and a blessing to have around. I have done what I can to spend time with her, but I have restricted that to things that do not require much exertion – no small chore when dealing with an active 6-year-old. I found that I was able to go to White Water this year. It is a smaller park and requires less walking and strain on the body.

I am rather buoyant in the water and that seems to help. She loves White Water and so that was an acceptable adaptation. But we can’t go to White Water in the fall or the winter. Sometimes Mommy and daughter will go out together, but it is not the same. My daughter gets the experience of a good time, but she also takes home a missed memory of time that could have been spent with her Dad.

We go to movies together and have developed our own routines – memories – that are important to her and me. Every night, without fail, my daughter comes into the spare bedroom where I am diligently working away on homework. She comes dressed in her cute nightgown, with hair combed and teeth brushed. Homework is finished, kitty is loved on, and her mom has read her at least two books.

She smiles with a mouthful of baby teeth and seven adult teeth, and asks the same question.

"Daddy, will you snuggle with me in your bed? Please. I love you."

Not that it’s necessary to beg. I am going to do it, but she clasps her hands together, cocks her head to one side and opens her blue eyes. There she stands, swaying and twisting sweetly, waiting for my answer. Snuggling in bed is one memory I can give her and so that is what I do and it is a sweet thing to be able to do.

Almost every night I am able to take time off from my studying and spend time with her. We pile up our pillows: me with three pillows lined one in front of the other against the head board and one on top. She, wanting to be like me, does the same: three pillows and one on top. Nothing else will do. We snuggle down in the sheets and turn on the television. There we stay, sometimes for 10 minutes and sometimes for half an hour or longer, until she drifts off to sleep.

Once she is down, I go back to the spare bedroom and finish my work. It’s a small thing, but it’s important to her. It is our time together and it is time that I can spend without much exertion, without much pain. I treasure those moments and enjoy our time together. One day it she will not want to snuggle in bed with me. One day it will inappropriate for us to do so. One day, not too far off, those days will be over and I will miss them. I may not have some Silver Dollar City memories from this past summer (although I do have other seasons to rely upon) I do have Daddy-Daughter dates to the movies and White Water.

And we have camping. We were able to camp this last weekend, which hurt, but it was worth it. We had loving friends who set up camp for me so I didn’t have to. I’m not good at that. I have a hard time letting things go and letting others do things for me. But my friend, Paul, kept yelling at me; so I finally sat down and let my friends help me.

I have a very supportive structure with both family and friends and it makes life easier. My wife is the head of my fan club and she tries her best to keep the family together. It’s hard on her because I can’t help out a lot, what with all the homework and pain. It takes a toll on her and sometimes she feels unappreciated. I try hard to remember to tell her how much I love her and appreciate all the household chores she does, but it’s hard. I am a good patient. I don’t complain a lot unless I really hurt. I try to remain happy and smiling and engage in as much as possible. I know she is looking forward to me feeling better; and not just so I can do more chores, although that will be a nice help.

It is good to have friends and family who care. Sometimes they don’t understand, but they care and they try and that makes the difference.

The Odyssey of a Fat Man Looking for a Skinny Suit

I am a fat man. I make no apologies for that and I harbor no guilt associated with my weight. I have been a big man for the majority of my life. I have felt guilt and shame regarding my fat and frame, but I put those to rest a long time ago. I realized, over a period of years, that my weight is not a thing of which to be ashamed or ignored.

In fact, I would say that I have defined myself, my image of me, in large part through my BIGness. My weight is a characteristic, but my BIGness is soulful and internal. It is that BIGness that defines me. I am BIG.

I am a BIG man with an eating disorder. Regardless of my weight, I am BIG man. I differ from many of those who have eating issues or who have been life long overweight people. So many define themselves, or view themselves, as a skinny person in a fat body. Countless television talk shows have documented people making such statements. They breakdown and cry and know that somewhere – deep down inside – there is a skinny person just waiting to get out.

I, however, embrace my BIGness. It is my weight that I have issues with. Not the fat, mind you. I don’t mind having fat or being fat. What I mind is the effect weight has on my body. It’s a difficult distinction; I know. I also know that many folks will not understand the distinction or they may reject it outright. It’s hard to understand an eating disorder, compulsive eating, or the simultaneous pain and joy that accompany it. It is equally difficult to separate that eating disorder from the person.

I am a BIG man in a fat body. Weight loss does not affect that or change my definition of self. I am not a skinny man inside a fat man’s body. My BIGness is part of my identity. My journey is not to find the skinny person inside. Rather my odyssey is to locate a new frame, a new body, a new outward exterior that will allow me to continue to live healthier and longer, but BIG.

This blog, FAT JACK – SKINNY WHINNY is about my odyssey. I will talk frankly about my weight and my health. I am ready to share my pain, my sorrow, my understanding and my joys regarding eating, weight and the circumstances – external and internal – that have led to a large life.

I will share with my readers many deep and personal stories, feelings, thoughts and family dynamics that are related to my weight. I caution many of my readers that the stories I will share may be deeply personal, painful, funny or disturbing to you. You may not choose to follow along or you may be selective in what you read. My loving family may choose not to read, as I will surely discuss our family dynamics or social structures. I am ready to share my BIG life with many in hopes that I will find what I am looking for and you may come to understand it. But the road may not always be fun.

I hope, through this journey, that I learn more about myself, and find a frame better suited for a long and healthy life. I invite you to join in, if you wish, a voyeur in the world of a fat man.

Be it heartbreaking, hopeful, hysterical, or happy, we will have a BIG time.