A Laugh A Minute

June 27th found me accepting a 4 month coin for sobriety. I’ve stayed off the juice but have been struggling to keep it all together in other areas. My nemesis, food, has exposed my powerlessness in taunting fashion. Since starting this journey toward recovery in a multitude of arenas I’ve only lost 15 lbs.; a little under 4 lbs. a month. My cardiologist mentioned that side effects of atrial-fib and atrial flutter are fluid retention and weight gain and I should expect both until the ablation surgery scheduled August 4th. Wonder if another side effect involves a craving for Chipotle Burritos?

Last week while awaiting an interview for an Angler’s Club, I stopped at Chipotle for lunch. My wife had the girls and I needed to eat so I justified a “one time” stop to celebrate my personal progress. My sponsor suggested that I should “seek hope” in something beyond my surgery, so I am stretching my boundaries and hopefully will be accepted to pursue a common passion with others. I find out July 13th if I’m accepted into the Hamilton County Angler’s Club. With a spring in my step I ordered my burrito with double carnita, the kid behind the counter had trouble wrapping the contents. After the second try to secure the burrito he said, “Oh, my God” then looked at me and started laughing. His eyes went up and down resting on my belly then he started laughing harder. I asked in a calm Zen like fashion, “What the fuck is your problem?” The girl at the cash register started to smile while watching him then her face went blank when I looked at her. I spoke with the manager and he assured me it was a miscommunication. I asked him, “If someone stares at you and laughs and doesn’t bother to explain, what would you assume?” He assured me he understood and gave me a gift card for a free burrito. Just what an over weight food addict needs, a free burrito. I walked out humiliated.

I tried to shake that incident off as best I could and made it through the Angler’s Club interview. Being introduced to other members around the lake, a gentleman made it a point to jump off a floating dock when it appeared I may step on. He made a big production by saying, “I’m getting off if he’s coming down!” Laughter followed and then I was asked what size shirt I wear, for club purposes only I’m sure. I replied, “4 X.” More laughter and comments like, “We’ve never had one of those.” Suddenly, standing by that beautiful lake, the middle of paradise turned into the middle of nowhere.

It has often been said that people with addictions are the last ones to know. It’s a nightmare to know what you are but can’t stop the train wreck. I believe addicts have a beautiful defense mechanism called denial. I deploy it on a daily basis. I have been trying not to focus on the reality of my weight, but the Universe seems to be sending messages in an alarmingly increasing fashion. I’m reminded of Chapter 6, page 82, in the Big Book which reads, “He is like the farmer who came up out of his cyclone cellar to find his home ruined. To his wife, he remarked, “Don’t see anything the matter here, Ma. Ain’t it grand the wind stopped blowin’?” My house is ruined and I can no longer afford to ignore it.

Just to make sure I got the point, that evening in front of a few hundred people along with my wife and children, I was called on stage at a carnival. The performer was lying on a bed of nails and wanted to find the largest individual and specified “preferable over 300 lbs.” A woman I ran into from a Sangha I attend started screaming, “Over here!” while pointing at me. Soon the whole crowd was pointing. For someone who wants to blend I am thrust into the spotlight frequently. I was called up and stood on him to the laughter and applause of the crowd and I remember thinking “I hope my gut doesn’t stick out of my shirt at this angle.”

I started my day being laughed at to the astonishment of one and ended the day with being the astonishment of hundreds. Being a freak show finale isn’t as glamorous as I had imagined as a kid. I know I’m eating my emotions and replacing one addiction or perhaps amplifying one addiction over others. There has got to be a “why” to all this. I just hope it doesn’t take more humiliating billboards for me to get the message.

I didn’t attend the Sangha gathering the following Tuesday. I had had enough of my size being a focal point for one week and I just didn’t want a cherished safe place to become another one to avoid.

Here's picture proof for shits & giggles.

A Pig By Any Other Name...Calling A Spade A Spade

Failure of a pressurized vessel such as a steam boiler can be catastrophic. Steam takes up 1,600 times more space than liquid water, meaning that each cubic meter of heated boiler water will expand into 1,600 cubic meters of steam. Once that shell is breached most of the water will instantly flash into steam and it will do so in a fraction of a second. That enormous volume of steam will expand outwardly to equalize its pressure with the atmosphere and then one huge ass explosion is produced. Entire buildings could be leveled resulting in loss of life or limb. In the boiler business the term "explosion" is a taboo description. The favorable description for such a devastating force is "an occurrence" which erases any implied negative connotation. I'm sure it has something to do with admitted liability. An explosion suggests safety neglect or human error. An occurrence is something that just happens.

I have always been interested in how we perceive ourselves as individuals. When defining Self, each of us seeks an explanation or purpose that signifies who we are going to great lengths to establish such roles to feel a variety of things from being connected to the pay-off of mass attention. Investigating and researching ideologies, political parties or whatever, we proudly proclaim an affiliation as if to announce, “I am defined. I am complete. Love me.” The problem is the romanced illusions spoon fed by denial tends to skew reality. You put a pig in a prom dress and you still have a pig in a prom dress no matter how you try to sell it. Ask anyone who has lost a significant amount of weight and they’ll tell you they never knew how big they were and wished someone would have told them. We’re with ourselves every minute and still can not see ourselves in truth. If we do acknowledge some aspect and wish to convey it, we addicts usually tend to construct artful ways to make ourselves sound either healthier, progressive or not to be blamed.

You can see this first hand at any Twelve Step meeting where an individual is encouraged to state their name followed by a defining label the allows others to relate. This assures to everyone that they are not alone. But as mentioned, people strive for individual uniqueness that exalts them above the status quo. There are some that combo the addiction labels such as “alcoholic/addict.” This is fine until people start adding sentences before and after their description such as “Grateful recovering Alcoholic/Addict and Child of God Forgiven!”

The most recent label that caught my attention at an OA meeting is "Relapse Recoverer." It's hard for me not to laugh and want to pull my hair out at the same time. When an alcoholic takes a sip of alcohol it's considered a relapse and the sobriety date must be reset; no exceptions. One twelve step member was chewing a piece of gum during a lead and that derailed years of abstinence. Does using mouth wash constitute a drinking spree? Would an alcoholic need to "start over?" What qualifies a compulsive overeater to label themselves as a "Relapse Recoverer"? Does 1 oz. more of roast beef than the food plan allows qualify? Or is the consumption of an entire box of graham crackers set the standard? If it’s not on the “Grey Sheet” grounds for a relapse? For those curious about what the “Grey Sheet” is Grey Sheet. My point is that we have become so entangled in picking fly shit out of pepper that we fail to see the forest for the trees. We are all recovering in one way or another and at different levels. Who sets the standard? Who decides when the reduction to the ridiculous has been met?

I believe in calling a spade a spade. I’ve heard old alcoholics refer to themselves as just a drunk. I like that. Simple and straight to the point. "Hi. I'm Billy Bob and I'm a drunk." I think I’ll follow suit and take the suggestion of one friend and call myself what I am – a glutton. Or am I a “grateful recovering alcoholic, addict, compulsive overeater child of god forgiven that’s just happy to be here”? I’ll stick with glutton.

Update: Today in an AA meeting I heard the most true decscription of one's self "functioning alcoholic" This kid smelled like booze and wasn't sure whether or not he was an alcoholic. Many took note of his truthfulness and we all shared where he was at. Another piece of the puzzle was added to the box.

Have a seat...or two.

After a 45 minute wait at Red Lobster, we were seated. I always feel extremely anxious not knowing whether I we’ll get a table or a booth. And of course, it was the smallest booth available. I have trained myself to measure width from table to seat and I can tell instantly if an embarrassing situation will present itself for the amusement and whispers of my fellow diners. I attempted to try and slid into the seat next to my daughter. It was obvious by the way the hostesses stared at my gut which was overlapping on the table that this wouldn’t work. I tried to make the best of it. Have you ever had one of those times where you die a thousand deaths or at least wish you could melt into obscurity? I’ve had many. For someone who wants to blend, I get a lot of unwanted attention.

The waitress was nice and by the time she brought our drinks I was having difficulty breathing. The table was starting to cut into me. My wife has been through the drill before and got up immediately when I whispered, “This won’t work” and she was off to find our waitress. We had to move across the room with all eyes on us. How embarrassing this has got to be for my wife. My daughters did not understand why we had to move or why my mood changed. The rest of the dinner I ate without restraint and the relief of doing so did not come. Our Family Fun Night was marred so last night I made the decision to attend an Overeaters Anonymous (OA) meeting. The last time I ventured through those doors was in 2006. It was comforting to see some of the same faces greet me and I was secretly relieved that some were still fat. Horrible thought I know, but I hate the feeling that I have squandered time and I didn’t want to feel a failure or left behind. I could tell immediately that it was where I needed to be. Addictions are a progressive disease and I have definitely progressed.

I considered outpatient treatment with local 10 week intensives but the cost and the fact that no program was accepting new patients lead me to seek elsewhere. Psychologists were all female, very short in conversation and happy to refer me to someone else. I don't believe men are taken serious concerning eating disorders. They seem to be the odd man out since these types of disorders are associated with image. The hourly cost for all teh psychologists was outrageous. I was given names of support groups, but they primarily dealt with bulimia and anorexia as an “eating disorder” which I’m discovering are the poster children for eating disorders. Compulsive Overeating doesn’t have the same glamour or attention as those attempting to reach beauty through purging and starvation. I know I’m probably off base here, but it seems that they’re secretly admired for at least caring about how they look. At least they’re not fat. We McFatties are viewed as the ugly sister of eating disorders. One person said, “We don’t have any compulsive overeaters in our group but I guess you can come if you want to.” Thanks. To feel ostracized and judged as if I don’t receive that from the outside world already is just what I need.

Google eating disorder images and it’s obvious where the attention lies. You’ll see images of sorrowful looking females staring at a fat person in the mirror while in reality they are skeletons. The images of compulsive overeaters are shown with spaghetti hanging out of their mouths with sauce smeared from ear to ear. Or, a smiling attack of giant cheese burger with all the fixin's. Most photos of overweight people have the terms pathetic, fatties, and disgusting in the URL.

It’s funny to realize at the end of three days of email exchanges with support groups and numerous phone calls to hospitals and psychologists, nobody suggested OA. I believe because money can’t be made and they know it works without professional assistance. Listening to those within that meeting and hearing their recovery was truly inspiring, especially being able to see some I knew from 2006 and to see who they are now. The rooms of OA are a comfortable safe place to fall and bleed on the tables with my story.

Day One of abstinence is encouraging. I‘m seasoned and battle weary and know that the “Honeymoon Phase" falls under the same banner used for struggling times… “This Too Shall Pass”

Let's Begin Again

It has been over a year since my last post. Many things have changed. Looking over the religious content and links compiled on the profile I felt as if I had walked into the wrong house. I'm not that guy anymore. I deleted all previous links and photos.

I have my opinions regarding the hope and aspirations to pursue those institutions, but I am in a life and death struggle with an eating disorder and salvation is the least of my concerns. I found more questions than answers and in the end felt like I was a part of a pymrid scheme and I was far from the pinnacle. Perhaps I imagined that if I showed the right amount of faith and pious actions an invisible Force would relieve me of my obsessions but that’s not the case. I’m heavier now than I have ever been and the medical ramifications and bills as a result of my obesity are staggering. Religion did nothing for my addictions.

I have been hospitalized before due to alcoholic complications and quite frankly alcoholism is easier to deal with than an eating disorder. Both are a mere symptom of a much greater problem, but alcohol you can walk away from and not ingest. Food is survival. How do you moderate a substance that is specifically for sustenance but becomes an obsession of temporary euphoria followed by gut wrenching remorse? Will power suggestions is a an internal chuckle. I have tremendous will power and use it to satisfy my cravings by any means necessary. Addicts have a tremendous amount of will and the lack there of is not a consideration to remedying this addiction.

During lunch with a friend I confessed how I am starting to hide what I eat and how much. After the binge I do not throw away wrappers in our kitchen trash can for fear they’ll be discovered. Hiding them in cans or other containers already in the trash eliminates questions and accusations. Errands are run with convenient stores in mind to satisfy the daily cravings and plates and bowls used at night while alone are cleaned and returned to the cupboard without a trace of use. Empty containers too large are bagged and placed in the trunk of my car to dispose of later of thrown in teh garage underneath clutter. No different that covering up a murder scene and I guess that’s a pretty accurate analogy since I’m slowly killing myself. One would laugh at the thought of a murder victim willing helping its murderer but that seems to be my insanity. Upon hearing my brief confession my friend stated with astonishment, “You’re an addict!” I chuckled but it sure hits hard when you’re seen through someone else’s eyes.

People have refused to sit next to me on airplanes. I need to sit at a table instead of a booth in restaurants because I can’t fit. I’ve broken toilet seats at home, work and two at my sister’s house. One would think the embarrassment of such events would demand change, but I continue to eat. I have a beautiful family, a wife and two daughters that depend on me but it’s not enough. Why??!! What will it take? I had a friend in Memphis that was hospitalized due to alcoholism. Jim asked him while visiting if he’d had enough fun yet and if he was ready to work the program of AA. The poor soul shook his head while shuffling across the room pushing and IV and said, “Nope. I’m still having fun.” A week later he was dead. Am I going to be that guy? Will anything get through to me?

Last night my sister asked me about my edema and teh new dosage of insulin I was currently perscribed. I told her the two types I was on and the oral medication. She repeated the amount in disbelief and just shook her head. The stares of strangers are horrible, but the astonishment, disappointment and disgust of loved ones shatters something within.

Shame is a constant shadow and it whispers I’ll feel better if I have a something to eat. Reese’s is selling new King Sized Peanut Butter Eggs for Easter. You can guess how I know.