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.

Free Lunch Tomorrow

I started becoming truthful with others about where I’m at physically, mentally and emotionally. Actually I only told my wife and best friend. Everyone I know believes I have a weight issue. I do, but it’s “a symptom of a much greater problem.” This was never more evident than when I overheard friends I hadn’t seen in twenty years talking about how huge I had become. Talk about an awkward silence when they realized I was standing there. Even my doctor believes, “There’s no other hope for someone like you but lap band surgery.” “Someone like me” I have been officially categorized. That still wouldn’t address why I binge eat and I doubt it would limit the amount I consume. I have met two people that had gastric bypass surgery and they are still obese after a couple of years. One almost died of complications. They never knew it wouldn’t take away the obsession with food.

In the past I used my alcoholism as an excuse to hide behind. If you admit you have a disease and ask for help, people will rally around you. You can manipulate that to your advantage by gaining sympathy instead of condemnation. All is done to relieve one of the pressures to do something NOW. If I relapse it’s not my fault, I have a disease that’s ‘cunning, baffling and powerful.’ People love to see effort and despise apathy. They will stay beside you until they realization that you really don’t care to change. Then your temporary reprieve is suspended and it’s time to move on.

A coach once told me that making a come-back is my biggest thing. I always counted on tomorrows. Having coasted through everything from school, sports, relationships and work only to excel when needed, the fire and drive of consistency has never been there. Once I fought for a starting position with blood, sweat and tears only to move to another state after my dad was transferred. I had won the position but never reaped the rewards. I never fought like that with such drive and determination again. Perhaps that explains the internal inability to care much about anything. I don’t know. That seems too packaged. I want to care and I want that drive but it seems too have evaporated from me entirely.

I recall while in the Marines I had difficulty with a run, and my sergeant yelled a hypothetical motivation that my platoon was under fire and was in need my .50 cal or they would all die. I looked up from my gasps and yelled, “Fuck them!” He was clearly stunned and didn’t speak anymore as we caught up to the rest. I guess he concluded that if I didn’t care then he would do the caring for me. My transfer to another platoon soon followed. Again, people love to see effort and despise apathy. Perhaps that has something to do with it? I feel like it’s a good surface scratcher but something runs deeper. The question now is do I want to know?

During a recent visit to my diabetes doctor, I asked point blank how much longer I can continue with uncontrolled blood sugars before it starts affecting me (as if it hasn’t already with neuropathy in my legs and feet). Again, it would seem I was asking to stage a big come-back. The comment was IF you can get this under control you SHOULD be ok. There’s that hope of tomorrow that I SHOULD be able to... I have attempted for twelve years to get diabetes under control and I’m still not able to. The doctor and nutritionist were not sure why I was experiencing major edema and a host of other ailments and I finally told them the truth, I’m a compulsive overeater and I binge regularly. Instantly I hoped that this wouldn’t be another reprieve seeking stunt as I did with alcoholism in college and in the work place.

I have been giving the doctor and nutritionist insulin and the food amounts consumed daily that I planned on implementing the following day. I was planning for a tomorrow that never comes. The doctor semi-yelled, “This is your tomorrow!” Every time I had a doctor’s visit I would focus on the seriousness of the disease and pledge to begin tomorrow right after I ate what I wanted on the way home that day. I need to wake up. This is insanity at its best. Thankfully they understood my deception and denial then adjusted my medications having finally been given the truth. I could tell that they had been here many times with others. The exchanged glance lead me to conclude that many “like me” never see that tomorrow. They suggested a psychologist. That may help determine why the necessity of ‘right living’ that would determine life or death seems to be wishful thinking that denial shoves in a closet.

When I was young I made fun of fat people. One kid in particular cried over my harassing and said, “There’s something wrong with my metabolism!” and I said, “Yeah, and there’s something wrong with that Twinkie you’re putting in your mouth too.” At the time I would eat a whole box of Twinkies behind the garage of my childhood home to escape the chaos of screaming in the house. My weight didn’t show due to sports activities. Now I’m on the receiving end of such comments and the most painful event was when a woman refused to sit next to me on an airplane. She made a spectacle and the stewardess tried to guide her quietly to another seat. She said loud enough for everyone to hear, “They shouldn’t make you sit next to people like that.” I did nothing. What could I say? Had I not directed that venom towards others in the past? I had officially been exposed to having crossed the fence and become one of “those” people.

Karma’s a bitch.

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”