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.

Thunder Thighs and a Toothless Baboon

Last night we took the girls to Bucca Di Peppo restaurant. I have no idea of confirming this but there was a poster of a young, husky female wearing a black one piece swim suit, could have been tights because she was part of a promotional wrestling gig here in Cincinnati. What caught my eye was the headline showing her life span 1932-1957. I began reading and was hooked when the first paragraph revealed that she could slaughter a cow by straddling its neck and tightening her thighs. Damn, what people will do in Cincinnati for entertainment!

The story continued that a wrestling promoter found out the Cincinnati Zoo was pulling a toothless baboon from its exhibit. Being an entrepreneur he promoted a wrestling match between this young woman (we'll call her Thunder Thighs because I can't remember her name) and the aging baboon. Supposedly the event took place where they had Friday Night Fights downtown. The people in the front row said they heard her yell, "FOUL!" just before the baboon snapped her neck, picked her up, and threw her out of the ring. This is one of the best damn stories I have read in a long time. I know it's tragic, but what a way to go!

This restaurant is a chain and Googling Bucca wall décor I found that each location has the same pictures. Please, if you feel like Italian food and have one of these near you, pop in and read this poster and tell me if your city had a toothless baboon that killed a woman that could slaughtered cows by tightening her thighs. I have to know if this is true!

The poster is located close it this guy.






















Around the corner from her...
























..and down the hall from where we sat. Picture of our booth.

Café Consciousness

Five years ago I entered a Buddhist Sangha. The concept was extremely simple. You sit, walk, sit, and drink tea. It wasn’t overly difficult but given time back then and I could turn the melody of three blind mice into Beethoven’s 9th. One aspect of the gathering that terrified me was the possibility of committing idolatry. By bowing to the Buddha, the dharma, and to the Sangha, I was certain that I would burn in hell. I’m completely serious. The graven image of the Buddha really sent me over the edge; nothing like being soiled by the regurgitations of a toxic faith. Ironically a year later I would venerate icons at an Eastern Orthodox Church, so to say its funny how rationalizations can justify behavior is an understatement.

Today I sat across from two of the core members of Eastside Sangha, Marty, who was a co-founder, and Paul who took over the group when Marty left. It was amazing to see each of us a little older and thankfully a little wiser from our journeys. The conversation was just as deep as any dharma discussion we’ve ever had with one huge difference, the edge of judgmental bias had dulled. I remember watching a National Geographic program that showed a group reaction of chimpanzees when a stuffed leopard surprised them. The chimps screamed and touched one another’s mouth as a symbol of unity and assurance when faced with a threat. I can recall a time when my affiliations were only with others of like mind and our conversations resembled the chimpanzee’s reaction as we huddled together against ideological threats.

The last five years have seemed to mellow us all. Hills we chose to die on then seem comical now. The box I crafted to hold the ceremonial tea set is still in use and I am honored they think of me when preparing refreshments. It felt good to exchange ideas without the compulsion to change my entire wardrobe of thought. Years ago it had to be black or white, no middle way for me. Today I’m able to appreciate the beauty of different paths having suffered the ridicule for such ventures. Empathy is rarely offered until we are affected personally.

Walking to our cars afterward I confessed to Paul that I searched my heart in preparation for our meeting to see if I owed him any amends. We were all passionate about our beliefs and each couldn’t be confused with facts because we already made up our minds. After a long period of contemplation over coffee this morning, I couldn’t remember what the rifts were about. He too had forgotten our differences or his graciousness has reached a level I’m not yet familiar with, I’m not certain of which. If I were to venture a guess it was probably over religion, war, or politics. Some in the Sangha are recovering from all three.

I was genuinely happy to see the humorous spark in Paul’s eyes hadn’t diminished. He confessed that he was practicing an “I don’t know” meditation which is driving his wife crazy. When she asks about the certainty of a particular subject that he seemed so versed in before he has to respond, “I don’t know” because there may be other avenues of thought he hasn’t considered. It would seem the lightening strike of possibilities has struck him as well. I confessed that the interconnectedness of all things was a little overwhelming to comprehend five years ago. It took time and a whole lot of arguments to propel me into acceptance that we are all struggling and in need of each other’s assistance. Science has proven through testing of 43 women on different continents and of different races that they all share a single source female DNA. So not only are we all connected but we’re also all related. Perhaps interconnectedness is not simply a state of mind?

I didn’t feel the need to mention my Catholic pursuit to Paul. Marty knows of my decision because he’s my sponsor having made the step to convert a month and a half ago. I don’t think it really matters one way or the other now to Paul. Sure we still extended a toe to test the waters of acceptance with our stories disguising our beliefs, but we spoke with mutual respect and enjoyment having left the baggage that divided us in a room over tea five years ago. We are brothers on the same journey.

Perhaps Tuesday evening I will sit, walk, sit, and drink tea?

Paranormal Divine

The past year has found me feeling my way through dark rooms, attics, cellars, and old barns in pursuit of alleged paranormal activity. Southern Ohio Paranormal Research has been fortunate to have captured evidence of numerous unexplained phenomena. EVP’s, disembodied voices and shadow figures have turned hardened skeptics into zealot believers. I have always been fascinated with the paranormal and the majority of my reading as a child was devoted to that subject. Many that know me just put the pieces together as to why I’m so bizarre. Once you’ve peeked behind the curtain there really isn’t a lot that surprises, you’re ready to accept mysteries where they are and you stop trying to fit them within preconceived notions.

My interests vary greatly and I have noticed a pattern over coffee chatter that amuses me. I can speak of astral projection and experienced remote reiki healing with reciprocated interest, but once I mention a biblical anomaly that exceeds paranormal parameters, all bets are off…conversation over. Why is this? Crystal power and guided meditations reaffirming past lives are completely viable but an angel stirring the waters at a pool called Bethesda is completely ridiculous. Reference to spittle and mud packed upon the eyes of a blind man which brought healing always elicits a sympathetic chuckle. A story of a shadow figure walking down a hallway to confront a research team is met with enthusiasm and excitement. Look no further than the success of ‘paratainmet’ on TV to reveal that society’s appetite for the unknown is insatiable.

The Christmas season especially should intrigue us not only because of a virgin birth but because of the wise men. These Magi from the East, who I would say exhibit a paranormal researcher’s curiosity, sought out truth behind a rumor among their Hebrew slaves that a messiah would come from the East. What captured their attention regarding that story was an astrological event in the East that didn’t continue its normal orbital cycle but remained stationary. This was unheard of and they began to couple the possibilities of both rumor and what they were witnessing. Isn’t that what we as paranormal investigators do? They traveled that long distance confident that something was happening and they were not disappointed. Never before had such an event took place in their viewing of the heavens.

Our Western story presents the Christmas Pageant as happening in one night. You have shepherds in a field experiencing their own paranormal happenings, and you have the three kings presenting gifts in a makeshift stable with Keith Moon on drums behind the water trough. Ask anyone on the street if the story of Jesus’ birth took place in one night and they will confirm this. In our mind we take for granted interstate travel so we assume this luxury belonged to everyone in history. Yes, the three kings car pulled, that’s why there wasn’t a caravan transport for supplies, it was all in the trunk of an eco-friendly hybrid. Why do we celebrate the birth of Christ in the dead of winter if the shepherds were tending flocks in the fields? Where does it say that there were only three wise men? Perhaps that’s all that could fit on the first manufactured nativity scene. My wife rolls her eyes as I come up with new and creative Christmas cards debunking these misconceptions. One more…why did Herod order the killing of male children in a certain region from infancy to two years of age? Now you’re thinking! No one wants to write a play with two years worth of character and wardrobe changes.

Not many I know are eager to pick up a bible let alone discuss its contents. If you’re into the paranormal scene you’ll have more than your fair share of sci-fi within its pages. A valley of dancing bones that took on flesh, fiery chariots abducting prophets, walking dead from tombs witnessed by hundreds, angels appearing and scaring the shellac out of all who witness them, dreams that foretold of the future, a remote healing of a Centurion’s servant, and demons that even many self proclaimed modern exorcists would soil themselves if encountered. Who among the sci-fi crowd doesn’t like a good story about demons? What I find interesting in the book of Mark is that the demons are the first to proclaim Jesus as the chosen one of God. They knew who he was and he silenced them commanding them to leave their host. A human that has authority over the dominion of darkness? Now there's a fascinating story plot equal to that of Keanu Reeves’ Constantine.

There are many more examples of tales that grip a reader and leave them wondering at the possibilities. Why this literature is ignored but the Star magazine article of Bigfoot’s Love Slave sells millions is truly a mystery? Perhaps one is true and the other fiction? Which is easier to believe?

Imagine a movie trailer where a young virgin is impregnated with a prophesied King by a Spirit compared to fire and wind. An epic battle rages in the heavens over the fate of mere mortals with the said King trampling down Death by death and bestowing life on those within tombs as he resurrects from a horrific death! Hollywood should eat that up! Sure would beat the Body Snatchers or The Day of the Dead. But our misconceived notions limit our perspectives. Think about the possibilities the next time you pass a Nativity Scene. There’s more to a story than what marketing has sold us.

Advent Excess

A body of a homeless man was found in the woods behind our house. There is a strip of hardwoods that stretches the length of the elementary school that separates our property from the schools yard. Rosie has been unable to find any news article on the event and it seems to be lost to insignificance. A gun fight at the corral of Toys R Us makes headlines, but a body surrounded by groceries where children play goes unmentioned.

It's getting cold in these parts and my dad often tells stories of store alarms sounding on his beat because a homeless man broke a window in order to be sentenced to the work house to survive. I have never wanted for anything. I've had hard times within the boundaries of my paradigm, but I have never huddled against the cold wondering why the world forgot me as I perished. I always proudly exclaimed that if I were homeless I would live next to a golf course instead in the inner city. A golf course always has an abundance of geese and enough fish to sustain you through summer. Deer are numerous and there is enough forest to disappear in while remaining sheltered. There are water stations for the safety of over heated blokes with funny hats every other hole so you could easily gather the necessary liquid nourishment required unnoticed. Sounds logical and simple but is it?

By the age of fourteen, I had read every book on outdoor survival skills I could get my hands on. I decided to make a break from all the big hoopla at home and I set out to be the next Jeremiah Johnson. I made it seven hours. The land was good, my location was excellent, water supply solid, but I didn't know my ass from a hole in the ground. You can read all you want but doing is a different matter. It's like the line in a Woody Allen movie I remember that said, "Those who can't do teach, those who can't teach, teach gym." I was trying to start a fire and used up a whole box of matches with no success. A friend and his father found me and gave me a ride home. The failure was embarrassing and my dad consoled me by offering two stick to practice rubbing together in my bedroom while I was grounded. Such compassion.

My daughters naturally heard of the man's death and wanted to know why. Harmony surmised that perhaps a big tiger attacked him and she growled and clawed her demonstration. Casey seemed confused that this could happen to someone. "Where was his family?" "Why didn't he take his groceries home?" We should all ask these questions ourselves as a child would.

During Advent I decided to read and pray in my recliner while snug under my favorite blanket. The focus of the readings are on the anticipation of hope. One passage struck me.

Trust in the Lord forever! For the Lord is an eternal Rock. He humbles those in high places, and the lofty city he brings down; he tumbles it to the ground, and levels it with the dust. It is trampled underfoot by the needy, by the footsteps of the poor. (Is 26:1-6)

Compassion for the needy and poor inundates the daily devotions this time of year. When I tried to explain to my daughters why these things happened I couldn't escape the fact that while that man was succumbing to the cold fifty yards away, I was surrounded by creature comforts while reading about Jesus. As I closed my eyes and thanked the Lord for the many blessings someone was closing their eyes for the last time.

Placing our bags of excess on the front porch last week for charity pick-up I felt as if I were contributing to the holiday spirit. That seems comical now knowing that someone lay dead behind my shed. We can't save everyone or be all things to everybody, but I know I can do more to help than just recycling my used garments to make room for newer more fashionable garments. In the future as I walk my daughters through those woods to the school playground I hope I will be reminded of my responsibility as my brother's keeper. Hopefully what I'm feeling won't be lost as the wheel turns. Perhaps this Advent instead of celebrating the anticipated hope of what I can receive, I'll focus on the hope that I won't forget what I can give.


in memory of Charlie Wolfe
savvy hermit and old friend

My Canoe Has A Hole In It

Cincinnati saw the lowest recorded temperature of -25°F in 1977. I was nine at the time and was ecstatic at the amount of snow, canceled school days, and the witness of redneck antics like driving an Impala across the frozen Ohio River to Kentucky. That summer, fishing on the banks, I wondered what it would be like to see the Kentucky I had been staring at for all these years. If Terry's brothers could do it in a car then I could accomplish the same in a canoe. I was enchanted at how rugged and thick the mountains seemed. A train would split the silence every now and then giving a burst of life to an otherwise unforgiving landscape. I had to go. I boarded a canoe and began my journey unbeknownst to family and friends.

In the middle of the river I came to believe that I had made a huge mistake. The river was much wider than I had imagined. From my perspective where I fished in looked like it would take perhaps as long as eating a Sno Kone. I was wrong. I shared the channel with barges and debris I hadn't counted on. To say I was in a shitpanic would be an understatement. I could feel the deep beneath me and the current pulled at my paddle bringing to mind horror stories of beckoning dead. Having an over active imagination does not help in a time of crisis. Paddling became a chore as my limbs went numb. I attempted to stay on course but the river carried me a ways down stream. This was my first lesson of powerlessness. I wouldn't recommend to anyone under twenty attempting this let alone ten.

I reached the banks of Kentucky and strangely enough it looked the same as Ohio. I found several creeks to venture up and there were otter slides, deer, kingfishers, catfish, carp and all the sounds and smells I had grown to know in my own backyard. Somehow I thought this would be like the Hobbit's adventure outside the Shire. It was beautiful, but not as romantic as I had hoped. It would be a few years from then when I would find my true love in the swamps of Bodcau. I found my way back to where I could sit across the river from where I fished. I would have said my little town looked like a Norman Rockwell painting if I knew who he was at the time. I do remember feeling that I wanted to be back home knowing I was safe. I missed my family. I could see some of my friends riding bikes on Front Street but they couldn't hear me as I yelled and waived. I wanted some kind of recognition that I had accomplished this feat of bravery but I knew the majority would not believe me and if they did they would consider it stupidity. Staring across at the day's activities the river looked quite different now because I knew what to expect. Reluctantly I pushed off the Kentucky banks and paddled for all I was worth. Since I'm writing this at the age of forty it's safe to say I made it.

Internally I have crossed many rivers. I have battled conflicting currents, debris of doubt, and oncoming ships of sabotage. During meditation at a Buddhist Sangha, the reader read a portion from Thich Naht Hahn's writings that stated, with regards to religious pursuits, that "the canoe is not the Shore." Never had such a statement arrested me. Regardless of whether I was in that car crossing the river of winter or in a canoe fighting the waters of summer, we were all headed towards the same destination. Is it possible to find that same acceptance in my brother's Islamic pursuit, or in my sister's Mormon quest? Can I encourage and applaud the Hindu that looks at me with a suspicious eye as I stand three feet higher than everyone else in the temple? As I watched the Greek and Armenian Orthodox fist fight within the Church over bragging rites I had to wonder why? Aren't they in the same canoe headed for the same Shore? I have always pursued religious paths because I saw a distant land that might hold the answer. Romanticizing a practice or belief I would become disenchanted after crossing their mountain of acceptance or navigating their bayous of belief only to find more questions than answers. Could the answer be within the quest and not the destination?

The bearded wonders of The Eastern Orthodox Church taught me that salvation is a birthing process, not a defined singular moment. They also believe that salvation began when Mary said yes, not when a person reads the Sinner's Prayer. Chewing on this for a few years I would say I agree. I don't believe a faith will ever intoxicate me or enchant me as The Way did. But, cultural differences and unyielding requirements forced me to leave the smells and bells. My venture through Protestantism found me in several fox holes firing shots at those I was told were the enemy. I really had no knowledge of which I was shooting at, all I knew was that they were different and that fear justified our character assassinations of them. I had no 'All's Quiet on the Western Front' revelation but I did sense a lot of hype to reassure each other of things we were all uncertain of. Sort of like watching brothers and sisters trying to cope without a father. Buddhism was an extremely refreshing rest area where I was welcomed and tolerated. The encouragement from them to remain a better version of my previous faith or to seek further was not for enlightenment purposes but because I was a guest, not family. Those who have gone deep within this practice know that of which I speak. Hindus taught me that what I seek is the guiding Source within us all. After all these experiences I still find myself on a distant shore wishing I were home knowing that I am safe.

Will I ever be anything but a bastard without a homeland? How many more canoes will I try? I believe I have found an unlikely vessel to reach the shore within the Catholic Church. This Easter I will be brought into full communion with the very place I was taught was the Synagogue of Satan led by the anti-Christ. Catholics are relieved that President Elect Obama has been awarded the title of the anti-Christ so they get a break for at least four years. Still the echoes of a friend's humorous jab left me wondering. Will I again become disenchanted along the way?

At our first meeting Fr. Larry assured me that God would provide answers but that they may not be the ones I'm prepared to except. Once I made the decision to convert he assured me that this was just the first step on my journey. I walked away thinking I came so far to rest only to be told that the journey has just begun. I trust him and that is a big issue with me. When speaking with him I feel like I'm in a Verizon commercial. He would answer a theological question of mine and millions behind would give him a thumbs up saying, "You're good!" How can you argue with such an in depth history? Even if you disagree with some of their questionable practices and minute dogma, the underlining fact that the Church gave us scripture, scripture didn't give us the Church is irrefutable.

Are not the same human issues prevalent wherever two or more are gathered? I have been surprised that this Catholic canoe seems to have more than enough room for my baggage. I have discovered an acceptance among priests that really reflects the teachings of Christ. This has pleasantly surprised me. The parishioners are another matter entirely as I have noticed that many walk the aisle to receive then leave not knowing why they do so in the first place.

This time I think I will 'take the cotton out of my ears and put it in my mouth' as an old man in Memphis suggested. I have my side of the street to keep clean. I wish I could reassure myself but I know the reality of crossing yet another river and it isn't an attractive option. Must be the mountain in me that keeps me wondering what the promise of distant lands will bring. "The way that you wonder is the way that you choose. The day that you tarry is the day that you lose. Sunshine, rain or thunder, a man will always wonder where the fair wind blows." Here's hoping.