Stuffing Instead of Potatoes

I've been trying to figure out what makes me want to eat when I'm not hungry. It's sort of a science experiment. Bare with me.

Last week it was hail (yes, ice that falls from the sky) that drove me to the kitchen. Seriously, of all things, hail. I was so excited, I sprinted to the kitchen, knocking over no one on my way to get to the food. I caught myself, realizing that a rush to food with that kind of fervor had nothing to do with being hungry. In all my excitement, I was able to slow down long enough to realize that I wasn't hungry. I was experiencing a feeling of excitement (does not take much, huh?). The hail came down for twenty minutes leaving piles of white ice everywhere and I eventually ate dinner like a real live human being.

I used to think I ate only because I was depressed or lonely. From the enormity of my physical being at it's grandest scale, one might surmise that I was damn near suicidal; alone all the time.

Last night I lay in bed, mind occupied with a book alternating with TV, feeling a compulsion, a pull of sorts dropping F (food) bombs suggesting I go into the kitchen and get something to eat. I had already eaten dinner. I wasn't hungry. I tried to identify what I was feeling, couldn't get a label on it. Yet I nearly felt a physical presence akin to a creeping spider web or a crawling bug taking over my brain, urging me away from my reading/TV to stuff a snack.

I watched Intervention. I watched Sober House. I let Dr. Drew analyze and attempt a magical cure with his great wisdom. During commercials I'd glance at my book on emotional eating. I scanned food cupboards from memory, went through a visual of my freezer finally forcing myself back to my book, then to TV, then back to book again.

Finally lights out. Sweet relief! With sleep I wouldn't have to fight the beast; this urge to stuff. While awake and conscious, the sane part of me fought against the intruder. (I am woman, hear me roar!) And by sane, I mean, the part of me that refuses to succumb to eating frenzies unless the frenzy is carefully planned and in that case it's called dinner.

Emotional eating is like a fire that I am constantly trying to put out. (If I can't eat around the urge behind the emotion, I should at least make hazard pay!) People believe that it's easier to quit smoking, drinking or gambling because we don't need to smoke, drink or gamble in order to survive. Yet we must eat in order to survive. But do I have to eat every time I feel a feeling?

"Like My Hair?"

Yesterday I left work early. Went home. Got my checkbook. Went to get my hair colored. Left after an hour or so. Went back to Chris's house. 

Driving up to park in the driveway, I had a funny feeling in my gut. Walked up the stairs into the back door. Couldn't hear a thing. Walked through the kitchen. Noticed condom wrapper on floor. (Safe sex -- good.) Noticed pants and boxers on floor. Walked into front room. Noticed female pants and panties (Amber??) on floor. Reluctantly walked back into kitchen, opened Chris's bedroom door. Took breath. Walked into Chris' room. Sat on bed. Got cell phone. Called Chris. Chris answered. (No -- those were not his pants!). Told Chris of discovery. He said, "You're joking." I said, "No, I'm not joking." He said, "I'm coming home." I said, "I have it under control." 

I walked toward the sunroom. Looked upstairs. Placed call on cellphone. Person answered. I said, "Are you upstairs?" Person said, "Yes." I said, "I am downstairs." Person started to cry and apologize to me. I said, "Don't cry, please. Don't apologize to me. You have done nothing to me." I didn't want person to feel shamed. (I hate that feeling of shame.) Person tried to get grip with tears. I said, "Want me to put the clothing on the stairs?" Person said, "Yes." I said, "I want to meet him." Person said, "Okay." 

I gathered the clothing and placed halfway up stairs. I walked back into Chris's bedroom, sat on bed, called Chris again. "I have it under control." Chris was on his way home. He added, "I could call the police!" I said, "Don't you dare!"

Met both persons a few minutes later. Offered post-sex cookie, chocolate chip (my recipe). One person took me up on the offer. I commended persons for practicing safe sex. (Insert mini-lecture here.) Asked if I was supposed to throw out condom wrapper? One person took condom wrapper and put in pocket. 

I tried to think of something humorous to say. Asked persons "if [they] liked my new hair?" Both said they did. I felt good. I said, "Nice to meet you." I let them say their good-byes. I sat on the bed. I waited for Chris to come home.

Initially I felt kind of queasy, then shock, then some panic, then complete calm on the outside. I am really glad (and they *should* be too) that *I* made the discovery of them instead of anyone else. And I am really grateful I didn't find them on Chris's bed. (ugh!) I am glad I am not their mother. I bet they are too.

Oh Ye, of Little Faith

I have been attending a cancer support group. Last night was the third meeting. There is one person who really bugs me. But is that one person me? I am the common denominator in all this drama.

Seems like this is the way with support groups, at least that has been my experience. I mean if I didn't attend -- no one would bug me. But because I attend -- one person bugs me. Is it my attending that bugs me or is it me who bugs me because I attend?

If I stayed home, would I be bugged? At least at home I'd not be bugged by someone I don't know. Am I bugged because this person is so much like me? Like I'm looking in a mirror during the support group and I don't like what I see?  

If I don't go to a support group, am I supported or am I in denial? If I go to a support group only to grouse about individuals who grouse in the support group is that supportive? If an individual grouses about their everyday life during the support group is that support for others in the group? If I have limited time on the planet, and we all do, should I waste my limited time on a support group that takes up everyone's precious, limited time with grousing? Is it me who's only grousing while the others attending the support group are being supportive? Is it only my interpretation of the support that everyone is in the group to receive and to give something that I am labeling as a grouse?

I pontificated to the support group on how good (I think) I am with boundaries. I said something about how I don't do things I don't want to do. I acted like I had my shit together. One of the other people said, "You seem really intuitive and insightful." Another woman said, "I like when you sit next to me. I feel you are really strong. I get strength from you." 

A few minutes later I had to confess that I was a liar because I was sitting there in a room wondering why my lack of tolerance and compassion for something I perceive to be whining feels tested each time I attend. 

I have to continue to go to the support group in order to learn the identity of the whiner. I will keep you posted. I pray it's not me though I have doubts.

Carried Over a Threshold

(This post is not about a cat, really.)

Monday I took my cat to the vet. I had been putting it off for awhile. I find I am spending more money on cat food and litter than I'd spend if I took her to the veterinarian and addressed her health issues. I believe she may be diabetic. She's getting fatter, goes pee a lot, drinks tons of water, has a voracious appetite and she can't clean herself very well because her fat belly is in the way. She has ultra-clean front paws though -- that's about as far as she can reach with her tongue. The vet told me that cats are the model they use for human adult diabetes type II. Diabetes is a common illness in cats. This illness can present a vicious cycle. She's fat. She doesn't move much. She's too busy eating and peeing to be interested in much else -- doesn't that seem kind of like a human?

I delayed taking my cat to the vet. It's not like she can get herself there. She's at my mercy. I'm nice to her most of the time though I suppose my delay in taking her to the vet could be construed as not being nice. I like to think of myself as more of a dog person (without the dog). I inherited these cats. I have two of them - Mingus and Luka.

I asked the vet for validation of my diagnosis. This validation cost $311.00 with lab work and "toxic waste elimination fee." (Hopefully the bank doesn't mind if I skip part of my house payment this month). In addition to validation of diagnosis, the vet told me that February is Pets Dental Health Month and this means I can get a "discount on teeth cleaning or any dental procedure for [my] cat!" Then he offered an estimate of $347.00 to fix my cat's teeth. I never even look inside her mouth. Why does he have to? When is it going to be Pets Gynecological Health Month? Oh, yeah, that's the month I trade in my cats for a goldfish and pair of tweezers. I reminded the vet that February is Black History Month. I thought since my cat has partially black I should get an additional discount during February. The vet tried to argue with me but I said that my cat was at least as black as Obama. Unfortunately, I lost the argument. There is no discount for being part black, fat, and feline with bad teeth. 

As a joke I asked the vet about cat dentures? He said we *could* make her a grill. I thought if she had a grill, she might not be able to eat as much food, and by not eating, her diabetes might go into remission which would save on future vet bills, food, insulin and cat litter. Hopefully once her insulin is regulated, she'll stop making that annoying squeaking noise too.

In my spare time I have been wondering about thresholds (and unfortunately if people don't start buying more high-end bath and kitchen products, my time will continue to become more spare). 

What does it take for a person (or a pet) to realize they need to do something about their health? I am certainly guilty of this. While busy watching repeat episodes of the Real Housewives of Bullshit County, I reached beyond any threshold I ever thought I'd reach with a cancer diagnosis. The lymphedema threshold has been met without as much fanfare as the cancer because I acknowledge(d) and deal with it daily. There is a woman with lymphedema whose leg is enormous and chronically infected. I want to know what her threshold is, and is the reason she's in dire straights with lymphedema a lack of health insurance or can she still hang on with her disease, pretending she can survive the next infection? 

Do you wait until you weigh 500 lbs or a toe falls off inside your shoe or your foot is too big to fit into your car? If we know that something is wrong with our health, for instance, a doctor says "You are pre-diabetic" -- why does a person wait until they actually are diabetic instead of dealing with it at the pre-stage? When a doctor says 'pre' anything, we need to consider this a moment of grace. The doctor just might be saying -- Now is the time to do something before you're sick, tumor-filled, or dead; before you reach beyond a threshold.

In fairness to my cat who was never given a choice in her situation, I thought I'd take her to the vet to find out what's going on before my house smells like dead cat corpse. And late last night I found out that I was correct with my diagnosis. She is diabetic. Now I have to get a second job to buy her insulin and special cat food. I will have to give her insulin shots daily and somehow force her to exercise. It has taken me long enough to force myself to exercise daily. Isn't it enough that I set a fine example?

Fashionista Me

My sister found an all new worst picture of me.

Horizontal stripes too. I'm am such a trendsetter.
(For the full -- and I do mean FULL -- effect, click on the photo)

When Hairy Met Sally

I am discovering as I age that my eyesight is going. The great thing about that is that I can't see my chin hairs or my wrinkles though I know I have plenty of both.

Last night Chris and I lay side by side on his bed. He was so blurry that he almost seemed attractive (just kidding! He's cute or at least that woman at the gas station seemed to think so). I was thinking that if he was all soft-lit and blurry, I had a good chance of looking better too. I asked him, "Am I blurry?" and he said "Yep, you're blurry." We lay side by side for awhile longer, thinking how good life is for us. 

In the olden days when our eyesight was better we spent more time worrying about how we looked. Now that we're both blurry we can get on to more important things. I hope we can remember what those are.

Financial Crisis Solved!

The Peanut Butter Company of America hates poor folk -- giving them salmonella-tainted peanut butter to include in the free lunch program at some schools. I guess there really is no such thing as a free lunch and for some poor people a free lunch could cost your life.

FEMA sent out tainted peanut butter in their emergency food kits to folks in Kentucky and Arkansas after a recent ice storm. PCOA must hate frozen Kentuckians as well as the poor (same diff?). We already know how FEMA felt about the folk in the gulf states when they sent in the trailers after Katrina. "Heck of a job, Brownie!"

Remember the Bush administration, their talk of shock and awe the night they started bombing Iraq? Instead of Blackwater, GWB should have sent the Peanut Butter Corporation of America into Iraq. In fact, what if we switch the military with the FDA, have the FDA fight wars while the military protects us at home from our government (not Obama)? We could save trillions in cash and bail out every American in financial trouble.

Speaking of saving money, Chris filled out a form to get his daughter into the free lunch program this year for the first time ever. He made two dollars too much last year - just enough so that she didn't qualify for the program - thank Jesus!  If Molly had eaten salmonelle'd peanut butter she may not have been alive on the day Panty Amber ran into her while riding her bike on the way to school a few weeks ago.

And speaking of Panty Amber, Chris spoke with her this past week. She came by his house to give him money for (so far) two doctor appointments, promising to pay Mol's medical bills. He said she appeared stoned, standing in her socks in the dirt. Maybe she can't afford shoes and is on the free lunch program? He's back to square one with her because she refused again to give any insurance information which means legally the status of her bicycling mayhem is back to hit and run.  

From L.A. Times:

"The peanut butter, potentially contaminated with salmonella, was included in emergency meal kits sent to Kentucky ice storm victims, and sold to the federal government for a free lunch program."

Will Work for a Life

I met with friends last Sunday and realized that if I can't blog about my interactions with them, I don't have much to say. I want to warn them in advance that I may write about our get-together. Of course if I wrote about them I'd use different names. Mabel, Charleeze, Hortense etc. 

A blog on interactions with friends can run the risk of damaging intimacy. If I'm with them, mulling on what I might write about next, I'm really not very present, or quite possibly I'm more present than I'd be normally because I am really, really paying attention so I can make sure I get the details down for my next post. Sometimes when I'm with them, I try to think about what might make the interaction more funny. You know... actually reinventing content while I'm with them. It's for of a fantasy life I lead. If I am focused on details of our time together, I'm still not very present. Should I develop more friendships in order to have blog content?

I'm not interested (interesting?) enough to blog about real issues like exercise or making up recipes or travel adventure. Writing about those things -- does that take wisdom or just knowledge? (And so many people do it already. I'd be like a wart on a rear.) I suppose I can surf around, inform myself and repost bits and pieces of what I have learned, reformatted, in my own words of course. Who wants to read that crap from me? I can't even imagine writing about it. When I write about real things, I feel like I am channelling my mother. And she's still alive.

Over the holidays, I attended a party where a women sat down with me to talk. Finally, she said "Well, what are you interested in?" I thought about it for a moment and replied, "Nothing. I can't think of a thing." That pretty much ended our conversation.

Eating: A Mixed Review

For breakfast I ate oatmeal slopping some globs of it on my shirt which is part of my new (top) secret (until now) diet plan for 2009. The shirt is one I wore back when I weighed well over 300 pounds. For some reason after losing a lot of weight I kept this one big shirt along with one pair of enormous pants that at one time fit me perfectly. This morning I was wearing my big shirt and found myself reminiscing about the old days.

Weight loss experts (myself included) say that in order to protect us from ourselves, we are supposed to toss out our big clothes so as we lose weight moving toward perfect lives of slimdom, we aren't tempted to gain the weight we lost. Maybe these experts think that just the sight of big clothing causes a stirring, forcing us to rush back to the kitchen.

None of the fat clothes I ever wore tempted me, not even the special clothes advertised in the Lame Giant catalog. Shirts with enormous daises, holiday ornaments covered in sparkly doodads (especially around the holidays when nothing says trendsetter quite like a gigantic orange appliquéd pumpkin with glow-in-the-dark eyes stretched over the top of your sweat pants.) I bought those clothes out of desperation not because I was keen to make a fashion statement. No one on the planet (short of a Sumo) is tempted to gain that kind of weight. I never threw out my polyester/jersey bland fat-lady clothes. Like the generous soul that I am, I gave those clothes to my mother to take back to Mexico where she donates the clothing to a local charity who uses them to clothe entire villages. (No offense, Mexico).

I like to look at my big clothes, trying them on to see what, girth-wise was once possible for me - not like big girth was something of which I was proud but wow... those were some big pants. When I hold the pants up to my body I am stunned that they once fit. And I am enormously grateful that I don't fit into them anymore.

You can get an idea of what it's like being as fat as I was at my peak by putting 35 ten pound bags of sugar in your pants (your underwear will stretch - give it a try). It's hard to move that big a load. Try it with your sugar undies. Sitting is way more comfy than moving (but then for me, sitting always is). Everything I ate encouraged (is that the correct word?) me to eat more because I was in a vicious circle of eating, feeling bad about eating, and eating in order to stop feeling bad and then feeling bad about eating, and then eating to escape feeling bad about being fat and eating and bad feelings and bad feelings and eating. 

I felt people should accept and love me for who I was (a few did - mostly family) because I was not my fat body or my body fat. I was me -- the person inside of the fat that surrounded me (sort of like a troll hiding under a bridge). My perception was that even though I was really fat, I was somehow invisible. I was the size of power yet I felt powerless to do anything inside my package. I couldn't make people like me even though I was always the real me. I never got around to giving my acceptance speech on the subject because no one got close enough to listen. I was caught in a whirlpool of anger and self-righteousness and to this day I have not been able to figure out why I was so angry. I have discovered that getting caught up in the 'why' of a situation doesn't usually change the situation.

Somewhere in Mexico a village is wearing my underwear.

It was not one single moment (when you weigh as much as I did, there are many single moments woven together of panic and shame) where I hit rock bottom but a collection of circumstances that forced me out of my situation.

Part of my rock-bottoming happened while walking the hill behind my house soon after Greg died. I was by myself, walking a steep hill, slipped, landing flat on my ass, cracking my head on the ground. I hit my head so hard I remember my head bouncing back from the impact. I hurt but also laughed when I realized that I could lay in that spot forever and no one would know. Another time I fell through my rotting deck to the dirt below (distance of about 8-10') I had been warned not to go on that side of the house but for some reason I didn't pay attention -- I think that was the story of my life at that time - not paying attention. One time while crossing a busy intersection in Seattle, I tripped over a botsdot, splatting in the middle of the street. No one could even help me up because I was so big. These events were not only physically painful, but embarrassing and humiliating.

Some other inspirations on the road to Slimerville was an article in an Oprah magazine about making decisions. (You're probably thinking 'how corny can she get?') The article was clear and simple - make a decision and stick to it. No science in that. I was also reading James Frey's A Million Little Pieces about his own addictions even though much of the book was found to be a work of fiction (lies that he made up) - I could relate to what he wrote which if I recall was mostly about being an addict. I realized through reading Frey's fake memoir of addiction, I was a definitely an addict. A real one. 

After Frey's book, I became obsessed, reading books about alcoholics, overeaters and crazed family situations; memoirs about people that I described as out of control around alcohol and/or food or their family situation was a huge load of crap. The most profound of these books was Drinking: A Love Story by Caroline Knapp. I cannot recommend this book enough. I was on a diet of sorts - a diet of books about people I could relate to, and looked like, people in crisis, unhappy, unhealthy people. (Not the kind of diet where I slop food down my shirt -- that diet tip is new this year.)

I haven't cured myself though I've lost over a hundred pounds. I sometimes still eat compulsively. There are times when I can't get food out of the cupboard fast enough, (not quite admitting a binge though it's still a binge) sometimes too much food or at the wrong time (right before going to bed). When I eat like that, as if I can't wait to shovel the food in, I know there's something emotional behind the urge. If I go with the emotion - I can't even label it -- things happen so fast in those moment like sliding down a mountain on my ass, I go numb and eat. But if I stop myself, I realize I am not even hungry.

I have been introspective, attempting to isolate a list of emotions behind the urge to eat. Happiness, sadness, disappointment, depression, angry, guilt, anxiety, sneezy, sleepy, dopey, happy, bashful, grumpy ... anxiety around loneliness tops my list. My current out-of-control book club of the month selection is all about emotional eating. I realize I can eat for almost any reason though rarely do I eat out of any real hunger. I am working toward developing real hunger. Is there a class or some sort of training for real hunger?

Why did I develop this food eating coping mechanism? I have tried to analyze my past though I know from research that analysis can sometimes keep us stagnant, sort of whirling in the same space rather than forcing a change. Sometimes you have to change first and then you discover why things are the way they are. 

After careful, thorough analysis of my life including my sister's input, I wrote a short story we like to tell people so they'll feel sorry for us when they hear about where some of our frenzied eating behaviors started. (Let me know if it works on you?) 

How'd We Get So Fat, Huh? 

When we were younger, our wicked, lovely mother locked food up. She might say she locked food away because with five bratty, screaming wonderful children to feed, we cost too much money and money was tight back then. Although she'd be saying that from behind the bathroom door where she'd lock herself so she could get some peace and quiet. away from us awful kids.

There was a rumor that mom once made tuna on toast out of real canned tuna cat food, the implication was that this would save money. I'm not lying - this really was was a rumor. But I know my mom would not have eaten tuna cat food. So much for developing a sophisticated palate. One time she made us eat liver and onions while she ate a hamburger patty. When I asked her about later, she said "Liver is supposed to be good for you." She thought she was doing the right thing - making us healthier through forcing us to eat animal organs.

Mom would sometimes buy treats though she'd lock them up, usually the off-brands. Lardy-type biscuit cookies, loaded-with-sugar, artificial colorings and flavors with that small, decadent frosting-filled hole in the middle where as a child you would stick your finger inside to 'model' those cookies like Judy Garland in Easter Parade. The cookies didn't even taste that great though that never stopped us from doing just about anything to get to them.  Mom would leave the house to find some peace and quiet, leaving us to fend for ourselves, (huge mistake) clawing at each other, ravenous from not having eaten in days, we'd head straight for the screwdriver, like screwdriver-toting wolves to sheep, removing cupboard doors from cabinets to get at those cookies. We'd line the cookies up on our fingers prior to shoving them in our mouths, scoring the ultimate five-finger discount. Then of course, when our wicked wonderful mother returned, the cupboard doors would be back to their original state and we five kids would rely on her Days of Wine and Roses verses Valley of the Dolls memory to figure out how many cookies had gone missing. 

 It would have been way better if mom locked up our brothers instead of food. My sister and I wouldn't have had to share as much though we could never convince mom. 

Finally, my sister wanted you know that "We never had raisins. We only got raisin."

That's the way we remember it anyway.

The End

 This picture is the absolute WORST picture ever taken of me -- unless you have other suggestions.

Working on a food addiction will be a life-long process. I have already lived more life than I have left to live. I'll never be skinny -- don't really want that (and that's a lie almost bigger than my butt). Maybe I need larger-than-life lymphedema legs to hold up the best parts of me, my personality, my brain, my good looks, all of which need substantial support, and who better than I? I try to maintain awareness of my addictive behaviors, sometimes by the hour, sometimes by the moment depending on what kind of cake lurks around the corner. I discovered along with a uterine cancer diagnosis that my fatter self put me at a much greater risk of developing cancer. I'm not about to give cancer another chance. I wish I had known then what I know now. And maybe that's why I'm telling you. 

Aloha!

There's so much horror in the news lately. I'm not even going to get into it. I had to turn off NPR on my way home this morning and tune in to WikiWiki Wednesday... that's how bad things are getting. 

Physically my body can't tolerate a lot of this stress. I'm feeling panicky and when I panic, I like to eat because eating is my way of coping. I did get my elliptical in this morning though. I'm going to go eat a hard-boiled egg.

No one is phoning at work. 

Every thing's grinding to a standstill.

Go out and buy something and get this economy going again.

Dammit.

(I'll snap out of this soon!)