Promise Land?

There's a post on Chewing The Fatz today titled Diets Don't Work - Or Do They? It illustrates an interesting point about the blogosphere that I'm discovering as I take this journey - it's fairly polarized along the "diet" and "nondiet" lines. There are those who insist that "Diets Don't Work!" - those are in the Fat Acceptance crowd. And then there are those who are trying the diet thing, whether it's Weight Watchers (who lately claim they aren't a diet) or South Beach or Dr. Phil or even getting weight loss surgery, and blogging about their success (or failure.) And some are succeeding (or have succeeded.)

The latter pretty much proves the point, doesn't it? Diets work. Eat less, exercise more, and you lose weight. Maybe not as much as you want to, as fast as you want to, but it does eventually work. Create a calorie deficit, and your body mass goes down. Which seems to imply that the problem doesn't lie in the question "Do diets work or not?" - it goes much deeper than that.

At the risk of alienating one side or the other (and that there are lines drawn between them at all seems silly to me to begin with) I'm going to speak up about this. It seems to me that the root of dieting and the root of giving up on diets altogether is actually the same. There's really no difference between actively dieting or actively "not dieting." Seems strange, but stay with me... it's true. The root of both of these is fear.

Dieting is the fear of being fat, getting fatter, not being accepted - ultimately, it's the fear of dying. Actively NOT dieting on the other hand is simply a denial, and it's the fear of failure and rejection (accept me as I am!) Ultimately it's the fear of the self, of finding who is underneath it all, of discovering what's hidden. (Which is ironic, since the fat acceptance movement is all about loving "what is." Really, it's nothing but loving the denial...)

Okay, I know that sounds harsh. It probably is. But both camps seem to be missing something, don't they? They're at extremes. Which is a famous marker of those who are addicts. Addicts love extremes. Are you a dieter? Then you're going to diet, you may lose weight, but ultimately, you're going to fail. Because diets don't deal with the root cause of your addiction (your fear). It will return once you've stopped "dieting." Are you a non-dieter? Someone who insists diets don't work, I'll never be thin, I'm genetically pre-disposed to be like this, and you should accept me as I am? Then you've simply stuck dug heels in, turned your head, and are denying what's coming. It doesn't make you any less afraid, underneath. It doesn't make death any less imminent.

Nothing does.

And that's the truth that both extremes seem to miss. Neither path leads anywhere different. They're both going to the same place. Different paths, same destination. Which makes them both look sort of silly. Restricting your calories to the point of pain, spending hours on an exercise bike, becoming obsessive about the numbers on the scale... What sense does it make? Or the opposite, living in denial acceptance... how different is that than a heroin addict saying, "I can't change who I am, I can't stop what I'm doing, so you're going to just have to make heroin legal and accept my addiction... until I'm dead."

What kind of life do either of those make? The pain and suffering remain. Maybe those who follow the fat acceptance belief are a little happier than the constant dieters, if they can come to some sort of self-acceptance. Maybe. But on the surface, it's still a denial, and underneath, the pain and the addiction still exist. It doesn't go away simply because you say you don't want to see it anymore.

There has to be a way to live life in between these two extremes, where weight loss and a healthy body image is possible, where activity doesn't have to mean mindless hours on some machine, where food doesn't have to be a constant battleground or a complete denial. That's what I long for. A life that isn't about "diet," but that doesn't exist in denial either. Not the Weight Watchers version of a lifestyle change, where you count food points and exercise points, and not the fat acceptance journey which seems simply deny the pain of addiction.

I want a life that's about living... not one that's a denial or fear of death. I want a life that is joyous, moment to moment. I don't expect pain to disappear, but I'm tired of covering it up, stuffing it, hiding it, swallowing it. I'm tired of swallowing all of my emotion or drowning it in food instead of feeling it, painful or not. And yes, I'm still afraid of what's under there, too. It's big, it's lurking, and it's been buried under carbs for the past thirty-something years. And I think it's mad.

But there comes a point... there has to come a point. As Anais Nin once said, "And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." I'm praying to come to that point. I'm not there yet, I know, and it's frustrating and painful to feel it, to want it, and not be able to access or reach it. But it is good to know that place exists... that there is a solution that doesn't involve surgery or diets or denial.

Merry Christmas from my Twisted Sense of Humor...

Me and my twisted sense of humor actually finds this amusing.

Especially the stockings! :o

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

(Click the picture to see the artist's site)

Time For a Cat Nap

Okay, are we all so enamored with the bio-medical model of the universe that we really believe this crap?

Honestly, if I could sleep my way to thinness… I’d be ninety-nine pounds by now! I sleep ten hours a night. And can sleep twelve if I want to. And could STILL take a nap mid-afternoon - no problem. Harley says I’m part cat. And considering my general aloofness, dislike of water, and sharp claws, I tend to think he’s right.

Meow.

Well I’m off to make a Banana Split cake. And a Nieman Marcus cake. And Jello. And our Christmas cookies for Santa.

Then, I think, I’ll take a nap!

Shrunk

My new jeans shrank.

Dryers are evil.

I don't want to entertain the thought that I've gained any weight. I've decided I'm not stepping on a scale until after the New Year. That's my Merry Christmas gift to me. Not a denial, not an avoidance... just a break from the stress of the numbers.

Of course, my jeans have decided to remind me anyway. Grr.

Denim sucks.

Toto, We're Not In Kansas Anymore...

This whole "diet" thing is messing with my head. Not that it hasn't been messing with my head for years. Since before I can remember, really. Has it become such a complete part of my psyche that I'm never going to be able to get rid of it? I hope not... but I can't seem to get the mentality out of my mind, no matter what I do.

Diets are based on scarcity, restriction, and deprivation. They talk about accountability to some authority that isn't your own. They want you to spend your life counting, recording, writing it all down. It's all about the numbers, the scales, weighing and measuring, counting steps, counting calories, counting the minutes until you die...

Is this really the way I want to live?

I seem to exist in two states: dieting and waiting to diet. Dieting doesn't last very long, I admit. A few weeks. Months at most. I certainly haven't ever done it long enough to call it a "way of life" or a "lifestyle." Most of my time has been spent dreading the upcoming diet, shoving all those "forbidden" foods into my mouth I know I can't have when I'm dieting, and hoping that I'll get some fabled call from the governor at the last moment, saving me from the electric chair Monday - diet day.

I've done all sorts of "diets." I've paid lots of money to be weighed and measured, to weigh and measure my food, to listen to skinny folks who used to be fat talk about how they did it, one celery stick at a time. I've eaten loads of processed crap that didn't taste much better than the box they came in. Eventually, even Twiggy would get sick of miniature portions of freeze dried broccoli and salisbury steak.

I know what a "diet" is, I know what it feels like, I know what it looks like. I know what waiting to diet feels like - the sense of impending doom, the voracious journey toward restriction, the guilt and denial and avoidance. Is there a middle ground somewhere, or am I looking for the fairy tale? Is there a yellow brick road I'm missing?

This morning I watched Valerie Bertinelli get all choked up on my television and tell me that for the first time, she was going to wake up on New Year's day and not make a resolution to lose weight - because she already had. "That could be you next year!" she tearfully insisted. "So call now!" (And while you're at it, will someone please drop a house on Jenny Craig?) I thought, hmmm... I wonder if Valerie's going to be fat again next January, or if she's going to keep up with the whole "diet" thing? Is she going to still be eating red boxes full of fake food next year? And come to think of it... why is it we never see Jenny Craig? Is it because she got fat again, I wonder, after years of depriving herself?

Not to pick on Jenny. She doesn't corner the market on diets or anything - (not that she doesn't want to.) She's got lots of competition from Florine, Suzanne Somers (and whatever happened to poor Susan Powter who wanted us to all stop the insanity by signing on to her version of it? Did she get fat again? No, wait, I wiki-ed her... she's still around!) Jillian Michaels, and Denise Austin. And not to be outdone by the women, there are endless rows of doctors - from Atkins to Ornish - out there pimping their programs, too. And let's not forget Ho-prah's protege, Bob Greene, doing his thang. And poor Richard Simmons - one of the few I think who are truly sincere. And don't forget all those programs not necessarily associated with a face, like Medifast, Nutrisystem, Slimfast, South Beach, the Cavemen... etc. etc. etc.

A diet is a diet is a diet is a diet...

Unless it claims it isn't?

Ha. Right.

That rationalization works... until you fall off the wagon and you're not doing the program anymore. I was reading Cranky Fitness yesterday, who referred to Sarah and Weetabix at Elastic Waist debating about Weight Watchers' new claim that they're "not a diet."

Huh?

I'm sorry, that must be my bad ear, what did you say?

Weight Watchers isn't a diet?

Feh! Right.

And George Bush isn't an idiot...

If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck - it's a big, fat duck.

Do you know how many people I know who have joined Weight Watchers and lost weight... and then gone off it and gained it back... and joined again and lost weight... and gone off it and gained it back...? Lather, rinse, repeat. This isn't a permanent solution any more than the others. It's designed to do one thing, and one thing only: make a profit. That's the bottom line with any of these diets. In fact, I'd venture to say WW makes a majority of its profit from re-joiners, not first time members. I could be wrong - but I bet I'm not.

I'm tired of diets... even those that claim they aren't what they really are. I don't want to buy or eat another box of crappy, overpriced, processed food. Why should I trust some outer authority to tell me what to do, how to do it, and what quantities I'm allowed to do it in? How is that any different than the rest of the sheeple yo-yo-ing up and down the diet scale and paying big bucks for the privilege?

I want to wipe the slate completely clean and start from scratch. Is there a deprogramming program for the diet programs we've been fed over the years? How do I get out of this maze of dead ends? Can I click my heels together and say "There's no place like home?"

Have I had the power all along, Dorothy?

Because when you let go of the idea of relying on someone else's authority... you have nothing but your own. Now that's some serious responsibility. And some serious independence.

Blizzard!

Yes, I said Blizzard.
And not the Dairy Queen sort, either!

Since Linda over at Pointing the Weigh asked, I thought I'd post pictures of our SNOW!

The weather outside is frightful...

But the fire is so delightful...

And since we've no place to go...

Let it snow!

Let it snow!

Let it snow!

We actually have a Blizzard warning in effect, because the wind is blowing the trees back and forth like twigs at 50 mph.

We've got 10 inches so far, and it's still falling and isn't expected to stop until tonight. But the kids are having a blast on our six acres!

Remember when you had that much energy? I know one thing. Harley's going to get a lot of exercise today shoveling. And we're going to take a walk in the woods later, across the creek. Maybe I should wish for snow every day?

Lazy Is As Lazy Does?

Lot's of talk and thinking and feeling and heartfelt intention, but no action.

Hell, you'd think I was lazy and undisciplined, like a good fat man is supposed to be.

Yet, while it's true that I got away with murder in just about every facet of my life because everything has been easy for me to either excel at, or to simply get by with a "C" average when I'm uninterested, I do have a couple of post grad degrees, I get up and go to work everyday, etc... I know I'm not actually lazy and undisciplined...well, maybe a little undisciplined, but only because I rely on my ability to intuitively understand and respond to whatever comes up without much effort.

I want my intuitive understanding to be enough when it comes to food, eating and being healthy. This seems to be the only thing in life that I'm continually thwarted by in such a big way.

I suppose it points to the thing that is deisgned to wake me up and show me I'm not really in control, the particular cosmic 2x4 that keeps hitting me over the head until I get it...until I get that the universe doesn't revolve around me. I dunno.

It seems so simple. Eat less - exercise more. It's impossible to deny the basic truth of that.

Why can't I simply do that? Maybe it's why "won't" I simply do that. Maybe I need to ask for help. But I have and I didn't really do what was suggested. So, what am I afraid of facing? Or, do I even need to figure out what I'm afraid of facing before I face it?

I tell others to stop the problem behavior and then face the emotional and psychological pain that comes up. I don't take my own advice in the area of food and eating.

Here's what it comes down to...at least what I'm feeling in this moment: no one cares.

Which means I really want someone to care. And I'm not even sure what that means.

Here's where this goes for me: I deeply care about others, but I feel I'm invisible (ironic, considering the size of my body), particularly, emotionally invisible. I'm not even certain what the pain is that I'm eating and staying fat in order to avoid (feeling invisible?), but I feel that my feeling and my heart matters less than everyone else's feelings and heart.

Is that it, the fear of being ignored, abandoned, rejected, that keeps me from taking action?

Queenie's parent's visited today and we talked about wieght, eating, food, etc... as her father has had serious health problems due to obesity, and he also had a very controlling mother when he was a boy, just as I did. Talk then turned to my 5-yr-old son and his wilfullness, stubborness and determination. I'm grateful for those qualities in my son, and while I will certainly wrestle with him and engage in a power struggle with him now and again, I'm very aware of the power I and Queenie have to crush and smother his sense of self-direction, volition and inner authority. It enrages me and nearly brings me to tears when I allow the memories to come up of how my own inner authority and sense of self-direction was crushed and smothered by the food that was very nearly literally shoved down my throat in vast quantities as a boy.

I'm getting a sense that I'm not lazy, but that I'm simply defiant out of fear of being crushed and smothered and fed into oblivion. I would rather keep up the illusion of control and keep doing what is comfortable, safe and predictable, even if it's literally killing me, than risk changing my behavior and taking action.

It's not laziness. It takes me a helluva lot of time, energy, focus and attention to to try and control reality so that I can keep the fear of being crushed and smothered inside, in the form of fat and unlived life.

I guess I'm the one who is crushing and smothering me. I'm keeping myself cut off and alone out fear of being cut off and alone.

That's fucked up.

I feel like I could really use a friend who could help me with this, but I probably wouldn't allow a friend in for fear of being given the message, yet again, that it's either them or me.

The King has left the building.

Codependents R Us

Harley and I met on the Internet, back when AOL was charging by the hour and people ran up $1200 Internet bills. Me included. When I met Harley, I was in a disintegrating marriage, and he was a psychologist with a lot of knowledge about relationships. He tried to help me fix my marriage. Can you imagine? I think he's glad he failed. :)

After my marriage fell apart and Harley and I started noticing each other in a more-than-friendship sort of way, we did what any self-respecting fat person on the Internet does in this culture. We lied. I was a 5'5" redhead... and that's where the truth stopped. I was a svelte 120 pounds, long of leg and rather busty. Well, the latter is true, but I can thank overly developed adipose tissue for it rather than a propensity toward a D-cup. Harley claimed he was a 180 lb backpacker, hiker and camper. Welcome to the Internet World of Wishful Thinking.

We never thought it would go any further than a little Internet fling. We felt safe pretending to be who we weren't. Neither of us could have fathomed that we, in fact, lived only half an hour away from one another. Neither of us could have imagined that the other was dealing with the same issue, the same pain, the same fear of discovery and rejection. When Harley wrote me a long letter telling me why he couldn't ever meet me face to face -- because he was a 400 pound obese man who had lied to me -- I felt nothing but relief... and a great deal of love.

Long story short, we met, we married, we had two children together. We also fed each other's addiction and created a safe cocoon of codependence. My ex was one of those naturally skinny guys. The one time he wanted to lose a little weight, he cut out drinking regular Coke and switched to Diet. He lost ten pounds like he was just breathing room air. Easy peasy. He never understood the concept or idea of food as anything other than fuel.

But it isn't any easier living with a fellow addict. It may even be harder - because, while he understands and sees much more about me than a non-addict would - he also has the same or similar issues and problems he doesn't want to face any more than I do. We've both been very good at dissolving our boundaries, so much so that it becomes dangerous for both of us. I sabotage him, he sabotages me, and we slide back into the comfortable place we've always rested together.

I love Harley, and I'm blessed to have such an amazing man in my life. But sometimes I wish we weren't so much alike. I don't know how it's all going to work out - I wish a had a crystal ball. Are we meant to do this together? Is one of us meant to lead the other? Are we supposed to be buoyed up by community, by the universe, like two beached whales waiting for rescue, not sure how to find open water again? Ugh, how's that for a self-deprecating metaphor? I should quit while I'm ahead.

Some days I'd say being with Harley is what makes my life worth living. Some days, I wish for someone who wouldn't tolerate my addiction, who would call me out, force me to quit killing myself and hurting everyone around me with my pain. I know there's a middle ground between those two extremes. Story of my life. Getting there. It's painfully slow.

Joy to the World

I'm tired, but I can't sleep. Insomnia is a very strange phenomenon. And a recent one, for me. I could always sleep. Like a rock. Through a nuclear explosion. No problem. But not anymore, apparently.

Now I'm up in the wee hours, pecking away at my laptop while Harley snores beside me. I always fell asleep before Harley even started to snore. At least I know he doesn't have sleep apnea. There's looking at the glass half full, right?

The wind is blowing hard outside, whistling past the windows, and I'm thinking all of those wee-hour thoughts. Like George Bailey in It's A Wonderful Life, wondering if everyone's life would have been better if I'd never been born? I don't have any icy rivers around here to jump into... which is a good thing, because I'm pretty sure I don't have a Clarence waiting to jump in after me, either.

I got a Christmas card - first one of the season - opened it up today to the message: "May the new year bring you great joy." Joy. Wow. What in the hell is that? I think I understand the concept... I vaguely remember having that euphoric feeling a few times, maybe. The births of my children. My wedding day.

No pressure or anything, but the new year should bring me JOY? Can we aim a little lower? How about just the feeling of actually wanting to get out of bed every morning? I'd settle for that. But JOY? That feels quite foreign to me. Very out of reach. Looming in the realm of the impossible.

How often do we humans really experience joy? I mean, aside from maybe Buddha or the Dali Lama or Amma or something... those few people who seem to have been lit from the inside out... how many of us get to experience that particular emotion? Is every day a joy? One thing a week? One a month? One a year? Realistically, how often should I expect JOY to show up on my plate? (Ah there's a metaphor... slipped right in there, didn't it?)

I'd like to say I'd settle for happy. But what I really want is... joy. Euphoria. Pleasure, with a capital P. And I want it every single day. Every single moment of every single day. What? Unrealistic expectations? No one promised me a rose garden? Yeah. Right. I got it.

So the food keeps going in, the highs keep coming, and I keep longing for... more. It's never enough. Even at one in the morning, when I can't sleep and the night winds howl, and I could be outside instead of in, I could be nonexistent like George Bailey, life could always be worse, always... still, it's never enough.

This hole is bottomless. Nothing could fill it.

Intuitive Eating

I read Geneen Roth years ago. Had a wonderful therapist for a while who was all about "Making Peace with Food." And now Tribole and Resch have brought the idea of intuitive eating into more mainstream thinking. It certainly makes sense to me - although I have a problem trusting that it will work. Go figure.

I know I'm passing a lot of the "food rules" on to my kids that I was taught as a child. We were never allowed to open anything. Especially the peanut butter. But that rule went for anything - bags of chips, pop, whatever. We were never allowed to take the first or last of anything. We weren't allowed to eat anything without asking first. We weren't allowed to eat anything too close to dinner. You had to eat your dinner in order to get "dessert." You had to take at least one bite of everything on your plate, even if you knew you didn't like it. You had to sit at the table with everyone else to eat dinner. There was no food allowed in our rooms. My god, the rules about food were endless...

And they're still endless, here in my own house. I'm doing the exact same thing, I know it, to my kids, as my parents did to me. It's all the same rules, because it's all I've ever known. Granted, my kids are skinny - now. But I was skinny, too, until I hit puberty, got more freedom, and started doing what I wanted (and was told I couldn't) when it came to food.

When I read about intuitive eating, I break out into a cold sweat. I'm supposed to trust MYSELF when it comes to food? I'm supposed to trust my children to know what they want, to know when they're hungry and when they're full, and let them eat what they want, when they want? Even if they want to eat a bag of M&M's an hour before dinner? Really?

That works? That creates people who have a healthy relationship to their bodies and food? I have such a hard time trusting that's the truth.

Although logically, I know the opposite is true. Growing up with a compulsive eater (my father) who had a million rules and regulations when it came to food certainly created a person (me) who has a very UNhealthy relationship to my body and to food. So if that's true... does logic dictate the inverse is true? Is there some scientific law out there that proves that somehow?

I've been reading a lot of fat acceptance blogs lately. My favorite so far is Shapely Prose, but I've also been enjoying Unapologetically Fat, Fear & Loathing in the Kitchen and First, Do No Harm. The truth is, the idea of fat acceptance has always been anathema to me. Accept my weight? Accept my body as it is? Are you kidding me? I'd rather dream about being thin and sexy and beat myself up because I'm not those things...

and how twisted is that?

Where has it gotten me so far? Hating myself because I'm fat hasn't made me thin, that's for sure. It hasn't solved any problems, it certainly hasn't made me change my wicked, bingeing ways. Hating myself because I'm fat has just made me... hate myself. That's all. No solutions there. Just more pain, perpetuated.

I don't have an answer. Do I want to be thin? Hell yes. Will I ever be? I don't know. Can I accept that? Ugh. I don't want to. But it is what it is. Whether I can change it or not, I'm a fat woman. I can certainly say that. But can I say, I'm a fat woman, and I love myself as I am?

Damn, that's tough. How do you turn around nearly four decades of self-loathing?

Pink Elephants

I like to pretend pink elephants don't exist. I'm quite good at it, actually. I seem to have a knack for conveniently "forgetting" things, behavior, patterns. Ask Harley about my movie watching. I will "forget" a plot of a movie, so I can watch it over and over with nearly the same amount of enjoyment. If it's something I've only seen once and haven't seen for years, I will only vaguely remember the details.

When I was married to my ex, he had affair after affair. He was one of those guys who could convince you (or at least, me) that he was invisible even though he was standing right in front of you. I spent a lot of time second guessing myself in that marriage, thinking I was insane. Finally, I wised up. It took me years, of course, but eventually, the evidence piled up so high that I couldn't ignore it anymore.

But a pink elephant has to be pretty big, bright neon, and make quite a mess before I'll notice. I'm pretty sure I know why. It's easier for me to live in denial and ignore something than it is to confront someone about it and deal with it. I'd rather not know. Ignorance might be bliss, but denial keeps the peace.

I still haven't learned my lesson since divorcing my ex. Harley has faults, of course, but at least he's a grown up and is willing to look at them. That's all I ask, really. My ex insisted on staying a child, lying to avoid confrontation. Sadly, he keeps reminding me, year after year, that I made the right choice when I left. Harley, on the other hand, while he moves in what I call "glacier time" actually does make changes. Sloooooooooooooooooooooowly.

I know that the eating and food stuff isn't the "problem." It's actually been my solution. And it's been very effective, if I do say so myself. It's the thing I've been using to keep myself from seeing all my pink elephants. And it's turned me into some strange, twisted version of said elephant, so that when I look into a mirror, I don't even see myself. Who I really am. I don't know who that woman is in the mirror. I don't know if I ever did.

I'm afraid of all the things I've denied over the years. I'm afraid to open that box and look at them. That's the truth. I know stopping the food means the pain is going to come up. You can't ignore 100 pink elephants for thirty-seven years and expect them not to stomp you when you finally decide to pay attention to them again. I know I'm gonna get crushed.

I'm so not looking forward to that part.

Emotional Bypass

I am a walking couch-potato cliche, I know - a fat woman sitting in my living room watching Oprah and eating chocolate. The show? "Suddenly Skinny." How could I not tune in, right?

Gastric bypass - the thing I've been fantasizing about as a magic bullet - apparently bypasses the stomach, but it doesn't bypass the reason you were eating to the point of morbid obesity in the first place. If you can't eat your feelings anymore, what do you do? I've often thought weight loss surgery must act as some sort of catalyst, speeding up the process of dealing with the pain and fear and anxiety the compulsive eating tries to cover. Makes sense, right?

It had occurred to me, too, that perhaps you might find something else to be addicted to, if you couldn't use food to cope. But that's not the fantasy in my head. The fantasy is that being thin makes people happy - that it would make me happy. It's supposed to make everything okay again. Thinness is the "answer." Isn't it?

I didn't know, though, that it's really happening to real people out there. The reality of gastric bypass can mean the transfer of one addiction to another. From compulsive overeating to alcholism. From compulsive overeating to gambling or sex addiction. Just something else to fill the hole.

Carnie Wilson, the poster girl for gastric bypass, became an alcholic. It's seven years since her surgery, and she's been sober for two years, now. Yay her.

She said, "I can find addiction anywhere in my life. I was a born addict."

I listened to her, and I heard myself. I know I'm addict - but food feels like a "safe" addiction. It's legal. No one is going to take my license or put me in jail if I eat and drive. I need food to live, so I can rationalize a food addiction much easier than I can any other. Plus, I have a fat family, and can point to "bad genes" when it comes to my appearance.

But if I lost the weight, if I did something drastic like gastric bypass - what would happen to my addiction? Would I transfer it to something else? I'm totally not a drinker, I hate the taste of alcohol. But if I didn't have food - what would I turn to? Because I know I'd turn to something. I'd have to. What would I end up addicted to? Vicodin? Booze? What?

I said jokingly the other day that I'd rather be addicted to heroin. But... would I really rather be a heroin addict? Would I REALLY?

Carnie said, after her surgery, she started drinking, and when it got really bad, she woke up every day not knowing how she was going to stop.

But that's how I feel about food. I wake up every day not knowing how to end this. I have all the information. I know all the hows. My favorite saying by Maya Angelou, "When you know better, you do better," just doesn't seem to apply in this situation. I know better. But I can't seem to do any better. Why not?

The belief, when you go in for weight loss surgery, is that if you decrease the weight, you'll decrease the emotional pain. The reality is that when you shrink your weight without dealing with all those feelings, your pain increases. That's a paraphrase of the psychologist on Oprah today.


That's the stark reality.

And that's what I'm afraid of. That's the honest truth. I'm afraid of the pain I've buried under the food. I'm terrified of collapsing into an emotional wreck. The food is keeping me emotionally functioning (if rather numb.) Without it? I feel as if I'll end up a quivering, sobbing mass of jelly that they're going to have to pour into a straight-jacket and lock in a padded room for the rest of my life.

And I don't even know what the pain is - its source or its origin. And the truth is, I don't want to know. Losing the weight means not using the food to cover it anymore. Losing the weight means leaving myself exposed and vulnerable. Losing the weight feels like death - even though the opposite is also true as well. If I keep eating this way, I'm going to die. It's quite a difficult place to be.

Diet Girl's Scavenger Hunt Entry!

Okay, here are our entries for Dietgirl's Scavenger Hunt!

We couldn't agree - go figure! So we have two entries for each item on the list.

THE LIST

Queen B's Bicycle entry



Harley's bicycle... reference... entry...



Queen B's Bald Man Entry



Harley's Bald Man Entry



Queen B's Elvis Entry


Harley's Elvis Entry


Queen B's Greek yogurt entry



Harley's Greek Yogurt entry



Queen B's wedding dress entry



Harley's Wedding Dress Entry


Queen B's Letter D Entry



Harley's Letter D Entry



Queen B's Letter G Entry



Harley's Letter G Entry



Did we win, did we win? :)

Playing Games

When I was in school, there were only a few "fat kids." I didn't get heavy until I hit puberty, but after that I was one of the fat girls. In our entire high school of 2,500, there were probably only 5 or 6 of us. That's a pretty small percentage. I stood out like a purple cow in a herd of black and whites.

Today? The statistics say 15% of adolescents ages 13-19 are overweight. So in the 80's it was about 2%. Twenty years later? 15%. And it seems to be increasing exponentially.

What's wrong with this picture?

I know there's been a lot of attention focused on this topic. Every other television or radio show talks about the obesity epidemic. Kids are getting diabetes and have high cholesterol and all sorts of ailments doctors didn't see starting until mid-life. There have been lots and lots of theories about why we're getting fatter, as an entire culture. Most of them, I think, hit the tree, but miss the target. And I think most of them miss the target intentionally - because they're afraid of what it might mean in terms of changing our world, if we really looked at the underlying cause.

Queen B's theory on why we're so fat, so young?

Obesity is the direct result and cost of consumerism.

As the gap keeps growing between the poorest and richest in the Western world... so does the gap between fattest and thinnest. Why? Because it's all about quantity rather than quality, from our houses to our consumer goods to our food. We're outsourcing labor to places like India and China - because they can produce large quantities of goods at cheaper prices. We're growing food on industrialized "farms" - big agri-business it's called - and turning most of it into processed foods full of artificial flavors, chemicals, fats and sugar. Those foods we don't process, we breed to produce bigger fruits and veggies that are full of harsh pesticides and chemicals, and the meat that's sold which isn't processed is full of antiobiotics and hormones.

And we wonder why we're fat?

According to the statistics, "The world’s underfed population has declined slightly since 1980 to 1.1 billion, the number of overweight people has surged to 1.1 billion."*

Just the other day, I was wondering about my tendency to go to extremes. But it clearly isn't just me. It's a whole culture. While I was one of the only fat kids in my class at one time, I'm actually not the only fat girl anymore. Lots of people are walking around like I am - wondering what the hell happened? There's no moderation anymore. We have a nation going to extremes - either ballooning up to morbid obesity or depriving themselves to starvation. Both of them are the direct result of consumerism.

Because some part of me believes that my consumption - in this case, of food - is going to make me happy. We've been sold - literally sold - on the idea that it is the consumption of goods, food, services - those are the things that make us happy. We only give lip service to the notion of "You can't buy happiness" - but we don't really believe it, and we especially don't live it.

I saw an interview with an actor this morning who spent time on the streets with the homeless as an exercise for a role he was playing. He said something that opened my eyes. "People seem to think that life ends when you lose all your stuff - but that isn't true. Life isn't stuff. Life is life. And it goes on. People continue to be hungry, people continue to feel, to fall in love. Life still happens, no matter what."

No matter what. Whether I can walk into a store, like I did today, and afford to buy two bags of salt and vinegar potato chips and a half gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Or whether I'm living in a van down by the river and eating out of garbage cans and going to soup kitchens every morning. Life goes on. Until it doesn't anymore - at least, for me. It will go on long after me, too - god willing.

The one with the most toys when they die - doesn't win. In fact, winning doesn't have anything to do with the stuff, with the food, with the consumption of anything at all. The only way to win this game - if you want to use that metaphor at all - is not to play. Because playing the consumerism game is nothing but a race against death, and it ironically gives you the life of the living-dead instead of the life of someone who is truly alive. You become a consumer zombie. It means burying yourself, your feelings, your entire life, under the stuff, the food, whatever your consumer-good of choice might be.

Remember that 80's movie, War Games, with Matthew Broderick? They're trying to teach the computer why nuclear war is a game you can't win, and to do that, they make it play tic-tac-toe over and over all by itself, until finally, finally the logic and light dawns. "The only winning move is not to play."

I'm really getting tired of this game. Aren't you?

*

Eliminating the Options

Harley got the job.

Can everyone say hallelujah?

Yep. Amen.

It's more money, the benefits are less than half of what we're paying now, and we're currently only managing to cover Harley and me. The insurance with the new job will cover everyone (including the kiddos) for half the price. Can you say WOOT!!? Yeah. That's what I said, too.

The only thing is the deductible. I hate deductibles. It's $1000 for a family, so that means $1000 out of pocket. January is going to majorly suck. The other thing is it will not, under any circumstances, cover weight loss surgery. The insurance we have now will cover it, but only gastric bypass (no lap bands), and only when you've "failed" a 12 month weight loss program.

Which means, it eliminates the possibility, at least while Harley's working this job. In the back of my mind, I've kind of been entertaining the thought, ever since the doctor mentioned it. It feels like such a quick fix, an easy out. A way to get thin without having to do any of the work. It's quite a carrot to dangle... or in my case, a donut.

But not only do I now have to erase it from the "improbable solutions" column, I now have to cross it off the "possible solutions" list, too. Which leaves me with either....

a.) entire lifestyle change or b.) suicide.

There I go, back to extremes again! :)

Okay, so all kidding aside, this gives me no option, however small, of an easy out. I'm going to have to actually do this whole lifestyle change thing without any medical reinforcement, at least in terms of drastic surgery. Or die trying.

And that's, unfortunately, not too far into the extreme realm... that's more the truth than not.

It's either do this thing or die trying.

Going to Extremes

Harley pointed out last night that we do a lot of "starting" and not a lot of "continuing" with this whole "diet" thing. And he also said we tend to begin going gangbusters and then sort of... peter out. Or conveniently "forget"... oh that's right, we were supposed to be eating low-carb weren't we? Oh, well, let's just order pizza... we won't eat the crust. Yeah. Right.

It's both good and bad having someone doing this thing with you. It's great support, but it can also be much easier to sabotage. So the current plan is to not go gung-ho jumping off the diet cliff this time, cleaning out the cupboards and going out to spend $500 on food like whey protein and almond flour that I'll never use anyway...

I'm tired of thinking and saying, "This time it's going to be different." This time is the same time. The only time. It's a long, continuous process of trying to figure it out and find something that works. No more "this time's" no more "No more's" either. Extremes have been, as Harley pointed out, part of the problem. I don't know that they can be part of the solution. I could "never" and "always" myself right to death - literally. What good is it really doing me?

I've always said I wished I was addicted to something I could quit. Cigarettes. Alcohol. Crack. Heroin. Anything but food. Something you could just cut out altogether and never have to deal with again. THAT I could do. But, of course, I didn't get those addictions. I got this one. I have to walk some sort of ambiguous line, and I've been doing it rather rebelliously and/or ambivilently over the years. I need food to live - but every time I make a choice about what to put in my mouth, I have to deal with the addiction. Either I give in to it, or I don't. So far, the addiction's winning. Way ahead.

And of course, having something I could just "quit" would be yet another extreme. That's part of it, too. I'm either perfect or I'm the worst at everything. I'm either eating the whole cake, or depriving myself completely. It's that pendulum swing between one and the other that I clearly have to learn to deal with. It's finding that middle way, not going to extremes, that seems to be the point.

Extreme-shmeme. :P I'd still rather be addicted to heroin.

Whoever Said Life Was Fair?

Harley and I are so different when it comes to food.

Before we lost our friend, D, to breast cancer, we all used to sit around and talk for hours about - well, everything. But one of the things we remarked on was how similar our psychology was around food, and yet how differently it manifested in the world. D was bulemic and had been since she was thirteen. She had also been anorexic at one point. And had ballooned up to 180 pounds and then the bulemia "fixed" her weight problem. That's where she got stuck.

Harley and I - we're compulsive overeaters. I wouldn't vomit by choice even if you offered me a million dollars and promised me a lifetime's supply of chocolate. Harley thinks vomiting is ridiculously stupid - why would you waste the food you just ate? He doesn't "get" anorexics and bulemics. I do. I get the inclination, anyway - I'm just not in for the actual acting it out.

But even though we have the same issue, Harley and I, we eat totally different things to get where we are. Me, I'm a sweets/carbs eater. Harley's philosophy about food? Meat+Heat=Eat. And the 2nd part of the equation is optional. He just eats vast quantities of whatever it is he's eating. I cook enough for two families most nights. He eats for one of them. Me and the kids eat the other meal.

Me, I will forgo a meal to eat a candy bar. In fact, if I could live on candy bars, Doritos, and various nefarious junk foods, I would. I mean, if the guilt didn't get to me that I'm not eating "healthy" food. So I force myself to sit at the dinner table and eat a few bites of the "real" food so I can later gorge myself on cake. WTH? I know, it's all very twisted. Welcome to the world of a food addict.

But the underlying emotional stuff? That's the same. Different, of course, in its particulars (kind of like the food!) but at the core, it's the same. We hide how we feel. Me, I'm so disconnected, I don't even know most of the time what I'm feeling. And I don't want to know - so I bury it in the food. It's truly no different than any addict.

And I know what I'm addicted to. It's the sugar. Like any white powdered substance - cocaine, heroin. No difference. I know my body is actually, physically, addicted to the stuff, because I did go off it once. The only diet I was truly successful at for an extended period (about nine months) was a low-carb diet that cut out all refined sugar and carbs. Harley and I did the Protein Power Life Plan and we both lost weight. Those size 22's in my closet? I was considering actually going shopping for a size lower because they were getting loose.

The withdrawal from sugar was evil. I was sick, lethargic, nauseaous. I should have been in a detox center somewhere, it was so awful. But after a week or so of that, I felt fantastic. And suddenly food that had previously been nowhere near sweet enough (blueberries or a cantaloupe, for example) were bursting in my mouth with sweet flavor.

Harley wants to do the low-carb thing again. I have to make all sorts of mind-leaps when I'm doing it. I can eat bacon? Heavy cream? Cream cheese? Butter? Steak? But I can't have a cracker? Or a baked potato? Or spaghetti? Hmmmm... But it actually works. I know, because I've done it. Part of me just doesn't like it. Or think it's fair.

It's true... there's a little kid in me stamping her foot and whining, "But it's NOT FAIR!" Harley gets to eat what he LOVES - meat. Me, I have to cut out everything I love and eat the stuff I hate. *whine* How come? Why me? What kind of plan or system is that, who thought it up, and where can I set up a meeting with them so I can punch them in the face? Huh?

And secretly I believe that if I have to suffer during this diet thing, then Harley should have to suffer too, right? It's only FAIR!

I know. How twisted is that?

Logically, I know it's the right thing to do. I feel better, I lose weight without even thinking about it. And I'm not eating all the junk food that I intellectually know is not good for my (or anyone's) body. Emotionally, however, I'm dealing with a huge internal protest, and I know I'm going to have to dig deep and locate my adult-self to set some boundaries and put that little one in time-out for her temper tantrums. *sigh*

And, of course, I'm not looking forward to the sugar withdrawal. *shudder*

Can't we start Monday? No? What do you mean there's no time like the present? But I have all this sugar and flour in the house, and... and... and... *sigh* Time to clean out the pantry again, I guess. Last time we did this, I gave away probably $200 worth of carbs. Wonder how much I'll end up donating this time?

Alright, alright. I'm going already.

Doctor, Doctor, It Hurts When I Do This...

Went to see a new primary care doc last Friday (3 days ago). Thin, pretty Romanian woman. With grave concern she soberly told me that I was going to die from diabetes complications and obesity if I didn't lose weight and manage my blood glucose levels better. I was shocked. Exploded the cuff on the blood pressure machine when she told me, I did. I just couldn't understand why no doc had ever told me these things before! Why hadn't I read, somewhere in the literature, that people actually died from the complications of uncontrolled diabetes and morbid obesity!

Why, I was flabbergasted, floored, shaken to my foundations! I had been liberated (yet again, for about the umpteenth time since I was a small boy) from my ignorance! I was free---free---freeeee! Finally, I could book that scuba expedition, buy that kayak, put that big order in with my broker for Speedo stock!

Fact is, addicts are never motivated by death, fear of death, or loss of this, that or the other. I'm an addict. I know this from experience. I have the most beautiful amazing children and wife in the world, yet neither fear of loss of them, nor fear of the pain I would cause them to die so meaningless a death from complications of diabetes and morbid obesity, have motivated me to get healthy.

Sorry, doc.

So fear of death and loss ain't gonna do it for me. Oh, and I should mention that my mother and father tried to instill deep shame and guilt in me, and even though they were quite successful, shame and guilt have not done it for me, either.

What's the motivator? It would be easy to give the histrionic cry of, "I don't know!" But that ain't it, either.

What I know, in the depths of my heart, is that the only motivator is feeling in my heart the real truth that I am part of something greater than myself...god, love, the Infinite Heart. The last chapter of the book in the 12 Steps is revealed to us in the first five words of Step 12, "Having had a spiritual awakening..."

So, that makes my primary sin pride, self-centeredness, hubris. I cut myself off from god, love, the Infinite Heart that connects us all and everything as one. I continue to cut myself off from that Source because I believe that I am less worthy of that love than everyone...anyone...else. How twisted is that? My imperfection is worse than everyone else's imperfection, my shadow is darker and deeper than your shadow, my demons are bigger than your demons!

Hell, that's obnoxious and annoying - even to me. What a childish ass. I wouldn't want to give love in any form to that guy. Yet that's exactly what he needs. He needs someone (a father would be good) who would stand there and wait for eternity for him to bow his head to the least of himself so he can free himself from the prison of being cut off from what he loves most. God.

I would like to write that I have a plan and I am going to follow it come hell or high water. I could, I suppose...both write it and do it. Despite the stereotype of fat people, I am not weak-willed, stupid or lazy. I don't need victory. I need surrender. I need to feel in my bones that this is the only battle in my life in which surrender is the only way to "win." I need humility to accept what I don't want to accept, that I am no lesser or greater a part of this amazing universe than anyone or anything else. I also need a plan, but that's secondary. If I devise a cunning plan and follow it with addict's pride and no real humilty, I will subvert my own cunning plan and set myself up to prove that I'm just a worthless unlovable addict.

So, as I started out writing about the evil ol' doc visit at the start of this "diet," I end up realizing that this path, for me, is a spiritual awakening, or at least an opportunity for one, an opportunity to step outside of my broken-record addictive thinking that seeks only safety, comfort and security.

Now, what are those first 11 steps again...

*Sigh*...I give up. I think I'll go Google 'Navy Seal OA Sponsors from Hell.'

Semi-funny self-deprecating humor aside, I would be grateful for any prayers.

Also, so as to do something along with praying while I am stuck in a rowboat in the middle of the ocean, I'll row. Two things have worked for me in the past: 1) a low-carb, high protein food plan and way of eating and 2) Eckhart Tolle. I'll try and bring a plan and a spiritual practice together in my next entry and see what happens. Finally, a sponsor would be a good thing to add...oh, and maybe OA meetings. There's a concept. More on that later, too.

In this moment, I want God and vast quantitites of venison jerky.

The King has left the building.

Off to See the Wizard

I'm a smart girl. I've got a bachelors in mumblemumble and a Masters in blahblah. I know quite a lot about nutrition, actually. I know the basics, of course: eat less, exercise more. But I also know all the other stuff, about transfat and omega 3's and 6's and good carbs and bad carbs and mixing up your exercise and... well, all that stuff. I'm not stupid. I listen, I pay attention, I'm teachable. I learn. I've managed to pull a near 4.0 in a college degree program and write a Masters thesis.

So why is it that, when I decide to change my eating habits for the better, because all the logical signs point to doing so, I start out with the best of intentions, and end up with this:

What is this, you ask?

It's a plate that used to hold the rest of my fourteen-year-old son's birthday cake. I ate the rest of the cake last night. After my best-laid plans changed, and we ended up taking the fourteen year old out to dinner (to celebrate his report card - all A's and B's for the first time since kindergarten!) where I tried to be "good" but ended up eating fries and a burger. Then, we picked up the seventeen-year-old and went out for "dessert" at McDonald's, so she could hang out and play with the Prince and Princess in the playplace. I didn't intend to get anything. But somehow ended up with a Reese's McFlurry in my hands.

Then, when we got home, I felt sick. So what did I do? I followed my inner Marie Antoinette all the way to the kitchen and decided to eat cake. Except "decided" isn't really the word. It's more like I was possessed. Like the girl in the Exorcist. I wasn't myself. Ask Harley - my head was spinning, and I looked like I could spew pea soup at any minute. Really. So what happened was, my inner Linda Blair followed my inner Marie Antoinette and they had a little celebrity pig-out party at my expense...

And this morning, I'm feeling sick and guilty and ashamed and disappointed and defeated. Again. Again. Again. How does this keep happening? How can I be so smart and so stupid all at the same time? Logic seems to say, if I was a normal person, I could do this. I could set goals and accomplish them. That I can't seem to do something so incredibly simple makes me wonder. Is it me? Is it something else? Is something in me just... broken?

I know I'm a food addict. And "addiction" has a huge relapse rate, no matter what the substance. In fact, relapse seems to be part of the process of what they call "recovery." I tried doing OA (Overeaters Anonymous) for a while. You know - meetings, the Big Book, the Twelve Steps, getting a sponsor. The whole kit and kaboodle. I threw myself into it as hard as I ever did at Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig or Medical Weight Loss or the Cabbage Diet. I lost (like I always do!) 10-20 pounds. And then I started "cheating." And gaining again.

But something from that particular program stuck with me. The first three steps of the twelve. (That was as far as I got... step three!)

1. We admitted we were powerless over food — that our lives had become unmanageable.

2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

Now, I have to tell you... I struggled with these three steps. I struggled with the concept that these three steps even existed in a world of medical and biological "cures" to our every ailment. But something else in me, something deeper than my inner Marie Antoinette and Linda Blair - something in me said, "Hey, stupid! Pay attention!"

I could argue with these steps from now until the cows come home (or until I die, 500 lbs and still eating cake, of a heart attack.) I've even given it a shot. The first step makes me wince. What do you mean I'm 'powerless' over food? I can stop any time I want! )Why does that sound so familiar? Hmmm) It goes straight to the heart of willpower and control. Of which, I clearly have none. My will has gotten me absolutely nowhere. Or, more to the point, it's gotten me straight into the cookie jar.

Step two introduces the concept of a "higher power." Eek! I've never been a big "God" person. I have sisters who are extremely, fundamentally religious, and the concept has always been shoved down my throat strongly proselytized in my family. However, over the years, I've come slowly to my own version of spirituality. It doesn't involve a big, scary parental God, but it does acknowledge something greater than myself. So step 2 finally became do-able for me.

Step three, on the other hand. *sigh* I get rather stuck there, I admit. Turn my life over... to someone else? Ack! Where's that cake?

Back to step one. Admit you have a problem. Okay, it's true. I'm a food addict. I seem to have no control over that. I have no control over food, and my life has become almost three hundred pounds high cholesterol thyroid disease very unmanageable. I need help. If I'm not going to resort to weight loss surgery, I'm going to have to go even higher. Hello, God, Are You Out There, It's Me, Queen B!

Now it's just the matter of turning my will over... How does a control freak let go of control? *sigh* Good question. Anyone have an answer? I told myself I was going to keep blogging, even if I slipped. Even if I was ashamed, even if I f---ed up failed. I was going to keep blogging. I read all sorts of blogs about people doing it, succeeding, and I desperately want to be one of them... but I know I have to find my way. This process has to be useful to someone. Somehow.

It's a matter of life and death for me. I have to find a way. Maybe the answer really is to stop looking for a way and let go. Surrender my "will" to something greater than myself. Because my will seems to get me into nothing but trouble. Stop trying to lead and just follow. Follow the yellow brick road. Follow, follow, follow.

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain...

Here we go again.

King Harley's Monthly Photo: December 2007

Before photo, front: December 2007

Before photo, side: December 2007

Change of Venue

Every other Sunday, I take my seventeen year old daughter out to a restaurant after I drop her fourteen year old brother off at their dad's. Usually, we go to Big Boy. It's cheap, it's convenient, and more importantly, I love their waffles - and their hot fudge ice cream cakes. Can you say "carb addict," boys and girls? I knew you could!

So this week, we're changing venues. There's a local restaurant called Friar Tuck's that offers not only lo-cal/low fat choices on the menu, but light "desserts" as well! Woot! I'm totally into the idea of being able to indulge while not OVER indulging. I've eaten there before (years ago) so I know their food isn't bad.

We'll see how the daughter takes to the idea. She loves the Big Boy spaghetti, so I imagine this is going to go over real easy - like a pregnant pole-vaulter! We shall see. Mom's got the $$, so mom chooses the place she spends it. Seems fair, right?

Better choices. I'm learning.

Queen B's Monthly Photo: December 2007

Okay, here it is:

My bathroom mirror, in all it's toothpaste-spattered glory!

Taa Daa!


I know. Impressively messy, isn't it?

And here it is again! In case you missed a spot...

Those, by the way, are my new 28W jeans. I'm hoping not to wear them long (I don't mean like, right now... ew! 'Nuff of that, this isn't a s-e-x blog, and while I'm sure there is actually a site somewhere on the Internet that might appreciate hearing about the mating habits of two human whales, I'm not volunteering my services in the name of science or anything else, thankyouverymuch!)

What I mean is, I have a closet full of 22's hanging patiently in the back behind all those dreaded summer sleeveless tops that would like to see the light of day again.

The birthday cake I had yesterday on my occasion of my oldest son's 14th birthday (I have two children from a previous marriage - they live with their dad) isn't going to help me in that future endeavor, however. That much I know. I'm a sucker for cake. And my god, what a cake! My best friend, D, who died last year (I know I mentioned her at least once already) was bulemic since she was a teenager. (That isn't what killed her... unless you believe throwing up Twinkies and Phish Food causes cancer.)

Anyway, she was a frosting lover as well. She could eat me under the table, that girl. I used to joke that I wished I could be bulemic. (I detest vomiting. Yuk!) She could (and did) go to Sam's Club, buy not one, but two (one white, one chocolate) sheet cakes, and eat them. Herself.

Why do I tell that story? To put things in perspective, I suppose. I ate one slice of cake. Granted, I didn't stick my finger down my throat afterward (although I did have a nice sugar-induced semi-coma afterward) and it was way too many calories and not good for me. But I didn't eat the whole cake. I didn't even go back and lick the frosting off the edges of the container.

Small victories, right? Baby steps. Sanity. I'm working on it.