SO why am I doing this? After years of fighting off fat in silence, why did I suddenly decide to open up my life and put it all out there? I don't know. At a certain point in life you stop looking for the why's and start focusing on the what's. I am caught in the middle of those two worlds. I don't know WHY I need to share the things I have learned about myself and health and weight loss, but I know WHAT it does for me. It helps me succeed. It makes me accountable. It reminds me that I have learned something. IT feeds who I am. All kinds of things like that.
Have you ever looked at why you do what you do? Or have you reached a point where you find yourself just going through the motions? At some point, life, work, and eating got to be like one of those mornings where you get in your car, turn the keys, and when you look up, you're at work, and you have no clue how or when you traveled down the roads it took to get there. If you've ever had that experience, then you probably remember feeling impressed with yourself first, and then frightened, when you consider all of the damage you could have done along the way. That is WHY I am ding WHAT I am doing. I needed to start paying attention to the road again.
Throughout these entries, I will share exerpts from my personal journal (big deal right?), because that is going to keep me really scared. I won't keep out a thing, which means we could, you readers and I, get to know each other pretty well. I am happy to do it. This is an uncomfortable exercise for me, and my deep hope is, that if anyone is out there reasing this, it may make sharing more comfortable for you.
Weight loss is painful. Strangely enough though, leaving behind the comforts that made me fat is also scary. I have been looking for a new way to live, and the fear is that when I find something that works, I will have to stick with it even if I hate it. If your issue is weight, or smoking, or drinking, or shopping or gambling, you went there to escape something else, and you may be here because you know you're no longer as healthy as you can be.
That's what this is all about. I am going to be talking about health, and weight and food and fighting to feel as good as I--and you--possibly can. I will get on a soapbox here and there about the industries that have helped us all to become unhealthy enough to seek out blogs like this. And hopefully, as I do it, I will get healthier.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
The Journey Begins
I stopped eating on the day my father died.
It was an ordinary day by all appearances, like any other to the millions of people all around me. For me, it was the end of the world. The person I liked the most and understood the best took this sudden exit from my life. I just couldn’t understand it—even with the wisdom that comes with 15 years of life.
So when something happens to you that changes your life—not your day, not your mood, but your LIFE—those creature comforts and day to day habits simply cease to exist. I didn’t turn on the TV, I didn’t hang out with my friends, and I didn’t go to the mall. And I definitely did not eat. There was something so corrupt, so indulgent about enjoying something that tasted good and would fill my belly when a hole had just been blasted through my heart.
I didn’t eat for a week.
My Uncle Pete, a very talented chef, came to town to support his sister (Mommy), and the rest of us. When he got wind of my refusal to eat, he cooked one hell of a Chinese spread. He cooked things that I couldn’t pronounce, that under normal circumstances I would have scarfed down and remembered fondly years later. On this day however, I looked at the food, and it resembled, in my memory, a pile of rocks. I didn’t want it, or anything else, but my Father.
We pushed through the week, making arrangements, crying, receiving guests, telling the story of “that night” over and over and over again. My Mother and sister got everything ready, and my brother made his way home from Iceland, where he was serving in the Navy. I remember how he was blessed to have my father send him off proudly with a father son talk, a handshake, and a pat on the back.
Saturday rolled around, and we made our way to the funeral home. We went through all the steps, and said goodbye to Daddy. We then headed back home to begin life as a family of four.
As is customary among a laundry list of human traditions, we walked into our post-funereal house and found it filled with people, voices, and food. I walked in, flanked by two of my best friends, Trina and Tammy, and made my way to my bedroom. We talked for a minute, and decided to try and get a bite to eat. I went downstairs, and saw a jar of spaghetti and meatballs —that’s right; I said a jar, of spaghetti with huge meatballs. (I found out later they were contributed by Connie Smallwood, my mother’s longtime—to this day—Avon Lady). I got a small serving of the pasta and went back upstairs to my room.
That is when my life changed again.
I sat down and began eating my food. Now, I am not without an understanding of how the human body works. I know that after a week of hunger, I would have gobbled down anything, including my Uncle Pete’s Chinese rocks. However, as I ate this pasta in record time, I found myself filling up in an entirely different way. I realized that as long as my stomach was full, my heart didn’t ache. I went back downstairs for more heart tonic and meatballs, and didn’t stop until the entire 96 ounce jar was empty.
That was the day I became a compulsive overeater. That was the day my mind and body stopped talking. And they didn’t speak again for 23 years.
They've just reunited, so I've decided to share the details.
It was an ordinary day by all appearances, like any other to the millions of people all around me. For me, it was the end of the world. The person I liked the most and understood the best took this sudden exit from my life. I just couldn’t understand it—even with the wisdom that comes with 15 years of life.
So when something happens to you that changes your life—not your day, not your mood, but your LIFE—those creature comforts and day to day habits simply cease to exist. I didn’t turn on the TV, I didn’t hang out with my friends, and I didn’t go to the mall. And I definitely did not eat. There was something so corrupt, so indulgent about enjoying something that tasted good and would fill my belly when a hole had just been blasted through my heart.
I didn’t eat for a week.
My Uncle Pete, a very talented chef, came to town to support his sister (Mommy), and the rest of us. When he got wind of my refusal to eat, he cooked one hell of a Chinese spread. He cooked things that I couldn’t pronounce, that under normal circumstances I would have scarfed down and remembered fondly years later. On this day however, I looked at the food, and it resembled, in my memory, a pile of rocks. I didn’t want it, or anything else, but my Father.
We pushed through the week, making arrangements, crying, receiving guests, telling the story of “that night” over and over and over again. My Mother and sister got everything ready, and my brother made his way home from Iceland, where he was serving in the Navy. I remember how he was blessed to have my father send him off proudly with a father son talk, a handshake, and a pat on the back.
Saturday rolled around, and we made our way to the funeral home. We went through all the steps, and said goodbye to Daddy. We then headed back home to begin life as a family of four.
As is customary among a laundry list of human traditions, we walked into our post-funereal house and found it filled with people, voices, and food. I walked in, flanked by two of my best friends, Trina and Tammy, and made my way to my bedroom. We talked for a minute, and decided to try and get a bite to eat. I went downstairs, and saw a jar of spaghetti and meatballs —that’s right; I said a jar, of spaghetti with huge meatballs. (I found out later they were contributed by Connie Smallwood, my mother’s longtime—to this day—Avon Lady). I got a small serving of the pasta and went back upstairs to my room.
That is when my life changed again.
I sat down and began eating my food. Now, I am not without an understanding of how the human body works. I know that after a week of hunger, I would have gobbled down anything, including my Uncle Pete’s Chinese rocks. However, as I ate this pasta in record time, I found myself filling up in an entirely different way. I realized that as long as my stomach was full, my heart didn’t ache. I went back downstairs for more heart tonic and meatballs, and didn’t stop until the entire 96 ounce jar was empty.
That was the day I became a compulsive overeater. That was the day my mind and body stopped talking. And they didn’t speak again for 23 years.
They've just reunited, so I've decided to share the details.
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