consumed

"Gluttony is an emotional escape, a sign something is eating us."
-Peter De Vries

"Well, I hate myself.  I already have a pint of ice cream, a pizza, and mini eclairs.  I don't need these cookies.  I'll have to put something back.  Pizza.  I'll put that back.  I have pizza at home.  But no, that's why I came here.  I want this kind of pizza, not the kind I have at home.

"I'll just put back these eclairs.  I can do without them.  Yes, I feel good about this.  Actually, no, these eclairs remind me of the time when I was in college and went to Publix and bought eclairs and ate them all in my car to soothe the pain of being a gigantic loser.  Those were good memories and I think I want to re-capture them.

"And I really want this ice cream.  And the cookies.  I haven't had the cookies in a long time.

"I'll make chili dogs when I get home.  I don't need this pizza.  But if I bought the pizza, I could have that the day after.  That way I could satisfy my cravings for chili dogs and pizza.  Yeah, I have to keep the pizza.  But I have one at home.  But this one has a cheese stuffed crust.  I'm definitely keeping the pizza.  Nah, the one at home is just as good.

"Okay, pizza is gone.  Too many sweets here.  Okay, ice cream gone.  Just eclairs and cookies.  That's not too bad.

"Okay, the ice cream is back.  I know I can do without it but it will literally be on my mind, making me crazy, until I eat it so it's better to go ahead and get it so I won't drive myself nuts.  But that means I'll have to, have to, put back the cookies.  I've got to compromise.  I don't want to spend too much money.  Or calories.  But my diet is already shot.  What's another weekend binge?

"Damn it.  Okay, keeping the eclairs for sure.  It's just...I'm so annoyed right now and these frozen foods, these processed pizzas, is what soothes me.  I know I'm hurting myself.  This is not normal, healthy behavior.  But I'm sad and so I just don't care.

"Screw it, I'm gonna get the pizza too."

This is an average conversation I have with myself when I go to the grocery store, except I use a lot more foul language and stand around being indecisive for a longer period of time.  People passing by probably think I'm lost.  And in a way, I am.

I've struggled with my weight over half of my life.  You'd think it would be easier to deal with by now but it's not.  I think about food and my weight every single day.  I think about everything I put in my mouth.  I chastise myself for the bad things because I know it will lead to weight gain and I complain to myself about the good things because I know it won't bring satisfaction.  I have to assess my wardrobe every day and wonder what I can or can't wear because I've gotten too big or small.  It's a struggle between calories and comfort.  I get lost in the swirl of butter cream and bat shit crazy and there are days when I wish I could just get it under control.  There are days when I wish I didn't care so much.  Or at all.

There's the logical part of my mind that knows I can lose weight.  I've done it several times before.  But there's the insecure hurting child deep inside that craves the satisfaction that only sugar can provide.  And when it comes to logic and pain, pain will always win out.  It's the underlying weakness that's the strongest force within me, popping up and making its way to the surface during my struggles, filling my cells with the urgent need for food, any carb to curb the current crisis.

It's embarrassing to lose weight and have people notice...and then gain it back...and have people notice.  It's like, "Have you seen Brannon?  He's getting fat again.  He was doing so well.  It's a shame he's letting himself go."  But they just don't get it.  I didn't suddenly find myself overweight and then took control of my body and lost it and that's the end of the story.  It's a constant, brutal struggle to stay sane, slim, and satiated.

It's made even harder because you can see my struggle.  I wear it around my waist.  I feel exposed, like my pain and shortcomings are out there in the open for everyone to see.  It gets tiring and I think it's especially hard because I can't avoid food.  It's in ads in magazines and on television.  It's in my kitchen.  It's always in my head.  It's cultural.  It's social.  Celebrate with food.  Gather the family around a buffet. 

But for me, it's not cultural.  It's not social.  It's emotional.  It's sacred.  It's spiritual.  When I meet someone for dinner, I'm more excited about the meal than the company.  And I want to gather my food and go into a private room and eat it alone.  I want to go through my ritual of chewing and swallowing and savoring, of experiencing different combinations of condiments and mixing all the sides and seasonings.

Every time I eat, it's a religious experience.  Pasta is like a prayer.  It calms and centers me.  It takes away the hurt and the pain.  How could I not want to recapture that transcendence again and again?  Especially when my head is in chaos most of the time.  It's a legal high, a harmless elevation.  But it's only harmless when experienced occasionally.  Otherwise the side effects add up and suddenly I can't button my pants anymore.

I don't want to blame my crappy job or lack of friends for my unhealthy relationship with food but those things really do drive me to eat.  I'd like to say if things were better, I would eat better.  I don't know if that's true.  It's not even a good excuse.  We all have our problems but not all of us deal with them in such unhealthy ways.  Sure, a lot of us do but a lot of us don't.  I just wish I could be one of the healthy ones.

But it hasn't all been a series of failures.  Through writing about my struggles with food and emotional eating, I think I've come about as close as I can to identifying why I eat the way I do.  Unfortunately, that's about as far as I've come.  Despite determining many of the causes of my caustic relationship with food, I have yet to find a way to fix it.  All the multiple episodes of weight loss have occurred despite my bad habits and habitual cravings.  I never cured them, only temporarily deflected them.  But there comes a time when I feel too good, too accomplished, and the ugliness, that weakness, bubbles up again and I'm put back into the clutches of agony and the resulting addiction.

Eventually my body is going to give up.  How many times can you bounce back from extreme weight loss to extreme weight gain?  I also fear eventually my heart will give up.  How many times can you bounce back from extreme accomplishment to extreme failure?

It's mind over matter, food vs face, health and heft.  It's nothing new.  But it doesn't get easier with your head in the way.  And no one understands unless they've been there before, as many times as you have been.  Can I beat it?

I want to sit down to dinner with someone and not have food be the main course.  I want to be satisfied with one slice of pizza.  I want to skip dessert without feeling like I have deprived myself.  I want to go to the grocery store without getting into a mental argument with myself.  I want to be able to skip the candy and enjoy a glass of water.  I want to use food to celebrate, not medicate.  I want to feel normal.

I don't want to starve anymore.

cacao kapow!

Valentine's Day hit me like Chris Brown in a Bronco.  I'm not talking about just being alone (although that did have a lot to do with it).  I'm talking about the enormous amount of crap I ate.

I won an entire plastic container full of Hershey Kisses from work and then the store gave everyone a box of chocolates and my mom bought two boxes of chocolate for me.  After consuming that much sugar and chocolate and lard and fat and lard and sugar and chocolate and fat and lard and more lard and the occasional coconut cluster that slipped past my security measures (yuck), I felt like total garbage.

It's kind of amazing how you don't realize how bad you stopped feeling until you start feeling bad again.

I always thought I was impervious to sugar, caffeine, Aspartame, vitamins and minerals, love, legally obtained prescription drugs, etc.,  because I can have that stuff and it doesn't make me more energetic or foggy or good or bad.  I've always walked around generally feeling like crap.  So, when I started exercising and eating less greasy, fast food-type items, I didn't feel more energetic or "alive" or better physically or even mentally.

All it took was a near month-long binge of boxed chocolates to make me realize I didn't feel as bad as I believed.  And you might say a month-long binge of chocolates will make anyone feel that way, no matter what condition they started in.  Even the most lethargic sloth would come away from three boxes of cocoa-coated caramels feeling worse.  But that chocolate wasted feeling was how I used to feel all the time before I started dieting and exercising.

I felt bad that I indulged so heavily.  I write these entries about doing well.  I write about moderation and it's okay to cheat every once in a while and you just get up and do better the next time around.  And then I binge.  And it happens to everyone but I still feel like I should be a better example.  I've battled food and my weight and my addiction to food for years and you'd think I'd develop some sort of resistance to the constant cravings.  But, no.  In a lot of ways, I'm no better now than when I was seventeen and bingeing on Doritos and Diet Coke.

I also feel like I'm not as in touch with my body as I should be.  I don't know what's going on inside.  I can't detect the changes in my mood or my middle.  There's a giant disconnection there and I don't know how to harmonize my senses and awareness. 

If anything, I guess this overindulgence was a good lesson.  There might be something to this diet and exercise after all, folks!  Maybe it does make a difference, even if the differences are subtle and fluid and not easily recognized by those who aren't in touch with themselves.    

double d's

Several weeks (months?) ago, I spoke with a fellow blogger about some of the things going on in my life and in my head.  After giving him a couple of my symptoms, he mentioned a lot of them correlated to the dreaded DIABEETUS.  He has it and knows the adverse affects of the disease. 

I never thought even thought about having it but it's always a possibility.

You know, I walk around and do my thing and feel these crazy thoughts and wonder about the source of my psychosis.  For the longest time, I thought I was depressed.  But I never felt comfortable with that label because it feels like an "easy" diagnosis.  Someone has a bad day and they have depression.  I have bad days every day.  I don't feel good about anything.  I float through life, my nerves pinched to numbness.  But I can also get out of bed each day and don't feel those aches and pains associated with depression.  

Diabetes can make you feel bad, too.

So, what's the deal?  Is it diabetes or depression that makes me feel like such a basket case?

Or what if I really do just play the victim?  Or what if things are a bit heavier?  What if theres' a third "D" swimming around my gut?  What if I really do have a demon inside?  Holy crap.  I just want to know what's wrong with me.

How does anyone know what's wrong with them?  Does anyone ever get to the heart of the hurt?  Or do we flail around and fudge our way through our frustrations?  Depression is an easy answer.  Diabetes can be a catchy conclusion.  Even possession, while not as practical, is possible.

Writing has been one of the most effective ways of trying to figure myself out, to organize my thoughts and fears and lay them out in an organized manner so I can identify and try to solve my problems.  So far, all I've managed to do is express how I feel without getting to the heart of why I feel the way I do.  I've got to figure out the cause before I get to the cure.  Is it a creature or is it chemical?

How do we ever know?  How do we find out?  And how do we go about solving the strain of sugar and spirits? 

devil on your back

"And every demon wants his pound of flesh..."
-Florence and the Machine, Shake it Out

Do we all have demons?  Are we all required to claim a vice at the beginning of our lives?  The world is stained red and we have to suit up with sex or alcohol just to make it through.  We all feel the pull of pain and we choose different methods of self-medicating.

My method's with the marshmallows.  I eat my feelings.  I stuff down my pain with pasta.  I'm fat.  I'm in the fat group.  That's my addiction.  That's my comfort.  That's my demon.  And it's disheartening to know I'm a part of such a problem.

I'm the fat stomach the camera from one of those news segments covering "Fat America" zooms in on as I walk across the street.  I'm the open mouth stuffing fries into my face.  I am the target audience for diet pill advertisements and fat burning exercise infomercials.  I am inundated with Burger King coupons and thin model magazines.  I'm torn between the temptation and the torture.  My brain is assaulted by all these mixed messages of decadence and deltoids.

The holidays hit me pretty hard.  I have to admit, despite my weight loss and my new healthy attitude toward food, I'm still addicted to the (good) bad stuff.  And for the past two months, I have shoveled food in my mouth at any given opportunity.  Naturally, I let myself go during Thanksgiving and Christmas but I also went wild in the days between.  Let's not forget my birthday was also wedged in there so I had to celebrate with a gigantic pizza and cake.  I ate a lot of fast food and couldn't wait until dessert so I could dig into marble cake with whipped icing or Mom's homemade peanut butter balls with almond bark.  I ate with abandon and didn't give a crap.

I always justified my eating habits by saying it was a temporary holiday thing and I would go back to normal after Christmas.  But now that it's the new year, things are hard.  All I want is more cake and that's something I wouldn't have dreamed of five months ago.  Did I somehow change my chemicals by eating healthier and then changed them again by eating garbage?

If so, the transition begins yet again.

bran before and after

I waited a whole year for this picture.

When I saw the picture of my sister and me together last Christmas, I was heartbroken.  I was so big.  How did I get that large and not notice?  I'm sure I was in denial, sure I could ignore it until things in my life changed for the better so I could focus on bettering myself.  But nothing changed and when I saw the photo, I knew I had to be that change.

I told myself I would not repeat that Christmas picture looking the way I did.  Long time readers will know I've been dieting and exercising all year.  I've lost approximately 50 pounds.  I've probably gained at least 10 of them back in the past 2 months (I've been too ashamed to weigh myself lately so I don't know the exact number) due to birthday bingeing but that's another entry for another time.  For now, I want to focus on the positive.  Yes, I actually can do that sometimes.

I was excited to take this year's Christmas picture, anxious to see the changes.  It wasn't as big of a transformation as I was hoping.  Sure, clothing and lighting and angles play a significant role in revealing the body but I thought 50 pounds would show a more dramatic change. That's not to say I'm not happy with the difference.  I definitely look better and I'm happier where I am right now.  I can mostly tell in my face, which is good.  But I still have a belly.

I'm working on it, though.  I didn't put the weight on in a year and it will take more than a year to lose it.

I'm cool with that as long as I'm always making progress.

Starting January 1st, I'm going to begin my diet and exercise anew and at the end of the year, I'll take another Christmas picture and hopefully I'll see more positive changes.  And no man boobs.

Left: Christmas 2011 with my sister.  Right: Christmas 2012 with my sister.

black fried day

I'm full of cake and milk and malice so bear with me.

Thanksgiving wasn't as terrible as I anticipated.  We usually all congregate at my dad's mother's house, as per tradition.  But, through the years, every time one of my male cousins reaches sexual maturity, he knocks up some girl and then has to visit her relatives for the holidays.  This has led to a decreased number of relatives who come over.  Fine by me.  This year, it was mostly my sister and me and our cousin and his boyfriend.  We all sat in the living room while the relatives with children sat in the kitchen and the older relatives sat in the dining room.

My sister and cousin mostly talked about drinking.  I don't drink so I didn't have much to add to the conversation.  And as much as I might have residual ill feelings toward my sister, she's quite the comedian.  My cousin's boyfriend really took a shine to her with her quick wit and sardonic delivery.  I'm telling you guys, she's more cynical than I am.  But she's funny so she can get away with it.  I just sat back with my lemon pie and listened.

At one point, some random toddler waddled in and went over to where my sister was sitting and just stared at her.  Shannon visibly tensed up as the little girl bore a hole in her head with her inquisitive eyes.

"Who is that?" I whispered to her.

"I don't know but she's freaking me out."  Then, she got up away from the girl, cringed, then sat closer to me.  The little girl kept staring.  Shannon kept freaking.

I'm telling you guys, she' dislikes kids more than I do.  She's a bitchier, female version of me.  I can respect that.

Black Friday wasn't as bad as anticipated, either.  Had to be there at 6AM instead of the usual 3:30AM.  I did have an irrational fear of sudden diarrhea, though, based on the enormous amount of fried turkey and greasy mac and cheese I ate the day before.  Fortunately, I made it through without any oozing.  The five shots of Pepto I did before I went to bed and the five more after I woke up might have helped me out with that. 

Surprisingly, I also didn't have many rude customers.  Although, I did have a few gray hairs who came up to me and said something along the lines of, "Excuse me.  I have two shopping carts and three shopping bags filled to the brim with clothing and there's approximately twenty people in line behind me but could you tell me the price of each piece of clothing as you scan it thanks!"

And I'm all like:

But I did have time for a cold pop.

salt soul

I finished Insanity on a lackluster note last week.  I had a lot of plans with people after work and that made it hard to exercise because I got home late and had to be up early for work and I also gave myself the lame excuse that one more week wasn't going to make a difference.  I didn't have a six pack before that last week and I wasn't going to have one after.  I think I worked out three out of the six days I was supposed to, which isn't terrible but I really wanted to finish strong.

Not a great end but the fact that I pushed myself for two months and sweat buckets each time is great.  I have muscle definition in my arms and I can do way more push ups and crunches than before I started and I have way more stamina...ladies.

I want to go back to the 8-week workout I started back in January.  I thought it would be a good idea to cycle through all my fitness programs  but I also want to take a week to do some lower intensity workouts, like my mom's walking DVDs, before I hit it hard again.  You know, something to give the old knees a break from all that Insanity pounding. 

Just for kicks, I popped in my P90 DVD two nights ago and breezed through the workout!  Insanity has really gotten me in better shape.  I remember huffing and puffing through P90 when I did it several months ago but this time around I was really able to keep up.  That was a good feeling.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still tubby and tire easily...just not as tubby and don't tire as easily.  It's improvement and I'll take it!

I've also tried to incorporate walking outside because the weather has been gorgeous lately.  I'll post pictures of my route on my next entry.

I've been a bit more relaxed with my workout schedule.  Since I'm not following any program, I don't feel as compelled to be strict, which is good and bad.  I haven't reached my goal weight so I shouldn't be so relaxed but at the same time, I have worked hard this year and I'm really just taking an easy week or two but I do intend on going hard again, even through Thanksgiving and Christmas.  With my work schedule and family obligations and tons of turkey, I'm sure I won't be able to exercise every day but that's okay.  As long as I keep going.

I think I'll be able to.

It's only the days that I want to exercise that I don't that bother me.  I also need to add that I've been eating badly lately.  Lots of candy.  Slipping in more and more fatty foods.  I need to reel the cheating in big time.  I'm being too lenient with my diet.  I can understand slacking off on the exercise after the boot camp from hell I went through for two months but food should remain non-negotiable. 

So when I eat crap and then don't exercise on a day I'm supposed to, it worries me.  Sometimes I don't get up and go but other times, despite my internal conflict, I push it all aside and just do it.  By the time I've got my shoes on, all hesitation is gone and I'm good to go.

I just feel better when I exercise.  Don't get that statement wrong.  I haven't turned into one of those people.  I don't physically feel better but I do mentally.  It's one more victory, one more fight against the calories I've consumed, one more attempt at creating a balance.  I'm starting to see that every bit of physical exercise is worth it, despite how I felt about the last week of Insanity not making a difference.  Sure, I wasn't going to get ripped but I could have burned off some of those extra candy calories. 

It's just when I wake up in the morning and I'm hurting, when it's difficult to bend my legs to get out of bed, I love it (although it's actually not good because it means I didn't sufficiently stretch) because it makes me feel like I really worked out, really pushed myself.  It's like how I feel when I sweat profusely.  I know I accomplished something.

I also hope some of that salt has seeped past the skin, that a switched has been flipped on, that I'll continue to be physical because I know I need to be.  Food is such a temptation for me and I am still so weak, despite the weight loss, despite turning down doughnuts, I still struggle.  And exercise is a good way to offset the days when I can't say no.  I hope exercising becomes a part of me, something I do regularly.  It doesn't have to be every day but at least four times a week.  And not even every week.  Maybe some days I can do five days a week and others three.  I don't have to be strict about it but I need to be firm, to keep myself accountable and remind myself that I need to get up and go, to feel the fat fall away as the sweat pours out. 

binge and not break

Yesterday, I felt I ate too much.

I really tried not to freak out about it because I've made so much progress when it comes to slipping up.  I've learned (or thought I had) that I can just let it go, realize that making a few missteps here and there will not undo all the progress I've made.  I know that.

But it will slow me down.  And now that I'm so close to reaching my goal and because it's so close to the end of the year, I really want to stay strong and not mess up so I can be sure I'll reach my goal weight by Christmas.

It's not even that I ate really terrible foods but I just ate too much during my three meals.  I'm constantly comparing the foods I eat to how much I exercised and thinking if it will cancel each other out.  For example, if I feel I really pushed myself with a great workout, I might have an extra serving during meal time or opt for a low fat dessert afterward.  Or if I feel I just went through the motions during the workout, I'll cut back on my food intake to try and compensate.  Just trying to create balance, y'all.

Yesterday, I did really well as far as cardio.  It was so nice outside and I had to take advantage of the cool wind so I went walking for an hour and I was such a BAMF that I immediately went inside and did an hour of Insanity.  Two hours of exercise?  That's just not me.  I'm such a lazy, unmotivated person.  But not yesterday!

So maybe subconsciously I gave myself some jiggle room and ate too much.  But during every meal?  What I should have done is been proud of all the calories I burned and kept it that way instead of replacing them with heaping piles of noodles and cheese.  But I love noodles and cheese.

So I'm a bit pissed at myself and kind of embarrassed about it because I feel like one of those people who are obsessed with every calorie they take in and freak out over having too many Tic Tacs.  I'm definitely not like that.  Yet.

This certainly isn't the first time I've overdone it with food.  But I think this is one of the few times I haven't planned it.  Usually when I cheat, I plan it out.  I tell myself that I will have pizza on Saturday.  That way, I still have control.  I know when I'm going to be bad because I've planned it and allowed it and I've internalized it and accepted it and it's okay.  But yesterday, I didn't plan it.  I didn't allow it.  It just happened and that took away my control.  And that sent me into a minor flush of frustration  

I'll be okay.  That one day is not going to undo all the hard work I've managed to accomplish.  But I guess it goes to show that no matter how much mental progress I've made in regards to trying to lose weight in an emotionally healthy way, I'm still going to encounter setbacks and self-loathing from time to time.  The key is not to let it envelop me.  The key is to acknowledge it and simply move on from it.  Tomorrow is a new day and a new chance to do better.  And in fact, I have done better today.  See, there ya go.  There's always a chance to start over, to regain focus, to renew drive, to throw out punishment and take in awareness and acceptance. 

fluctuation frustration

The compliments keep pouring in...

Last week, I rang the doorbell at work to be let in and a coworker unlocked it for me and as he opened the door, he said, "Get your skinny ass in here!"

That was a nice way to start the day.

Later on, another coworker and I were talking and she said, "Are you still on that diet?"

I nodded.

"Well, there's almost nothing left of you!"

That was also nice.  And it was flattering but there's plenty left of me.

A former co-worker came in just a day or two ago and also commented on the fact that I had lost weight.  And today, a co-worker that only comes in once a month asked me if I had lost some weight.

"About 47 pounds now," I said.  I've been fluctuating between 47-48 for the past two weeks or so.

"And I'm just now noticing?"

It seems to be that way.  I received a few remarks here and there when I lost 20 pounds and then a couple more once I hit 30 but mostly no one said anything.  But now that I'm almost at 50 pounds down, it's getting noticed from all angles and of course, it's fantastic.  But I just don't get it.  

As I've mentioned before, I still have that "fat guy" mentality.  My brain can't keep up with my body in terms of being fat and skinny.  I feel like I don't see what others are seeing.  Sure, my chest looks a little flatter to me.  My arms are more defined.  But I can't get past my large stomach that pushes against my shirts or the way my thighs still jiggle when I work out.  It's almost as if my smaller parts accentuate the larger ones.

It's frustrating being so close to the 60 pounds I wanted to lose and realizing a couple of things: my weight loss is slowing down and it's getting harder to lose that last little bit and keep my willpower up and I see now that 60 pounds isn't going to be enough.  Once I hit my goal, I'll take a bit of a break.  Maybe have a pizza.  And then I'm going to have to go back at it.

I also realized that I've dedicated this year to losing all that weight.  I've been dieting and exercising almost every day since January.  I took some time off when I had my throat surgery but once I was healed, I picked up where I left off.  I've been so focused on losing weight, concentrating on portion control and cardio, that I have neglected my movie watching and book reading and book writing.  I have almost completely abandoned my memoir.  I just honestly feel like I'll never get it finished because I keep stopping.  I almost don't even want to talk about it/write about it anymore because it's embarrassing that I've been spouting off about it for all these years and still have nothing to show for it except a half-edited first draft.

But I guess it's not so bad.  Once I get my weight under control, that will be one less thing to obsess over so maybe that'll open up space in my head for creativity and give me more room to write.  But still, I can't help but to feel bad that I took a year out of my life just to correct a problem that shouldn't have been there in the first place.  And it seems like a waste.  But I can't look at it that way, I know.

One thing at a time.  Lose the bulge, write the book.  And I can remember that it was worth it 'cause I'll look really good for my book jacket photo.

dysmorphism

As I previously mentioned, you can look in my closet and see I can clothe a multitude of men in various size ranges.  I've kept my clothes from when I was fatter and thinner.  In some ways, it's good that I keep the smalls and the extra larges waiting in the recesses of my closet because I honestly never know when I'll need to pull them back out.  My weight has fluctuated so much in the past that I can never what size I'm going to be from year to year.

I talked with two co-workers the other day and somehow we got on the topic of pants and I pulled up my droopy khakis and said, "Yeah, looks like it's about time I get some smaller pants.  Again.  This'll be two sizes I've gone down now."

One co-worker, a short black woman with sarcastic inclinations looked me up and down and then peered at me over her thick-framed black glasses.  "Okay, now, how far are you wanting to get?  You're going to blow away here directly."

It was a nice compliment but I didn't understand her.  I was far from blowing away.  In fact, I'm still about 20 pounds over my college weight.  I mentioned this to her and she told me I was too skinny in college.

"I looked through your Facebook pictures," she said.  "To be honest, you looked kind of sickly.  The way you are right now is perfect.  I can't imagine that handsome face sinking in any more."  The other co-worker, a petite white girl with a wide smile looked at her and then me and nodded in agreement.

Maybe I look perfect to her but I'm still a long way from being happy with my body.  It also made me realize I never really know what people think of me.  I can always assume the worst but that's not always the case.  In her eyes, I look fine.  She wasn't secretly thinking I was fat and disgusting, like assumed everyone else does.  And the bigger question: if I can't see myself the way I am in a physical sense, am I also seeing myself differently in the ways I behave and interact with people?  Is that why I get along with mostly no one?  Am I a flaming asshole and everyone can see it but me?

But going back to the physical, I know it shouldn't matter what anyone else thinks of me but it does.  And maybe it's okay to care, or at least take it into consideration.  It's when you become obsessed with it that things begin to go awry.  And, of course, I'm in the obsessed category.  But I didn't need to be.  Here are these two people who think my size is perfectly acceptable.  I wondered who else felt the same way.  I'm always so fixated on the negative aspects of myself that I either don't notice the good stuff or simply gloss over it.

As much as I'm obsessed with what people think of me, I'm also concerned with how I see myself.  Compliments don't go very far with me.  Don't get me wrong, I love them.  When people notice I'm thinner or that I'm having a good skin or hair day, I love it.  But their compliments don't dictate my confidence like it used to.  At least not in regards to my physical appearance.

My size is my own.  For some, I am fine.  For others, I am still too fat.  And as hard as it is for me to contemplate, the chubby chasers out there might think I'm too thin at this point.  So it doesn't make much sense to worry about how others see me because there will always be someone who is not satisfied with my body.  And even further, someone who is not satisfied with my behavior or attitude.  As much as I've tried in the past to mold myself to fit everyone else's standards, I can't do that anymore.  I won't do that anymore.

I'm trying to be happy with myself, to look in the mirror and feel good about what that guy says instead of everyone else.  I want to feel good about how I'm looking and acting and feeling.  Other people matter but I realize that I only have myself when it's a said and done and I have to love who I am, through and through.  No one else is going to be there to help me love me.  I don't love me yet but I do see I need to get there at some point.

I'm really trying to simultaneously improve what I can while accepting what I cannot.  I have these fleeting moments of self-acceptance, or as near to that as I can muster at this point in the game.  I'm trying to get to a place where I am comfortable with myself but it's hard when I continue to destroy my face and body.  I lose weight and feel good and then I gain it back and hate myself and all the progress is undone.  I'm constantly building up and tearing myself down and it's exhausting.  I have no consistency in my life.  I tread and drown and rise up and dive back into the depths.  But mostly I float, letting the world pull me along and drag me under.

All the while my eyes are closed.

wardrobe malfunction

On Sunday, I went shopping from my own collection of clothing.  When I packed up my belongings after college graduation, I placed the majority of my clothes in three giant plastic bins.  When I got home from school, I unloaded the bins from my car but not the clothes.  They went into storage.  What was I using them for?  I didn't have a job and didn't have a legitimate reason to get out of my sleep pants.  Pajama Jeans and Snuggies hadn't yet come onto the scene so my elastic cotton bottoms and oversized t-shirts comprised my wardrobe.  I like to stay classy when I can.

And then I gained all that weight and I knew nothing would fit because, out of the articles of clothing I did take out, they were too tight.  I reasoned the rest would be as well.

But now that I've lost 47 pounds, I'm almost back to my college weight.  I decided to bust out the old clothes and see if any of them fit again.  Much to my surprise, a lot of them did.  I tried on every piece and kept the ones that still fit/I still liked and removed the ones I was no longer interested in having.

Some were still too tight but it didn't bother me because they were size small and I was just flabbergasted that I was ever able to fit into a small at all.  It just confirms the fact that I cannot see my body how it is.  I thought I was fat in college but I was wearing size small?  That doesn't make much sense.  I neatly folded the shirts and sweaters and placed them back in the bin and hoped the next time I busted them out, the ones that were still too tight would finally fit again.

And I had a lot of clothes.  I went through my closet and removed the shirts and jeans that are now too big for me and put them in with the pile I no longer wanted.  I've done this more times than I care to admit.  It feels like I'm always shrinking and expanding, buying up a size and then down a size and that makes for a very cramped closet.

I usually wear the same couple of shirts and jeans all the time because they are comfortable and they fit and I like the way they look.  As I eyed all the clothes I had collected over the years, sizes ranging from small to extra large, I realized I didn't like a lot of my clothes.  When you're a bigger guy, it's hard to shop.  The things that look good on thin people don't look good on you.  You get to be a certain size and everything hangs on you like a shower curtain.  And that's the way I was for a long time.  I often bought clothes because I needed a larger size, not because I liked the way they looked or felt.  I had given up, shopping out of necessity instead of pleasure.

But my body has changed again and I don't feel as defeated when it comes to clothing.  I still don't feel great about it.  I'm still big.  But not as big and shirts and jeans aren't as intimidating.

It was bittersweet going through the mini mountains of stretched out shirts and faded jeans with the beginnings of holes worn into them.  I've made so much progress but it feels kind of empty because I'm just re-losing the weight I already lost.  Most people I know in real life who I don't see on a regular basis probably won't even realize I had to lose the weight all over again.  It's not exactly brag-worthy.  Oh, yeah, remember how I lost all that weight?  Well, I regained it all and then had to lose it again just to go back to being chubby.  My life is a mess and I can't control my weight.  How are you doing?  You gonna finish that?

If only I could have just kept going, kept losing while I was already halfway thin.  Maybe I'd finally be in great shape today instead of working so hard just to be back to where I was three years ago.  I try not to dwell on those kinds of thoughts, though.  They don't help matters.  A lot of people don't realize that I have an illness or addiction or eating disorder or whatever you want to call it.  It's a struggle every single day not to give in to the temptation that taps at my brain.

I'm still not where I want to be but at least I'm not where I was.

insanity

I'm on the third week of the Insanity fitness program and it's every bit as intense and intimidating and painful as the advertisements suggest.

I feel like there's nothing left of me after every workout.  I'm pouring sweat within 5 minutes of the typically 40 minute programs and I'm completely drenched by the end of it.  I've never sweat like that before and have never felt so exhausted by the end of a workout.  My arms and legs are screaming and my lungs are gasping for air and I feel like I've just endured a boot camp session from hell.

But my title doesn't refer to the program.  It refers to my mental condition regarding my continual struggle to lose weight.  I noticed my weight loss started to slow down so I began the Insanity program to kick things back into gear.  Additionally, I started taking Alli consistently and have tried to cut sugar out of my diet.  I hoped the pounds would really drop with all that going on but they haven't.  Yeah, I'm still losing but it's still going so slowly.

I hit a plateau recently where I could not get under 200 pounds.  It was so frustrating because not only was I not losing any weight but I could not break that 200 pound barrier.  It was also frustrating because every plateau was time wasted.  When I committed to losing weight back in January, I wanted to lose 60 pounds in 6 months (10 pounds a month, average of 2 pounds a week, which is safe and recommended) but it's now the 8th month and I've only lost 44 pounds.  I'm very behind and it scares me because I do not want to be overweight for Christmas.  I know I have a few more months left and I even told myself that I had a couple of months of cushion room in case I didn't make my goal right on time but that cushion is slowly dwindling.  And now that I'm running out of time, I'm feeling the pressure to knock of these last 20-30 pounds.

But fortunately, I have finally broken the 200 pounds mark and I am down to 194.8 and it feels good but I am just so impatient and just want the weight to be off already.  I'm already exhausted from the Insanity workouts and frustrated because I can't eat pizza and all I want to do is inhale one so bad.  I know having a cheat day every once in a while is acceptable but not for me.  I'm an all or nothing kind of guy and I've put up a dam when it comes to food and as soon as I let a little grease slip through, the dam will break and I'll find myself on the floor, clutching a Little Debbie in both hands with lard dribbling down my chin.

Despite the 44 pounds lost, I'm still fat.  How much more do I need to lose before I feel good about myself?

There's been this wave of weight loss at work.  Several of my coworkers have gotten on these health kicks and have lost anywhere from 10-20 pounds and they are thin and look great and they didn't have as much to lose or had to work as hard as I have and it sucks because I've lost twice as much as they have and yet I'm still bigger than all of them.

They've reached their goal and can move on with their lives.  But even when I reach my goal, I won't be able to move on with my life.  This is forever.  I'll be on a diet when I die.

It also upsets me that I can't see my progress.  Well, I can.  I look in the mirror or see older pictures of myself and I can see a thinning in my face and frame but I still think my perspective is skewed.  I don't see enough change to be encouraged.  I have a problem seeing my body they way it is.  When I was heavier, I mostly ignored my condition.  I ate because I was depressed and couldn't see the damage I was doing.  I was in survival mode, eating so I wouldn't throw myself onto railroad tracks.

But when I finally faced it, I couldn't see how big I had gotten.  You have to remember, I was thinner in college, the thinnest I had been in my young adult life, so I graduated being as close to thin as I have ever been.  I fell into an intense depression after college and I went into my room at 174 pounds and came out of my room at 238 pounds and although it didn't happen overnight, it felt like it did.  I think in some ways I still saw myself as still being thin because the weight slowly crept up on me.  I was used to seeing myself as thin and since I didn't face myself as I gained the weight, I went along unaware.  I wouldn't have noticed at all except for the fact that none of my jeans or shirts fit anymore.  And they weren't just a bit snug.  I literally couldn't put my clothes on.

And now that I've lost weight, I can't see how smaller I've become because I've shifted my perspective to being "the fat guy" again.  I couldn't see how big I had gotten and it's only now that I've lost quite a bit of that weight that I'm starting to see how big I was/still think I am.  My body is always changing and my mind is always working to keep up with the bingeing and purging of fat.

It's hard but not impossible.  I'm going to keep going and I'll probably continue to be unsatisfied with my performance and the slow rate of weight loss, all along beating myself up for over eating and under exercising.  But it'll be all right because I'll get there.

But this is forever, remember.  So when I get there, I'll have to then shift my focus and fight to stay there.  No matter how much weight I lose or gain or maintain, I'll always be the fat guy.  I'll always have that mentality, always think about how what I put in my mouth will make me fat again.  My head goes to fat content and calories and the fear that comes along with it all.  There's no taste without trepidation, no dinner without despondency, no satisfaction without slicing myself open.              

getting to know gluttony

I don't want to say my mom is the reason why I'm fat but...it is her fault.

I kid.  Sort of.  But my mom equates food with love and living in the South, food is fried.  We fry everything.  We fry chicken and potatoes and vegetables.  We fry desserts.  We'll fry anything.  We'll fry milk if you give us the chance.  So my mom equates fried food with love, which means I was doomed from the start.

My mom learned that kind of love from her mom, who probably learned from her mom.  I don't think that's an unusual parenting style, especially in the South, but it's a slippery slope.  I don't see much wrong with showing someone you care by feeding them as long as that's not the only way you show love.  You also have to teach your kids to have a healthy relationship with food, just like you'd teach them how to have a healthy relationship with people.

My mom skipped that part.

My parents were not very affectionate, especially my father.  Once again, not unusual, but Mom's love shined through the most when she cooked.  She conveyed her love through cornbread instead of kisses and while she just did what she knew, it had an unintentionally negative impact on me.

When I was younger, Mom asked me what I wanted from the grocery store.  I told her I didn't want anything.

"But the kitchen is practically empty." 

It wasn't. 

"I just hate the idea of you and your sister walking into the kitchen and not having anything to eat."

That sentence struck me.  My parents have been very fortunate to have always been able to provide us with more than we needed as kids.  I don't think her concern came from a place of fearing she might not being able to have access to proper nutrition, but came from a place of fearing she might be a bad mom.  I say that because she never said she worried about us opening the closet and not having clothing or opening our backpacks and not having enough school supplies.  It was all about the food.

And so my mom passed down the notion of food and love to me, whether she meant to or not.

Even as far back as recent months, as much as I've tried to diet, I still look to her as a compass of sorts, following her lead when it comes to eating.  I tried to be good and follow a strict diet but if I see her eat a small plate of food in the middle of the night, I feel like it gives me license to do the same.  Or if she asks if she wants to go get a pizza for us, she knows I'm going to say yes.  Sometimes I'm only as strong as she is.  And when she gives in, I have no trouble caving as well.

I'm not exactly sure how my weight gain started.  I don't think it was anything tragic that led me to the linguine.  At least not at first.  I was an active child.  I often played with my cousin, who was around my age.  But as I grew older, I simply grew out of playing outside.  I was not a rough and tumble child.  I was sensitive from the beginning.  I was artistic.  I liked to draw inside instead of kick up dirt outside.  I simply think the combination of an ever stocked kitchen coupled with inactivity caused my initial weight gain.

I didn't notice my extra bulk until a classmate of mine pointed it out in fourth grade.  We had all come back from summer vacation and the first thing he said to me was, "You got fat over the summer."  I'll never forget it.  It was the moment I became aware of my appearance.  And over the years, I've only become more and more aware of myself to the point of obsession.

That was around the time I went from eating out of pleasure and convenience to eating so I could comfort myself.  I took those notions of love and feel good feelings I inherited from my mom and ran with them.  Any time I felt bad, I used food to recreate those feelings, to cover up any pain I felt.  And this continued into adolescence.

When I hit puberty, everything only got worse.  Not only was my stomach expanding but my face exploded with acne.  I was an awkward mess of excess oil and body parts padded with fat.  And so I ate to forget the freak show in the mirror.  I felt ugly and inadequate and eating only made things worse in the long run but I either didn't realize or didn't care at the time.  As self-aware as I thought I was, all that weight certainly creeped up on me.

But eventually, I got sick of being so big and so I lost around 20 pounds during the summer after 11th grade.  I came back to school and felt and looked decent.  After I graduated, I continued the weight loss journey and ended up losing a little over 60 pounds and went to college with a better attitude and a better body.  But I hadn't defeated the cause of my weight gain.  I was still insecure.  I was still sad inside.  I still felt inadequate.  Somehow I had found the resolve to lose weight despite my overwhelmingly negative attitude about myself.

And then my first year of college destroyed me and once again, I turned to food to cope.   But only for a while.  Eventually, I got a hold of myself and dieted and exercised away all the weight I gained that first year.  But the issues remained, nagged at my mind and wouldn't let me forget the gross, fat guy I still thought I was.  I buried the feelings with school work instead of food.  I hadn't overcome my issues, only ignored them again.

It was only when I graduated from college and moved back home that I let food back in again.  It was like meeting an old, familiar lover.  And we made sweet, sweet love.  60 plus pounds worth of love.  I was more depressed than I had ever been and I did not care about anything except filling my stomach up with everything I could get my hands on.  I was in self-preservation mode.  If I didn't reach for pie, I probably would have reached for pills.

All the weight I lost, all the hard work I put into changing my body and my mind slowly unraveled with each passing day.  I packed the weight back on over the course of two years.  And I ignored it.  I didn't want to face myself and so I simply didn't.

And one day I looked at myself and saw that I was back to where I started.  Overweight and still miserable.  I realized I hadn't changed, hadn't learned, hadn't accomplished anything.  I felt like I had wasted my youth.

For me, food was the only constant in my world.  It wasn't just my comfort.  It was my companion.  It was my best friend.  And although some best friends can be destructive, I didn't care about the long-term damage.  I was looking for the short-term solution.  I couldn't just give up on food.  I felt like I was abandoning someone who had been there with me through thick and thin (both literally and figuratively).  Me giving up food would be like me telling you to suddenly cut your best friend out of your life.  I just couldn't do it.  It was a ridiculous notion.

But one day, just like that one  magical day in high school, I said I was tired of being like this.  I didn't want to see another birthday as big as I was.  I didn't want to ring in another year overweight.  Since January, I've made the decision to lose the weight I had gained not once, but twice.  And I've managed to lose 39 pounds so far.  I still have a long way to go and I've hit several obstacles along the way but I've done it before and I'm confident I can do it again.

But it's still hard.  Even now, despite how far I've come in trying to recognize bad food behavior, when I'm at my lowest, all I want is food.  It's still the only thing that soothes me.  No person, no god, no orgasm, no compliment or accomplishment is as satisfying as food.

And I even tell myself to stop.  I'll grab some chips or reach for the frozen pizza and I'll pause and tell myself it's not going to help.  It's only going to make things worse.  But I eat the chips or the pizza anyway.  I don't care if it's going to make things worse because I'm hurting in that moment and need to make the pain go away.  I say I'll deal with the consequences later.  I never do.  I deal with it by eating more pizza.  By eating  more cake and pie and chips and candy.  I deal by not dealing.

I've realized that it's easy to lose weight.  That's a bold statement with the seemingly insurmountable weight struggle so many people are going through but it's simple science.  More calories burned than consumed.  In fact, you can even pinpoint how much weight you want to lose on a weekly basis.  1 pound equals 3,500 calories.  Eat 500 less calories than you normally would every day and in 7 days you will have saved yourself 3,500 calories, which totals 1 pound.  The trick is finding out how many calories you usually eat and how many calories you need to consume to maintain or lose more.  But that's the basics.

But my point is, physically, losing weight is easy.  It's the mental part that is the hardest.  Diet and exercise can change your body but what is going to change your mind?  It's all a head game, a constant fight with the demons inside you pointing you in the wrong direction.  And until you tackle those demons and exorcise them from your brain, you'll always be in the middle of sensibility vs. gluttony.  I should know.  I've been caught in the crossfire more times than I can count.

My mom's not really to blame.  I was just kidding.  If anything, the combination of fried food love and my stunted social skills and possible mental defects that no one had any control over is what contributed to me being this way.  It's all just circumstances, random events and chances that led me here.  But I'm at a place now where I can take responsibility for my own body and actions.  Looking into the past and finding the cause of my weight issues is good because I can learn and grow from it but I don't play the victim here.  Not in this case.  I don't look back to blame, only to resolve.

I've managed to lose the 39 pounds despite not having dealt with my issues.  And until I do, it's very likely that I'll gain the weight back.  That's why it's imperative I try to fix the inside while simultaneously correcting the outside.  The problem is I just don't know how to do that.  So until I do, I have to stay on top of my eating and working out.  I gained all the weight back because I didn't stay on top of it.  I let myself go.  I allowed my inner insatiable beast to roam free in a playground made of pasta.  I've temporarily caged him but with makeshift bars.  He's still clamoring to get out.

I can only hold him back for so long.

musculature

Saturday night, I had a date.
.
.
.
.
.
.

With a pizza.

I so looked forward to getting off work and grabbing a mocha frappe and then coming home and getting it on with a spicy Italian pie.  We chatted for a bit (preheat oven) and as soon as the oven dinged, things got hot and heavy pretty fast (400 degrees for 12 minutes) and we had an enjoyable time together.

Now that's amore.

And for liquid afterglow, I drank down the frappe like my happiness depended on it.  'Cause in many ways, it did.  It was over way too soon but I was ravenous.  My carnal cravings had kicked in and needed to be satisfied.

And several weeks ago, I went to dinner with an acquaintance and had a cheesy turkey sandwich with sliced and seasoned potatoes.  Then we went to Starbucks where I got a 5,000 calorie frozen coffee drink and (this is embarrassing) then we drove across the street to Taco Bell where I got 4 Doritos Locos tacos.

So, in case you weren't aware, I haven't been doing well on my diet at all.  Of course, I blame my rude acquaintance and the fact that my social life, work life, and life life sucks for why I've been sucking up food like a gluttonous vacuum.

Despite that, I've actually been pretty consistent with my working out, which surprises me.  I hate exercise more than I love food and so I'd almost rather not eat than work out.  Maybe there's been a shift in my head.  And maybe the working out has offset the terrible eating and that's why I haven't gained any more weight.

But I certainly haven't lost any.  The sixth month of the year is winding down, which means I should be sixty pounds lighter.  I'm only thirty.  I've been down thirty pounds for three months now, fluctuating between gaining two pounds and losing three and gaining one and losing one, etc.  And it sucks.

But muscle does weigh more than fat so maybe I'm still slimming down (albeit extremely slowly) and the scale is just representing the muscle that I've put on.  I can tell there's more definition in my arms and my legs look and feel pretty good.  It's just my meddlesome midsection that's holding me back from feeling good about myself.

I've been doing the old school Power 90 (I'm almost at day 60 with only a month left) and I can tell my endurance has increased.  I can last longer, go harder, and can do more push ups and crunches than when I first started.

The worst part, as it's always been, is getting started.  The monotony has settled in big time.  I'm just tired of putting on my shoes and turning Pandora on and listening to the same ten songs (although I choose different stations frequently) and doing the same routine day after day.  I was excited to switch to the second phase of Power 90 but I forgot the only difference is there's another round of cardio at the end of each segment.  Nothing else is switched up.  I know I can do different workouts but I really want to see these 90 days through to the end.

But once I get up and get going, it's not so bad.  Because I'm so familiar with the routine, I know when I'm close to being done and knowing I'm almost finished helps push me through the last little bit.  And I enjoy the sweat.  When it rolls down my face and stings my eyes, it makes me feel like I really did something.  I've started to enjoy the ache of exerted muscles, the fatigue, the wobbly limb feeling of giving it my all.

Also, I've had to switch to a smaller belt.  I've already bought smaller work pants and will have to buy more soon.  I bought smaller jeans today.  My pajama tops are getting looser and my torso isn't rubbing up against the fabric like it used to.  It's nice.

I've also been getting compliments from people, which is also nice.

But I'm still not where I want to be.  I feel like I need to crank up my diet and start eating better.  At the same time, I haven't beaten myself up over my nutritional mishaps like I used to in the past.  I've just realized that I'm weak when it comes to food and that's okay.  I can say no to bad food choices five hundred times in a row but that doesn't mean I've conquered it.  I never will but that doesn't mean I can't put up a fight.  That also doesn't mean all the times I've given in will negate all the times I didn't.  For example, despite those four Doritos Locos tacos, I'm still getting thinner.  It's taken a bit more time, sure, but it's not as if that one delicious mistake has caused me to gain all my weight back.

I don't want to be the poster boy for cheating on a diet but really, it's not that huge of a deal.  Just don't cheat every day with every meal and you should be fine.  It's taken me a long time to learn that and I feel good knowing that it is okay to have a taco here or a pizza and frappe there.

I was so excited to come home and enjoy this.  Who needs a companion when you have carbs? :| If only carbs could cuddle.

persistence

"I wanna be able to eat spaghetti bolognaise
and not feel bad about it for days and days and days..."
-Lily Allen, Everything's Just Wonderful

Last week, I finished an eight week workout program.  I planned on taking around two days off before starting something else.  I ended up taking three days off, and in that time, starting eating too much.  I knew I needed to try to counteract that.

I felt I had been too lenient with my diet, and although I hadn’t been scarfing down cheeseburgers, I just felt I had been eating too much.  It doesn’t matter if the food I’m eating is low fat/low calorie, if I eat a ton of them (which I thought I had been doing), then those calories add up.  Low calorie is not an excuse to gorge.

So, last night I decided I needed to work out.  But I was tired and I didn’t want to.  I told myself I’d do it the next day, that I would even do a double workout.

But I know myself better than that.

I just got up and did it.  At first I thought I’d take things lightly, maybe do a mile or two but then I realized if I was going to go, I might as well go hard (hard as in moderate).

It felt good to just get up and do it.  It felt good to see myself changing, to see myself starting to make better choices.

Just like when I go grocery shopping and my stomach growls at the candy and pizzas but I just keep going.  I look away and reach for the lower fat, healthier options.

It feels good to be able to leave all of that stuff behind me.  And it feels good to get up and go because I know I need to.  That’s not to say that this is a new lifestyle, that I will continue to make good choices.  But every bit counts, does it not?  Every calorie saved is important.  Every calorie burned is important.

And even if I screw up today, I can feel good knowing I at least did something good for myself yesterday.

Because that’s all I have: today, yesterday, tomorrow.  One day at a time.  Sometimes one hour at a time.  One choice at a time.  One decision at at time.  One workout at a time.  One baked instead of fried at at time.  One serving instead of two at a time.

This is a process.  This is not a cure.  This is not a solution.  This is a struggle, a life-long head game, a siren that will always call to me, an addiction that will carry me to my grave.

I just hope, once I'm there, I can finally enjoy a pizza without guilt as the garnish.

choices

I've been dieting and exercising since January 1st and so far I've lost 14 pounds.  And I feel like crap.

As I've mentioned, if I can't have my favorite foods, I get irritable and every thing and every person I come across only serve to exacerbate my frustration with a lack of pizza and pasta.  My body aches from the workouts (even though I stretch thoroughly before and after) and I don't feel like I'm losing the weight fast enough.

It's actually ridiculous because I'm losing weight at a great pace, averaging around 2 pounds a week, which is low and slow and the way to go.  But it just still sucks because I have the mentality that every time I turn down a slice of cheesecake, I should automatically lose 10 pounds as a reward because, let's face it, it's hard to say no to cheesecake (or insert your favorite dessert/food of choice).

But, that's what I've been doing.  I've been turning down cheesecake slices and trips to Mexican restaurants.  I've been eating less and eating healthier.  I have not drastically changed my diet but I have cut out 99% fast food consumption and have began to decrease my portion size for my meals.  And I've been working out every single day (except for designated off days included in my workout plans) and I'm pretty proud of that, especially considering where I came from at the end of the year, which was basically me sitting around and not moving whatsoever and eating garbage all day long.

And I think that's pretty healthy.  Normally, when I get on a health kick, when the light switch in my mind flips up, I go hard, eliminating all junk and sweets, eating tiny portions and guzzling water, essentially shocking my system.  I used to punish myself for over eating, feeling guilty for the rest of the day and over exercising to the point of queasiness.

But not this time around.  I'm really trying to do this responsibly and not go on a crash diet or exercise frenzies.  I think a part of it is because I am actually still trying to get into the right frame of mind for weight loss.  It's like the light switch is stuck in the middle.  The light is on, just dimmed, flickering.  That's not necessarily a bad thing.  I'm not being crazy about this whole thing.  I'm just trying to be conscious of what I'm doing to myself.

The other part, however, is because I just don't feel like I have it in me anymore to be super strict about dieting and exercise.  I'm vapor with no substance and I cannot move anything.  I've just been solely concentrating on not dissipating entirely.  And with that focus comes a half-hearted concentration on other goals, including 70% exertion during exercise and an extra bite or two of bread.

hunger pulse

"We all have a sickness
That cleverly attaches and multiplies
No matter how we try..."
-Dig, Incubus

Life put together.  Life pulled apart.  Life semi-assembled.

Most people are screwed up.  Maybe everyone is screwed up to a certain degree.  And it's weird to realize that.  I've been envious of people who I thought had their lives together.  It happened a lot throughout my life but never more than when I was in college.  When I was in high school, no one really had it together.  Some of my peers were more organized in their future plans than others but we were all still slaves to the educational system.

But college came around and there was more freedom.  Most of the kids I saw chose to be there.  It was a part of their plan.  They chose their schedules and professors and classes.  And they began to assemble themselves into the adults they wanted to be.  They knew their strengths and utilized them.  They were forming themselves, from their clothes and hair to their behavior and attitudes to their education and careers.

I walked around and saw so many people who I thought had it together.  My first roommate, Keith, seemed like he had it together.  He knew who he was, even if he was a giant asshat.  But he embraced it and was comfortable with that.  He was also a musician and good with girls.  My other roommate was an extremely talented artist.  His work was fantastic and he had drive and passion and knew exactly who he was and what he wanted out of life.  He went on to work on the latest Chipmunks movie.  Good for him.

Even the roommates and classmates I had who were not fully formed at least had some direction.  They all spoke of far away dreams in a sleepy manner, as if they were slipping away into a daydream of what their day job would some day be like.  As for me, I was just trying to lose weight, just trying to get my next project finished, just trying to make it through the day without cracking.  I had no goals beyond the sunset because I was weak and incapable of being okay with who I was.  All the social/emotional/physical/spiritual development that a lot of adolescents experience in high school was lost on me.  I was always behind everyone else.

Everyone experienced physical changes during puberty but mine happened before my balls dropped and my voice deepened.  I got fat first.  And that was a hard adjustment to make.  And when I went through puberty, I got fatter and pimply.  And that was even harder to bear.

While everyone else dealt with their changes, even embraced them, mine made me feel hideous.  Guys started shaving and girls started wearing bras and everyone got braces and I hid in my room because my face and waistline had exploded and when I was forced to go outside, I wore layers of clothing to hide my belly, which just made me hot and perspire.  I was the token fat sweaty guy.  Nice to meet you.

I was ashamed of myself and never socialized because of it.  And then I lost the weight and I felt better about myself but I was already years behind my classmates.  They were already starting to form real relationships with people based on commonalities deeper than an enjoyment of television shows or songs on the radio.  They were discovering who each other were as people, how they felt about the world and life and the future, how they felt about their significant other.

And right when I started to think I could really be something, when I felt good enough to become an actual person instead of a label, I gained the weight back and ended up a hermit again.  I realized the only real relationship I had in my life was with food.

My classmates focused on their futures with their girlfriends and boyfriends and the colleges they would go to and the professional world they would some day enter.  But I couldn't get to that point.  I couldn't see beyond my belly.  Literally.  I was stuck in the moment, stuck in my body and that's all I could envision.  I had to lose the weight, had to be thin.  To me, everything else was determined by my weight.  If only I could be thin, I'd be social and make connections and fall in love and fall away from the depression that drove me deeper away from the world.

Diet pills and exercise and leafy green vegetables and dirt road walking.  Sixty pounds lost.  I was ready to enter college.  I was the average weighted, slightly less sweaty guy.  Hello again.

a funny thing happened on the way to my toes

It's weird to me how out of touch we can become with ourselves.  We go along, oblivious to our actions, behaviors, perceptions, or in some cases, our bodies.  As for me, I think I've been oblivious to it all, walking and working and eating and sleeping with my head in a different dimension.

When I entered college, I was the thinnest I had been in years.  And it took me several years to get to that weight.  Yet, I still thought I was fat.  Did I still have a fat boy outlook on life?  Could I not accept that I was no longer the chubby dude who could draw, as I was known as in high school?  Was I so out of touch with myself that I didn't notice the way I was thinning out?  What was I truly seeing when I was looking at my body?  Was I seeing the physical or the fear?

When I graduated, I returned home and became depressed and ate to cope.  And I gained all the lost weight back.  Plus some.  All the while, I still remained unaware.  I lived in elastic sleep pants so any expansion went unnoticed.  Yet, I looked in the mirror every day.  How did I not see my face getting fuller?  Was I out of touch with myself?  Or was I just not wanting to see the changes?  Was I denying myself, lying to myself yet again?  Or maybe I was just too apathetic to deal so I looked but I didn't really look.  I ignored.  And I carried on.

It's just sad to look back and realize all those years I worked at losing the weight was ruined.  All the calorie counting, the sacrifice, the working out and sweating and being frustrated, all gone.  All wiped out.  And I'm left where I began.  I have a long, hard journey ahead of me to lose the weight all over again.  It feels like such a waste of time, like I should have already conquered this, like this shouldn't even be an issue.  I have so many other aspects of my life I need to figure out and weight shouldn't be one of them.  But it is.  But it always will be.

I can do it again.  That is not the question.  The question is how long can I make it last before I succumb to this sickness one more time?  And how many times do I have left in me?

It's weird how we can lie to ourselves, how we can become estranged from our own bodies, minds, and souls.  You'd think you would know yourself and know more about yourself than anyone else but that simply is not true.  You are in your head every minute of the day and you have access to all that you know and believe yet you can still be disconnected from yourself, still not even know who you really are.  It's kind of astounding, actually.

Once, I was who I was and then something happened and I wasn't who I was anymore.  But I didn't know that.  I lost myself, somewhere deep within my mind or soul or psyche or whatever.  I became disconnected.  Broken.  And maybe that's how I lost my way.  I wasn't whole and because of that, I veered off my path and ran right into a ditch.  I've been stuck there ever since.

I've been working out ever since the first of the year.  I get off work and all I want to do is eat a pizza and take a nap but I don't do that.  I change out of my work clothes and pop in a workout DVD and get going.  And I hate it.  Every time.  And I dread doing it and I never feel better afterward.  I'm still waiting around for those alleged endorphins to kick in.  But I keep going because I know I'm doing something good for myself, although it doesn't feel too good.

Usually I wear athletic pants to work out in because it makes me hotter and makes me sweat more.  Helps get rid of some of that water weight.  Plus, I just like to be covered up at all times.  I'm painfully modest.  But I recently split the pants right down the crotch because of my huge package because I stretched too far and ripped them and all I had was a pair of cotton shorts to work out in.  So, I slipped them on and began to sweat.

I never wear shorts.  I don't own any shorts of any kind.  I was surprised to find those shorts at the bottom of my chest of drawers.  See, I always like to be covered.  I'm a pant guy.  If I weren't so hot-natured, I'd probably wear long-sleeved shirts all year round as well.  But that's just not feasible as I am the human furnace.  So, it was a strange feeling being bare below the knees.  It was cool and comfortable but still strange.  Foreign.

As I was on the floor stretching, I walked my hands up to my knees and felt my shins as I was trying to get to my toes.  This is going to sound kind of lame but go with me on this.  I felt my shins in a different way than I had before.  Like, really feeling them.  It wasn't like showering with the buffer of a bar of soap or scratching an itch through thick denim or plaid cotton.  It was skin on skin, exploring what my legs felt like without all the other stuff getting in the way.  And I realized that these were my legs.  They felt cool despite the sweat I was working up.  The skin was smooth and pale beneath the abundance of soft dark hair.  My shin bone was rigid like a steel pipe beneath a slippery satin sheet.  My calf muscles were pliable while at rest, hugged by a pad of fat, yet firm when I flexed them.

And I thought to myself, "Damn.  This is my body.  And I don't even really know what it feels like."  And that's when I realized I couldn't even get to my toes because of the enormous layer of fat around my midsection that acted like a pillowy barrier.  I recalled all those years ago when I first started seriously losing weight, how I could reach beyond my toes.  I had become so inflexible and so fat all these years later and I could barely get to my ankle.  And suddenly, everything started clicking.  That was my bulbous stomach.  That was my jiggly thighs, my doughy waist, a roll of fat between my stomach and chest, man breasts, thick arms and back fat.  Hindering my movements.  Hindering my life.

There was only one other time I can remember when I really looked at myself.  Back when I was in college and at a decent weight, yet still thought I was fat, I can remember lying on my back on my bed.  I was preparing for my afternoon nap when I looked down at myself and realized I could not only see my toes but my feet, legs and thighs.  There was no mountain of meat distorting my view.

I lifted up my shirt to my chest and visually explored the landscape of pallid skin.  My hip bones stuck out at each side of my waist and dipped inward, meeting the corners of my belly that sloped upward in a small pad of fat.  Back then, I thought I was fat.  I realize now that I was probably just slightly chubby.  No where near as big as I am now.  I massaged my belly and ran my fingers along the hard bone of my hip.  Deep shadows formed in the concave formation of my hips, shadows that led into my underwear, the elastic waist forming a smooth line from one side of my waist to the other.

Although I thought I was fat, I was becoming aware.  I hadn't quite gotten there but I was close.  So close.  I was beginning to realize I wasn't as big as I thought I was, that the shadows and protruding bones were evident of something my mind wouldn't allow me to understand, wouldn't allow me to believe.

I kept touching, exploring, realizing, becoming aware.  The cool skin of my stomach was interrupted by jagged red lines, stretchmarks that scarred me from my shoulders to my inner thighs.  Yeah, no matter how much weight I lost, they'd always be there.  A reminder of my gluttony.  Another thing to be ashamed of.  And suddenly, the awareness was gone and I was still fat and stretched out and ruined.  I'd never be smooth.  I'd never be flat.  I'd never be good enough.

Just like that, I lost whatever it was I was so close to finding.

And through the years, through the binge eating and consistent weight gain, it was my body going through the changes but I wasn't aware of it, didn't realize how big I was, didn't realize what I felt like.  You'd think because it was my body, I would at least have some kind of awareness about what was going on with it.  But that's how out of touch I was with myself.  I had ignored the problem for so long, choosing not to touch or even look at myself, just masking the problem, literally covering it up with clothing.  If I didn't have to see it, I didn't have to worry about it.

And I wasn't just out of touch with my physical body.  Obviously, I had to be out of touch in other ways to ignore and/or be so unconscious of the changes.

So, how do I fix it?  How do I become in tune with myself, with my mind and my body?  How do I get back inside myself and take an inventory of problems, both physical and mental?  Does it start with a touch?  Does it start with acceptance?  Or does it start with a frustration, an admittance, a confession?

Do you ever look at yourself, really look at yourself?  Do you ever realize that you are in your body?  I know that sounds like an obvious statement but is it, really?  There are times when I look at myself, examine myself and find flaws that fluster me.  But this is my face and this is my body and I have to accept it.  This is the only body I will ever have and this is what I was given to work with and it's scary sometimes.

I always wish I had a different body, different face, different hair and skin and eyes and teeth.  And I can spend so much time wishing for things that I forget that I'll never have them (with the exception of plastic surgery which isn't likely for me).  Like, this is it.  These are my eyes, whether I like it or not.  This is my jawline and my receding hairline and stretch-marked stomach and nipples and penis and fingers and lips and flat butt and freak lump in my throat and this is all that I have.  This is mine, all that I will ever possess, no matter how I like it or don't like it or accept it or don't accept it.  It's still all there, all mine for the taking or for the destroying.

But this is what other people see.  My eyes and jawline and receding hairline, etc., define who I am to others.  They look at me and that is how they identify me.  That's what Brannon looks like.  That is his body.  That is his face.  This is the vessel that I move around in, express myself in, communicate with others in.  And it's surreal to me.  This is it.  It will never get better than this and it hurts because it's not very good to begin with.

But I can take myself out of myself and put my head somewhere else where I don't have to deal.  I can eat away the shame and think about how I could look if I could just get myself together and it's a momentary comfort.  I disconnect again, lie again.  I can separate myself from my body and fantasize, dream, hope, envision something else.

And that will get me by for now.

depriving depravity

"I was like the wild animals in my Homes and Habitats of Wild Animals book who spent their lives hunting down other animals and eating them raw. Nobody much liked me, I thought, because they sensed that I wanted to bite into their bare arms and bare cheeks and rip off chunks of them and chew and chew and swallow. I wanted to eat them not because they looked particularly tasty or even because I was hungry, but because I was empty and I needed to feel full."
-Fat Girl by Judith  Moore

After all of these years of struggling with my weight and writing about it and thinking about why I am the way that I am when it comes to food, I am still such a mess.  As much as I feel I have learned a lot and have come a long way in my struggle, I still keep losing out to food.  Maybe I don't know as much as I think I do or maybe I know enough but I'm just not strong enough to face it.

I already know that I'm a stress eater.  I already know that I use food to comfort me when I'm sad.  I use food to celebrate when I'm happy.  I'm a glutton.  I'm a carbaholic.  I like sweets and sweets like me.  Food is the only thing in my existence that makes me happy.  God doesn't make me happy.  People don't make me happy.  Writing, painting, drawing doesn't make me happy.  But food does.  Every.  Time.

Food is my comfort.  It's my crush.  I'm in love with food.  I think about it constantly.  I crave the textures and smells and spicy zing.  I'm in love with the process of biting and slurping and chewing and swallowing.  It fills me up inside in a way that nothing else can.  It's an event.  It's an experience.  It lowers my blood pressure and temporarily distracts from the hate that boils away inside me.   It's calming.  It's soothing.  It's destroying me in the best way.

Food always answers me when I call.  It never disappoints me.  Maybe I just can't deal with people like I can with food.  People are fallible.  Food is immaculate.  Maybe I'm playing the victim and making food my savior.  But it's so much easier, isn't it?  Especially because the people I cared about the most, the ones I thought would be around, left me.  Left me for reasons I'll never know.  Left me for other people.  I was a penis placeholder until someone better came along.  I feel pretty abandoned and it's something that I've struggled with for a long time.  The why.  The not being able to understand how everything went down the way it did.  But food can't leave me like that.  It's always there to listen and make me feel better.  It fills those spaces that people left behind.

But food isn't all that great.  Food has caused me to gain a significant amount of weight since my college graduation in 2009.  I don't want to go anywhere or see anyone because I feel I look disgusting.  I don't want to see old high school acquaintances because I don't want them to think I was just another classmate that got fat over the years.  I hate that they missed all the weight I lost after high school, how I looked decent and thin for about three years before I came home and put all the weight right back on.

I hate myself for getting this way.  But I hated myself before it even happened.  Which is why I ate.  And now I eat to not hate myself so much.  And that's how people get trapped in that cycle of pain and self-soothing.   I've realized I've caught my sleeve in some machinery and I can't wriggle myself free.

I've become lazy.  I feel like I've come pretty close to pinpointing my problems with food and people and myself but I just don't feel I have the energy to deal with it.  It's just so much easier to grab food instead of legitimately dealing with what's going on.  I don't want to deal with the fact that I'm a college graduate working in a shitty retail store.  I don't want to deal with the fact that I'm one hundred grand in student loan debt.  I don't want to deal with the fact that I have never had a meaningful relationship in my life.  I don't want to deal with the fact that my Christianity is hanging on by a thread.   I don't want to deal with the fact that I have no idea what I want to do with my life because the things I thought I was passionate about don't mean anything to me anymore.  I don't want to deal with the fact that I'm fat.  Maybe my mind can't handle it, can't comprehend the crap heap I've gotten myself into.  So I ignore it with food.

I try not to eat so much but I've become so accustomed to this lifestyle of funneling food in every second that if I'm not eating, my body responds.  I get flushed and nervous.  And I tell myself that it's no big deal, that I'm just cutting back.  I'm not giving up food forever.  I'm just not going to eat as much.  But my body doesn't believe me.  I get anxious.  I try to ignore it, to focus on other things but my brain gets busy and it stirs up thoughts of eating until I literally can't concentrate on anything else but the fridge.

EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT it tells me.  It fills my head and consumes my concentration until I bust into the kitchen to soothe the sirens that blare incessantly.  I give in one more time, give it what it wants, and wait for the temporary feeling of euphoria wash over me.

And then the inevitable crash.  The hatred.  The loathing.  The sadness that sweeps in and takes over my body until I hear the EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT again.

It'll make you feel better.  You won't be nervous.  It feels good.  It feels right.  Do it.  Do it.  Do it.

I don't mean to downplay the significance of an actual addiction but in some ways, I do feel like I'm addicted to food.  It might be more of a psychological dependence than a physical one or maybe I'm just dependent on the way food makes me feel rather than the substances themselves but it's all I can think about.  I wake up to breakfast and wait out the hours until it's time for lunch and do the same until dinner and go to bed thinking about breakfast again.

And then there's the snacking and the indulgent sweets and the high that I get from eating them.  And just like an addict, the one snack high wears away after a while and then I have to have two, and then three, and then that's not enough and I have to keep eating to sustain any form of anesthetization.

I've tried replacing food with some other form of stress relief.  Yoga.  Meditation.  Writing.  Drawing.  Listening to music.  Petting a cat.  Nothing does what food does for me.  Nothing feels as good or as fulfilling as eating.

Most people treat food as fuel but I treat food as a friend.  I know I have a tendency to personify objects.  Not just stuffed animals but televisions and bedding.  I create personal attachments to inanimate objects without thinking anything of it so is it that much of a stretch to think I would personify food as well?  To think of food as an actual something that I can see and talk to and touch?

Maybe the reason I can't stop eating is because I'd feel like I was leaving the only friend I ever had, the only person who made me feel good inside.  The only one who never left me.  I wouldn't want to leave the way I've been left.  I wouldn't want to turn my back on food.

Or maybe I just don't want to give up the one thing I feel like I have left.  If eating is the only thing that makes me happy and I give up my favorite indulgent foods, what do I have?  Nothing.  And how would that make me feel?  Devastated.  Angry.  Impossible to handle.  I'm already on the verge of snapping at everyone and if I can't self-soothe with food, I might just blow up on someone or find life even more unbearable than I already do.  I don't want to deprive myself because it's too hard but I know I have to because it's also too hard being in this body.

I feel like I can't control it.  There's just something inside that clicks.  All of a sudden, I get it and I can diet and deal with it and lose the weight.  And then whatever it is that keeps me in control goes away and all progress is lost.  I've lost weight before and I can do it again.  I just have to wait for the click.  I can feel it coming.  I can do this.

I just have to stop self-sabotaging.

animals are cut in two

"the same thing that happened to the animals
will have to happen to you..."
-half-handed cloud, animals are cut in two

I'm experiencing carnivorous inclinations.

Last October marked three years since I became a vegetarian.  It's been a rough three years.  Well, sort of.  There's a part of me that wants to say it's been easy because I don't really crave meat and haven't for a long time now.  But, the hard part is the alternatives.  There are very few choices for me.  Yes, I'm a vegetarian.  And yes, I don't like vegetables.

So, what does that leave me?

A whole lot of junk food.

It was easier living in Savannah.  There were more markets and more meatless alternatives out there.  Now that I'm back in this hick town, however, there's one grocery store that caters to the carnivores.  If you're not down with meat and potatoes, you're screwed.  I didn't think about my lack of food choices so much when I was back in Georgia but it's become glaringly apparent now that there just isn't anything good or healthy to eat in this town.  And this is one of the reasons why I've gained so much weight over the past year.

It also doesn't help when I go to restaurants where there are very few vegetarian-friendly choices, unless you want a salad.  Well, I don't want a salad and I don't want a bunch of tasteless steamed vegetables plopped on a plate.  Same with fast food joints.  Yes, I know I shouldn't even be going to a fast food place but sometimes, when you're hanging out with someone and they wanna get something to eat, that's the only choice there is, especially here.  So, I usually end up getting fries and a soda and then feel like garbage for the rest of the day because carbohydrates and carbonated water do not make a meal.

And this is where I feel conflicted. 

Sometimes, I just think it would be easier if I ate meat again.  Maybe I'd even lose weight.  If I could eat a more substantial meal, like chicken and fish and a nice side dish, I wouldn't feel so unsatisfied and wouldn't reach for fattening foods so much.  I'd have more options at restaurants.  Things would be easier.  But I suppose the things in life that you believe in don't always take you down the easiest of roads.  Does that mean they are worth the sacrifices?  Sometimes yes.  Sometimes no.  I guess it all depends on how strongly you feel about whatever it is you're having to give things up for.

Yet, it seems every time I start leaning toward the lean meats, I experience something that strengthens my veggie resolve.  Usually it's me witnessing one of those darn ASPCA commercials featuring the ruthless Sarah McLachlan.  She'll really give your heart a swift kick to its balls, I tell you what.  Or seeing a screen grab from PETA's "Meet Your Meat" videos on my YouTube page.  Or it's simply just me thinking about why I started being a vegetarian in the first place, how I wanted to not be a part of the ugly business of animal torture and slaughter.  Not to mention all the terrible stuff they inject into the animals that then go into you when you eat those animals.  Ugh, and if you've ever seen the infamous chicken nugget pink tube of goo picture, that should convince you to at least step back and think about what you're actually eating.

Unfortunately, during my time as a vegetarian, I've started to learn that meat alternatives really aren't that great for you, either.  I've been informed that many soy-based foods are pretty bad for you, especially the genetically modified soy.  Which is in pretty much everything I eat.  I've heard it messes with your hormones and causes estrogen production and all sorts of nasty things.  Being a dude, especially a fat dude, I already have to worry about man boobs and I don't need any help from my morning bite of vegetarian sausage.

That's if you can believe all you hear.  Of course vegetarians would tell you meat is bad for you.  Of course one mushroom based meat alternative company will tell you that soy sucks as well.   Eventually, someone else will come out and say shrooms aren't the way to go, either. 

So, if all of what everyone says is true, I'm actually screwed either way.  I can go back to meat to avoid the dangers of soy or I can keep myself-meat free to sideswipe all the additives.  The best option would be to eat organic meats that should be free of all the hormones and ground up extras like skin and eyeballs and...testicle balls.  But, as I said, I live in a hick town and those organic meats aren't readily available and the ones that are available are more expensive.  It seems hopeless.  It doesn't matter what I choose because my hormones are off and my internal faculties are most likely fried.

I just feel like if I ever did go back to eating meat, I would feel terribly guilty.  I'd feel like I failed at something, that I let myself down and the animals (yep, I know that might sound silly).  It's not like I think me not eating meat will change anything.  I know it won't.  I guess I just feel better knowing that I'm not actively participating in the torture and slaughter of animals.

For those of you just tuning in, let me say that my being a vegetarian is a personal decision.  I am not out to convert the world to vegetarianism.  I do not care if you eat meat.  I will not think less of you nor do I think higher of myself for not eating meat.  I have no problem with those who make their living raising and selling animals that will eventually be killed for food.  I don't even necessarily have a problem with animals being killed for food.  My problem is how it's done.  I don't like the fact that most animals nowadays are born into suffering until they are ripe enough to be slaughtered.  They spend their lives in filth and fear until they are rounded up and split down the middle and that's not something I can be okay with or ignore.

It's quite obvious to me that I'll need to further investigate the pros and cons of both vegetarianism and carnivorism.  It's also quite obvious to me that this will be quite the struggle for some time to come.  The funny thing is if we started farming people for food, I don't think I'd feel nearly as bad biting into a baby burger as I would a piece of veal.

Just kidding.

maybe.