So, how did you do it?

"So, how did you do it?"

How many times have I been asked that?  How many times have you been asked that?  Everyone wants to know how I dropped 40 (60 unofficially) pounds.  They want to know my secret.  They want to know the easy answer.  They want to find the magic formula.

I know this because I wanted to know all those things too.

But the answers are far from easy and no one has the time or inclination to hear the truth.

I didn't do this by watching my calories.  I didn't do this because the "rapid weightloss" program works so well.  I didn't do this by jogging a minuscule amount three times a week.  There was no magic

I have gotten to this point in my journey because I was willing to find the real reasons for my bad health.  I was willing to look in the very dark rooms inside.  I was willing to explore the reasons why I equated food with emotions.  I was willing to stand up to myself and call myself a liar.  I was willing to  expect demand honesty from myself.  I was willing to be scared.  I was willing to feel the pain.

And I was willing to stand before myself and understand, to forgive and to accept.

-----O-----

About a 2 years ago, before I gained all my weight back, an acquaintance had asked me that tired question.  He's got about half a foot and probably 50 pounds on me.  He smokes.  He doesn't exercise.  He wanted to know how I did it.  I told him the about the program and the Couch to 5K training I followed.  He said I inspired him. He got excited and vowed that he was going to start because he "had to do something."

I looked him in the eyes and said, "No. You won't."

The look of pain and disappointment and fear in his eyes that day disturbed me, and does so to this day.

He said that he was going to prove me wrong.  I said I hope he does.  I said you need to be ready to fix what's inside.  And I said that I was sorry, but I didn't think he was ready.

He wasn't.  He still smokes.  He still is large.  He didn't prove me wrong.  I knew he wasn't ready to do the real work.  He wanted the quick fix.  Like we all do.

But that day I just could not be dishonest with him.

Did I do wrong? Did I set him up for failure by telling him, essentially, that I didn't believe in him? 

But, here's the thing.

I am no better than him.

I crashed and burned inside.  After that encounter, I went on to gain back 50 pounds and slap another 20 on top of it.   I stopped being willing to do all that work I praised myself for doing just a few minutes ago in the paragraphs above.

I looked myself in the eyes and said "No. You won't" and I accepted that.

-----O-----

I am convinced that food didn't make me fat.  It was my 40 years of self loathing and a unwillingness to explore the depths of my being that did.  It was a lifetime of avoiding the pain inherent in life.  It was the fact that I was trying to feed what was going on inside with stuff from the outside.  It was because I was scared.

Nothing worked until I tended to that garden inside.

I don't know if this is the answer is right for you.  I don't want to inspire you.  You MUST find inspiration within yourself.  Nothing else works.

But that is how I did it.  And that's how I do it.  And it's how I'll keep doing it.

And that's what I'll tell the next person who asks.

Outside my inside

I am fat.

That's not a self-deprecating comment.  It is acceptance.  The closest I've come to accepting that fact.

I am fat.

I regularly tell myself that I am heavy.  Large.  That I carry it well.  That I'm not really that bad.  That I'm a skinny, fit person inside and all I have to is bring that person out.
And when I listen closely, there is a voice that says I don't have to believe any of this; that I'm just fine.

But, I am fat.  I accept it now.  And I know that I will need to keep accepting it, over and over and over again.

I can look in the mirror and see a man with kind eyes, with a friendly smile and a slightly greying beard.  I see a man that has been through a lot of trials and tribulations.  I see a man who has survived and succeeded.  I see a man I love.

Yet, in all my work to accept myself, to find the self esteem, to seek out and work through the emotions that control my eating...I forgot to accept the physical state of my body.  I denied it because I was not "that" person.  I was someone else I was discovering inside.  And I ignored the person I am on the outside.  I still do.

But I can't do that anymore.  I must accept that I am fat; that I am inhabiting an unhealthy body; that the body that gives me life isn't something separate from me....it is me.  My physical self.

I am a soul.  I am a mind.  I am a thought.  I am a personality.  And, I am also a body.  

I occupy space, therefore, I am.

As sad as it is, this is a new insight.  Or should I say a clearer insight.  I've not said anything I haven't thought before.  But, this morning, it just seems more real.  And scarier.

I am fat. And I don't want to be.

If I can keep hold of that fact, maybe, just maybe, I can begin doing something about it.

Conversations in my head

You're weak.

You've failed.

You are a fatty fat fat fatty.

You work so hard, and for what?

To blow it at the last moment,

That need to feed your fat fa..

You know, you can go to hell.

HA! I finally got to you!

Yeah.

But now you have to deal with what you brought on.

You call me weak, a failure, a fatty.

You sit there in the dark recesses of my

Mind and taunt me and you remind

Me of my missteps, of my insecurities.

 

I have looked  back on our conversations.

I have tried to give you understanding.

I have tried to show you compassion.

I have tried to find ways to make your

Hatred work for me--to motivate me

To explore that other side of me that

Is so full of self hatred and self doubt.

I have tried to reconcile that you are

A part of ME.

Truth is, you're just an asshole.

Yes, I am weak

But only after I have spent my strength.  After

I have worn myself weary of standing tall and

Carrying burdens on my shoulders

And on my mind

And on my heart

And on my soul.

I work  hard every day to stay on target.

I use my skills, my ways of

Distracting, of dealing with my stress and

Other emotions in healthier ways.  But

I have only so much strength.  And then

I am weak.
And then I deal with my emotions

The only way I know how--to eat them.

And no, I have not failed.

As a friend recently put it to me, I've

Only failed if I give up.

And I have not.


As another friend said, you
Confuse failure with struggling.

And I will will work to never
Be confused about these again.

Hey, I..

I'm not done.

I have fought you all of my life.

I have worked so hard to defeat you.

And like my monsters before you

I know now I will not, in the end,
Defeat you.

But I will lessen you.

 

Because you, sir, are the weak one.

I am strong because I know I cannot always be.

You are the one that fears failure.

I am brave because I know I will fail, yet I still go on.

You are the one full self doubt.

I trust that I have the intuition, the knowledge and the wisdom

to deal with whatever life throws our way.

You are the lack of self confidence.

I am empowered to search my inner being to find that confidence.

You are the one full of self hate.

I can look beyond that, and, at times, find self grace.

I do not need you, sir.

Now. Or ever.

In other words:

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Killing Monsters

I've been just on either side of 300 now for the past 6 weeks or so. And I'd be lying if I said it didn't get me down.  It's like I hit a plateau and can't quite find my way back down. Or more like the harder I try to find my way down, the more I eat to punish myself for failing.  We emotional eaters really have strange relationships to food don't we?

And, of course, I'm dealing with my own inner demons, though these days are much better than that recent post.  You know which one.  I'm not going to revisit it.  It kinda scares me.  Anyway.

This morning I remembered something.  Many years ago, I dealt with unwanted thoughts. Not voices, and not intrusive thoughts or thoughts of harming myself or others.  Just think of it as OCD of the mind.  Or think of it as ruminating and obsessing on emotional thought triggers.

I named it my Monster and worked so hard at killing it.  I was seeing a therapist at that time too, and we tried several cognitive strategies to deal with it. I journaled.  I talked about it in therapy.  I tried teflon mind letting those thoughts enter and slip off like an egg on a brand new non stick skillet.  I tried screaming STOP! in my head and turn my attention to other thoughts.  To no avail.

After about a year, I was finally fed up and said to myself that killing it only fed it, only brought it attention.  Berating myself over not being able to kill it made it laugh and grow stronger.

So I stopped trying to kill it.  I walked away and stopped trying to find ways to kill it.  And I woke up one morning, about three weeks later, and I noticed it was dead.

Now here I am, struggling with weight loss again.  I know I've done it before, so why can't I do it now?  It seemed so easy the first time.  All I think about is food and how I'm going to be good today and wonder at which point of the day I'm going to fail and by golly I can make it well into the evening but then the fear of failure is so strong that I eat that bread or bowl of cereal or box of granola bars or leftover spaghetti that the family got to eat but I didn't cause I'm on this stupid diet and can't eat what they eat and goddamit I'm fed up with it and eat it all because the fear of doing so...

is finally released...

once I let myself do it. 

I have a new monster.  And I only realized it this morning.  I realized I can't kill it.  And I realize that's what I've been doing for oh so long.

Tonight, I'm going to try walking away from it and down the slope of this plateau.

And if I can't, so what.  I'll still be just on either side of 300.  Nothing will change except a new day of opportunity will begin tomorrow.

In Brief

• Job situation: sorted.
• Home situation: sorted.
• Emotional angst: getting there.
• Healthy lifestyle: getting there.
• Wife: healing.
• Children: growing.
• Parents: aging.
• Knees, back and ankles: aching.
• Headspace: clearing.
• Sense of humor:  Cabbage. 

Glimpses of darkness; Discovery of light

I've not had a lot to say lately.  Well, that's not true.  I've not had a lot to say lately about my weight loss and self discovery journey.  My mind and thoughts have been elsewhere.


I find that I write a lot about hating myself.  I enjoy writing the conversations with the Left Hand Guy.  Those are real and visceral expressions of what is going on inside my mind.  But when I get right down to brass tacks...I don't really hate myself.  I am often, perhaps constantly, dissapointed in myself.  I often don't like myself for making the same mistakes and bad judgement over and over again.  I often tell myself self defeating things, especially about my weight and whatnot.

But the truth is, I think I'm a nice guy.  I think I'm a good guy.  I like the man I've become and I've been working on it since I was 14.  That's when my dad sat me down and told me that he was done raising me.  He said, "I've taught you right from wrong.  I've taught you how to treat others.  I've tried to teach you integrity and honesty.  But from here, it's up to you to determine what kind of man you want to be."

Now, I'm sure I'm relating that story with some dramatic effect, but that is gist of what he said to me some 25 years ago.  And of course he wasn't done raising me.  He still isn't.  What he was doing was letting me go...just a little...to find my own way.  And I did, eventually.

It is, to be truthful, difficult for me to say that I love myself.  My own baggage and depression make barriers.  But I do like who I am.  Right now, in life, I'm happy with who I am though I am discouraged by my weaknesses.  My weight and my emotional control with food are some of those perceived weaknesses.  But I'm learning I am not helpless in those areas either.

These are the kind of thoughts that have been on my mind.  And it comes on the experience of my wife's journey.  I had never known the depths to which someone could truly hate oneself; to truly be filled with emptyness and blackness; to truly not see one's beauty inside or out even after having been with her for 20 years now.  I have glimpsed this in someone that I love and it breaks my heart.

It gives me perspective.  And it gives me a source of strength to know this about myself.  And it gives me a foundation to work on while I make this journey with my wife.

Like I said when I started this post, I find I write a lot about hating myself.  What if that is just a crutch, an excuse to continue on this road without finding any destination?  A shell to hide what I really feel and am afraid to experience?  Self love. Self success. Genuine pride and genuine humility in oneself.  These things can be scarier to write about than self hate.

Post Christmas Blues

So Christmas has come and gone.  And I'm feeling guilty.  And it's pissing me off.

My plan for eating over the holidays was simple.  No limits.  Simple as that.  I knew that the three family meals I was going to be at would have my most favorite foods.  I knew that the snacking table would be loaded with my favorite salty snacks.  I knew better than to say to myself Deny Deny Deny and then circle the drain of a shame cycle.

So I went with my eyes wide open, ready to enjoy three days of celebration with my families.  I made the decision to not deny myself.  I gave myself permission to ... well, there's no other way to put it except to say PIG OUT.

And, as it was, I didn't.

I snacked all day, but I wasn't stuffing snacks in by the fistful.  No, I grazed and not at a constant rate,  just every now and again.

I ate what I wanted at the meals, and damn the carbs.  But I was satiated after the first serving. So I stopped and did not stuff myself to the point of pain.  There was no feelings of scarcity or thoughts of "get it now while you can cause you don't know when you can do this again." I simply had enough.

I did not take leftovers home with me, despite my mother saying it would just spoil at her house (it won't; she'll freeze it). I knew that this freedom I'd allowed myself was limited.  Taking it home would have meant extending that freedom.

All in all, it was a good weekend.  I should be proud that I gave myself permission rather than scold myself for failing in the face of such temptation.  I should be proud that I stopped when I was satisfied and didn't keep eating for eating's sake.

But I'm not.  I am unhappy.  I'm in a shame cycle anyway.

And it pisses me off.

I gained 10 pounds according to the home scales.  Now, intellectually I know it is impossible to put 10 pound of fat on in a weekend.  I know it is water binding with all the carbs I ate to form the glycogen molecule.  I know it is the food as it's being, um, processed.  I know that it is the effect of my three days of permission...of going off program...of the very thing I made a clear and conscious decision to do.

But, damn.  10 pounds?

I hear the left hand side of the conversations in my head.  And he's laughing.  He makes me feel like I'm not taking it seriously.  Like I'm just doing it for show.  After all, I'm only three weeks out from recommitting to the program.

But that's his job, even when he's wrong.

So, enough.

The weekend is over and it cannot be changed.  I enjoyed myself as I wanted and allowed.  I know that these bad feelings will pass as time goes on.  I accept this pain and will not suffer.

I move forward.  I look back not by turning my head, but by looking through the rear view mirror. 

Conversations in my head

So, you're back on "the program" are you?

Yeah.

Feeling good?

Yeah.

Doing ok so far?

Mostly, yeah.

You're not going to be able to do it, day in and day out.

I know.

You're eventually gonna eat more than you should.

I know.

You're gonna have days where you just don't want to exercise.

I know.

You're going to screw up.

I know.

You are going to fail.

I know.

You a...what?

I know all these things.

I'm not perfect.

  We're not perfect.

So why do it?

Because most days, I will eat right.

Most days I will exercise.

Most days I will be good enough.

Most days I will succeed.

Yeah, but "most days" means some days you will fall.
And I'll be right there to make you feel like shit.

I know.

Aren't you scared?

Yeah.  But I do not fear you.

Dude, don't you get it?

I'm in a better place.

I can look at you and not fear you.

I know you now better than I ever have.

Sure I'm scared that it won't work in the end, but

I do not fear trying.

I do not fear facing you and

Telling you to go to hell 

When I need to.

I won't make it easy for you.

I wouldn't expect anything less.

You are a part of me.

You always will be.

But, what I've decided...

What?

I've decided that I'm not doing
This to prove you wrong.

I'm doing it for me.  

And you.

Me?

Yeah.
You serve a purpose. You make me

Question. Inquire. Challenge. 

Learn. Live. Love.

You are not evil.

You + me = ME.

And I'm ready

To make ME

Something new.

Something old.

Something real.

Something happy.

You're a tool.

Ha!

I know.  So are you.

You coming?

Choosing Reflections

I stand before the mirror and I
See my large belly. I
See my flabby neck. I
See the sadness in my eyes. I
See the fat hanging from my
Frame, from my
Thighs.

I see my
Legs unable to run under
The weight and strain.  I see
My back full of aches, unable
To bend without pain. I see
My arms, with hanging skin underneath. I see my shoulders, slumped and broken
By life's burdens.

I see my face full of
Weakness.
Failure.
Shame.

I see all that I hate
About myself.

I stand before the mirror and I

See legs that hold me

Up like steel pillars. I 

See a back, strong

And proud.  I see

Arms with the strength

To work, the gentleness

To hug my daughters and to

Hold my wife when she is sad.

Or scared.

I see my shoulders, steady

And broad, ready to carry

The weight of life's burdens

for me. And for my family.

And I see my belly

As it wobbles and jiggles

And wiggles and bobbles

When I laugh after wrestling my

Son to the floor, both of us doubled

Over in our glee.

I see my face, proud and secure

In knowing my true worth.

And I look into my eyes, and I

See kindness. I 

See forgiveness. I

See intelligence.

I see Myself.

Turning Corners and Looking Back

Way back in September ’10, I had written a post that could arguably be my rock bottom.  We were about two months into my wife’s illness and life was just grinding me down and crushing my spirit.  I had happened across a blog by Jack Sh*t and, instead of immediately inspiring me, his blog…well…in many ways his blog took away what little wind that was left in my sails.  That post was probably the first, honest assessment of myself.  I remember the words crawling through my chest and down the underside of my arms, ripping themselves free and falling into the keyboard.  It was a painful post.

Jack picked up on it, to my surprise, and left a very encouraging comment.  He even went so far as to make our exchange a post of his own, for which I will always be grateful.  Suddenly I had so many readers—so many people visiting the stable.  I wasn’t really sure what to do with all the encouragement.

So I kept writing, making TJC something into my own personal journey rather than the exercise blog I had envisioned (where weight loss was a minor subject).  I’ve mostly shared, I think, the emotional side of my struggle which is at the heart of my growth.  Not everyone who came over from Jack’s blog stayed.  And that’s ok.  I have been quite content with the readership I have found.  And I’ve said it before, to those who have walked with me down this path for the long haul, and for the recent readers I seem to have picked up along the way, thank you.

I ran across that post while reviewing my blog and it got me thinking about where I had been and where I've gone.  

I’m back, in a significant way. Well, significant to me at least.  I’ve spent the last two weeks catching up on several blogs including Jack’s and many others who I used to follow until my depression had really taken hold and left me apathetic (It’s true.  I’m sorry. I wasn’t able to follow several of my fellow bloggers) I’ve found a few new ones too.  And I am getting inspired. And excited. Yet, I’ve also noted with some sadness that some authors have closed up shop.  

In that post, I said I wouldn’t know what I’d send to Jack for his W.I.D.T.H. program.  I think I know now.  I just recently came to this conclusion.  Since learning of my wife’s recent diagnosis, I thought it would be because of my realization that if I don’t get healthy, my kids have a slight chance of not having parents in 10-15 years.  But, as true as that insight is, it isn't the answer I finally discovered.

The real reason Why I Do This Here is much simpler than that.  And it’s something I’ve said for a long time but didn’t realize how important it had become: 

Why I Do This Here: Because I have to take care of myself before I can take care of anyone else.

Last Saturday I wrote that I feel like I’m going to turn the corner sometime soon.  I realize now that I’ve turned that corner a long time ago.

A Dip in the Sidewalk

So, I was going to write this post about how well things are going. How much things have changed since my life settled down and the new medication actually worked.  How I spent some time going through the blogs of others and found such inspiration.  I was going to write about change and, at the same time, change the layout of The Jogging Clydesdale as a some sort of symbolic representation of this "change".

I was going to, but then I wrote this one.

Today has been tough.  The girls had friends over last night and most of today. There was pizza. There was chips. And dip.  Did I mention the dip? And there was chips.  And doughnuts. And Bismarcks with cream filling. And I ate myself sick.  I am literally nauseous right now, tasting the burps of bbq potato chips. And dip.

Please tell me I'm not the only one to sweep a finger along the bottom and sides of a mostly empty chip dip container to get the last teaspoon of that sour cream goodness.  Please?

So, today wasn't a good day.

But this much has changed.

I am depressed this evening about my choices. But I'm not ashamed.  I know that I am human and can take only so much temptation. And dip.

I'm walking again, 2-3 times a week. And I'm trying to use the stationary bike the nights I don't walk.  And I did visit so many of the blogs I used to read for inspiration but had gotten out of the habit once my depression had really set in.  I am inspired by so many people who have walked down this road before.

I can feel a change just around the corner.

Today I've merely stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk.

And landed in the dip.

I am fat me

“Imagine that you hate the color purple.  Then imagine that you move to a house where your room is purple. If you refuse to accept that the room is purple, you will never paint it a color that you want.”

A basic tenet of Buddhism is that life is painful.  Not accepting that truth is what causes suffering.  I’ve been doing a lot of work over the last 3 years or so to come to grips with this thing called Radical Acceptance.  I still don’t know if I’m getting it right, but it is accepting that things are as they are and I can’t change it.  It means riding out that pain, experiencing it, living with it until such time that the pain diminishes or the situation changes in ways that I can change it.  But refusing to accept the pain is pain squared or suffering. 

The little illustration quoted above is a neat little summation of both suffering and radical acceptance.

I’m not a Buddhist, but I believe there is wisdom to be found in its teachings. There’s a lot that goes with it.  Mindfulness, being present, letting go of the past, realizing that the future is equally intangible.  It’s really hard.  Even harder to sum up in a blog post. And I don’t understand half of it. 

I am fat.  If I refuse to accept that I am fat, I will never be in a position to change it.

See, there’s still a part of me that refuses to accept that.  Sure, I’ve given it lip service.  I’ve worked very hard at forgiving myself for getting into this situation, but I’ve not really accepted the fact that I am back at square one.  In the back of my mind, I still regard myself as a healthy skinny person that’s “put on some weight” despite all the evidence to the contrary.  It’s a coping belief; it’s a lie to get me through the day without a crushing feeling of shame and pity.  Because of this delusion, I am suffering.  I am conflict between what is and what I tell myself is.  That conflict is causing me to suffer and is a stumbling block.

So, my friends, let me state again that I am fat.  And unhealthy.  And I will continue to be fat and unhealthy until such time that I am not fat unhealthy.  I will do my best to not deny this truth in any form of self delusion or rationalization.  And I will fail.  And after I fail, I will start again.

“Fighting reality causes suffering (I hate this room).  Sometimes people get so caught up in hate that they don’t change things.  First, accept the purple-ness of the room, and then paint it.”

It’s time to paint my fat, unhealthy purple room a different color.

(I wish I knew who to credit for the quote.  I got it from an article by Brent Menninger here, but it’s unclear to me if he is the author)

More Conversations in my Head

I feel fat.

Fat is not a feeling.  Fat is not an emotion.
 

Fine.  I am fat then.
 

True, I can't deny that.  But, that's all

it is.  A fact. It is not a judgement. It 

is not a comment on who you are.

When I lay in bed, I can feel the fat

hanging from my body. When I walk

I can feel it jiggling.

Gross.  But again, it is just a fact.

Nothing more.

I feel ugly.

Dude, ugly isn't a feeling.

See above.

Ok smarty pants.  I am ugly.

No, you are beautiful.

Girls are beautiful.  I'm a guy.

Sure, that might make sense looking

at the outside and only if you buy

into it.  But you are beautiful within.

So my insides are beautiful?

You know what I mean.

Aha! So you're still saying I'm ugly on

the outside.  Gotcha.

No, you're the one saying it. And I 

wish you'd stop it.  You're wife seems 

to like your outside so who are you to argue?

I feel stupid.

I'm not going over this again.  And before

you say it, you are not stupid.

I am weak. I should be strong.

Who isn't?  And you need to 

stop shoulding on yourself.

I am unwo....

Wait a minute.  I'm not finished.

You are stronger than you ever

imagined. You think it is normal,

but it is your inner strength that

your friends, your kids, your wife, your family and your

co workers tell you time and time again

they draw upon.  It's time to

start believing them.

Well, even so, I am unworthy.

Unworthy of what?

...

...

You know, I don't know.

Then why think that?

I am fat.  I am large. I am beautiful. I am handsome.

I am smart. I am weak. But I am also strong.

And....

I am worthy.

Duh.

Two options

First of all, thanks to everyone. The last year has been awful and many of you have stuck with me.  Things are turning around, finally.  Wife continues to enjoy her job, the new medication has lifted the fog in my own life and life itself seems to be cooperating more.

Now, with the improvement of my situation comes a renewed effort to get back on track with the weightloss and healthy lifestyle.  These last three weeks have resulted in the removal of 2 pounds from my ample frame.  And here are my two options: either give up because the rewards are not coming fast and furious enough or savor my two pound gain (yes, gain....think about it...it just struck me too...gonna hafta explore that later) as the hard fought beginning of something wonderful.

I know which option is better for me, but I have a feeling if I don't acknowledge the former, the latter will be even more difficult to choose.

Delicous Cores

So there's this blog post by Joy Tanksley called How to get what you really want that I read.  It was suggested by my friend Karen C. L. Anderson at Before and After in a link she posted to Facebook about a month ago.  Before I go any further, if you haven't visited either of these fine bloggers, do so.  I don't follow Joy as consistently as I do Karen, but both are thought provoking and inspiring authors worthy of your time. (and if the links aren't underlined, run your cursor over this paragraph to find them.  I don't know why the underlines don't show up half the time.)

So anyway, Joy wrote this article.  The upshot is to find what I really want through an exercise of asking why.  For example, I want to lose weight.  Why? Because I want to be healthy. Why? And so on and so on.  Eventually I should get to the heart of my desire, what Joy calls the delicious core.  It's a good exercise that I've done in various forms over the years.  The problem is I always get stuck on the shoulds.

When I start the exercise, I begin with "I want to lose weight."  Why? "Because I should." Why? "Because I should." Well....why? "Because I should."

See the problem?

I should want to be thinner, to be healthier, but I have no reason for why I should.  And "should" isn't enough.

So.  What do I want? I want to wear regular sized clothes.  I want to be able to bend over without losing my breath.  I want to run. I want to look in the mirror and feel good about myself.  I want to be free of food's icy grip.  I want to let food go.  I want to stop feeling shame about every bite that goes in to my mouth.  I want feet that don't hurt. I want knees that don't ache. I want to be happy.

...and there it is. My delicious core.

I may not get there by asking why.  But I know that is my answer.  When I ask myself why I want to be happy, the answer isn't "because I should." The answer is because that is what I want.

The exercise would have me go on to find ways that I could experience my delicious core.  But I have no idea how to be happy.  Oh I know how to fake it.  But is happiness something you can create? For 41 years, those times I experience happiness is because, for that moment in time, I'm happy.  It just happens.  Either I am or I'm not.  And, mostly, I'm not.

How does one create happiness?

I think that a lot of answers I'm seeking for the many things in my life and the many things I blog about are in the answer to that question.

Admitting Things

I've been avoiding writing this post for some time. I've been avoiding it because I really don't want to write another whiny diatribe about how life is hard and how I've been failing. I don't want to bore you all who are kind enough to stop by. But more than that, I don't want to admit it to myself and I don't want to see it in words.

When I look back through my posts, I am amazed at what I have written, what I have figured out and what I have forgotten. I'm a pretty with it kind of guy, when I remember to be a with it kind of guy. I've made some real insight into the emotional connections I have with food.

It's also clear that I am depressed. For the last 18 months I've dealt with a falling out with a pastor and the end of his friendship, the heart crushing months of watching my wife fall into severe mental illness and the loss of her income, my own demons and the shame of gaining all my shed weight back, plus another 20. I've dealt with a new position with the library, and now I get to report that I am losing that position due to severe budgetary cuts (I will not be out of a job, however...at least for now). And lately I have the task of deciding who on my staff will receive cuts in their hours. Raising kids, paying bills, and all the other “normal” stress anyone lives through has certainly not made living through the trials of the last year and a half any easier.

For this whole period, I knew I was depressed. I thought it was situational as I certainly had reasons to be stressed, anxious and depressed. But looking back, I think it is clear to me know that I have been mired in a true depressive episode triggered by my situation, but rooted in my illness. I've been here before. I've been on medication for nearly 20 years now, but most of the time it is merely maintenance, not catching up and knocking it down.

I am proud that through all the ordeals of the recent past, I kept it together, got things done, cared for my spouse and kept it from deeply affecting my job. However, now that she is better, I find myself falling apart. I expected the stress to go away once she recovered and once she found employment. What I find is that in releasing that stress, I am releasing the energy that had kept all the cracks closed.

A few weekends ago, I worked a Saturday shift at the branch library. When I came home, I found myself in the middle of a battle of wills between my wife and our teenaged son. And I lost it. Somewhere between trying to mediate a peace and being a parent, I broke down. I was making a toasted cheese sammich. And I gasped a terrifying breath in. I had been fighting tears and fighting feelings of losing control, but I could not do that anymore. In the middle of the kitchen, standing in front of the stove, I sobbed. Uncontrollably. I made it to the bedroom, and kept sobbing for what seemed like a half hour with my wife comforting me.

Afterward, we had a family meeting. My kids had never, ever seen me cry (except during sappy periods of movies). I had frightened them. I think they feared I had gone ill as their mother had a year ago. I don't know. The point is, we talked about not just “it” but about a whole lot of things. Of my wife's illness and recovery. Of her new job. Of our worries for the kids. Of their worries for us.

I'd like to say that everything was sunshine and lollipops after that. To a large degree, things were better. My son, especially, felt free to speak what was on his heart and broke down some of those walls. But for myself, not much has changed, except the realization that my depression is not rooted only in my situation in life...I need help. I'm getting it, though the wait time to get in to see a doctor is long.

In the meantime, the weight continues to pile on. I'm working very hard at not hating myself for it, but the way I'm feeling makes that pretty impossible from time to time.

I was reminded, however, that one of the central tenets of the Buddha is that life is painful. Not accepting that truth is what causes suffering. Spending all of my energy trying to avoid accepting the truth of my condition in my physical, mental, emotional, spiritual spheres is causing me to suffer. Perhaps right now is not the time to work on weight loss but instead work on getting my inner house in order.

I am a large man. No amount of blogging, talking, worrying or wishing changes the fact that at this moment in my life I am fat and unhealthy. I must accept that so the suffering can stop. And, hopefully, the healing begin.

Muffins are not smiles

I was sitting in my in-laws' hotel room on a two day road trip to distant parts of North Dakota and having some breakfast.  My MIL's rhubarb muffins to be exact.  And while I was eating, a thought flashed through my brain.  I didn't pay much attention to it.  In fact, it barely registered--until I was going on my third muffin and second glass of milk: "Rhubarb muffins taste like smiles."

Muffins taste like smiles?  What?

It was a grok kind of moment.  That muffin wasn't just breakfast.  It was an emotion.  A happy emotion.  And I wanted more happiness.

A few weeks ago I posted a rather depressing reflection on whether or not I wanted to do this anymore.  It was good to get those words out.  Even more so was listing the emotional connections I have to food.  I had never really put it all together like that before and it was insightful to see a litany of different ways I equate foods with emotions and memories.  Those words stayed with me throughout the rest of my trip to NoDak and I'm glad to report that, upon returning home, I stepped on the scales to learn I had gained a mere pound (woo hoo!).

I do want to do the work.  But if I'm equating muffins with smiles, I think I got a longer haul to make than I ever thought.  I am so glad that I was in a state of mind to catch that stray thought and examine it.  It was easy to forgo more muffins when I realized I was making an unhealthy association.  But I wonder how often those stray thoughts go through my mind and I'm not mindful.

Since then, I'm trying to approach each meal with a reminder that it is nourishment first.  It doesn't mean food can't be enjoyed or pleasurable, but it does mean I try not to equate emotions with food.  Food isn't happiness-happiness is happiness.  Food isn't comfort-comfort is comfort.  Foods aren't memories--memories are memories.

It sounds so simple.  I'm even a bit embarrassed to publish this.  But this is revolutionary for me.

And just how do muffins become smiles?  I could not figure out why such an association would exist.  I'm not a big fan of rhubarb.  And we didn't have much of it growing up.  Rhubarb muffins certainly were not a staple in youth. But...  my MIL's muffins had a particularly lemony flavor.  And lemon bars figured large in my childhood.  It was a treat mom would make for us.  It was brought out for special occasions and special visitors.  And lemon pie is my dad's favorite pie.  And lemonade made with real cane sugar and lemon juice was a particular summertime treat when I was a boy.  And...  And..  And... and the relationships kept coming.  The muffins were smiles because I have many happy memories associated with lemon flavored treats.

So, I have to ask, am I losing it?  Am I the only one out there who's mind works this way?  Do you ever find yourself making similar connections or catching similar freak thoughts?

Muffins are not smiles.  Smiles are smiles.

Muffins are muffins.

So tired.

Me

Do I really want to lose this weight? Do I really want to be healthy; do the work it takes to be healthy? I'm been hemming and hawing, coming up with some striking insight, learning about my triggers, my fragile self image.  And I've been sharing it, here, online, for the world to see.

But, that is only an illusion of transparency.  I share what I want.  I reveal what is safe.  I write words that offer a shell of understanding.  Do I really believe whatever the hell it is I am saying?

Here's where I stand right now.

I am so large that even a Super Walmart did not have clothes to fit.  Despite changing my tone of The Jogging Clydesdale from a runner's blog to an introspective journal of weightloss nearly a year ago, I am at my heaviest and my largest. Ever.

And that's the truth.

I have a wife recovering from a serious health issue; one that prevents her even now from a completely normal life and the possibility of employment. I have children to care for.  I have bills to pay.  I have a job to perform.  I have issues of my own to deal with.  I am stressed beyond anything I ever imagined I could go.  And I eat to deal with stress.

I have a history with food as a great comforter, as a conveyance of love, as a link to a childhood.  And I eat to remember those time I felt loved.

I have discovered that there is some part of me that fears never having food again.  I don't know where that comes from.  I cannot remember a time when food was scarce; either in my parent's home or in my adult life.  I don't understand this one.  And yet, I eat to make sure I'll have enough.


I have bad habits.  I don't know where they all come from.  I know Sundays were always popcorn days.  Mom rarely left a gas station without a candy bar for us.  I have triggers simply because it's what I've always done.  I eat because it's what I do.

I eat when I'm bored.

I eat when I want to celebrate.

I eat when my stomach is upset and I think a little something will settle it down.  A box of granola bars is a little something, apparently.


I don't like myself.  I don't love myself.  I have grown a lot in this area and have taken great strides toward acceptance.  But I'm not there yet.  And I eat because I believe all the things I tell myself: you are weak. you are ugly.  you have no control. go on, feed your fat fucking face, you deserve no better.  I eat because I hate myself.

I eat not because it nourishes my body, but because food has meaning.  Food has emotions.  Food has histories. Food is a weapon and a reward.

And here's the thing.  I'm dying.  I am one glucose tolerance test away from diabetes.  The way I carry my fat on my belly and apron shows that I am statistically higher risk for a heart attack.  I am afraid of learning that my high blood pressure is back.  I am in very poor health.  I should care about this.  This should scare the hell out of me and prompt me to do something about it.  But the immediate reward of a binge has more immediate meaning than a long, hard path to recover that health does.

I am tired of this.  So tired.  I am tired of hitting this bottom time after time after time.

I don't know what I'm going to do this time, but something has to change.

I am too important to give up.

It's Official

It's Official.

I am too fat for Wal-Mart.

NOTHING in my size.

Shit.

Discoveries

It started with a memory.

I had been thinking about food and my odd relationship with it and I remembered a friend’s 30th birthday party. They had shish kabob gyro meat done up on the grill and all sorts of things to make Greek goodness.

And soon, as people were done eating, I got nervous.

You see, there was still meat on the buffet table. Delicious gryo meat! I couldn’t stand it. There was meat and no one was going to eat it. Presumably my friend would have put it in a container and kept it as leftovers, but she wasn’t doing it. She left it out there! And no one was eating it! The compulsion to eat it was overwhelming. I tried to be sneaky about it. I tried to hide the fact I was snacking long after everyone else had stopped eating. To this day I don’t know if anyone noticed, but the memory of that shame has not left me after 9 years. I ate about a 1/3 pound of meat that I wasn’t hungry for….simply because no one else was going to and I couldn’t stand it being there. Perhaps a third pound isn’t excessive, but the thoughts accompanying were.

Does this make a lick of goddam sense?

That memory lead to other thoughts. Roast beef, gravy and mashed potatoes. OMG. Whenever we have this, I pig out. And the thought in my head is “who knows when you’re gonna have this again? Better get it while you can.” Pig out city. Same thing with what my family calls goulash (most people would call it chili mac without the chili seasoning). I go ape shit for this stuff and eat bowl after bowl with the same thoughts “Better get it while you can.” Same with tuna & noodles. Same with chop suey. Same with popcorn. Same with macaroni and cheese (homemade with Velveeta, not that boxed stuff).

It’s insanity is what it is.

It is a compulsion from my unconscious mind. These foods are my comfort foods. They are the foods we had growing up. We had at least one of those dishes every week (well, not the roast beef, but since we raised steers it was often enough). I’m sure there some emotional attachment there that I’m going to have to explore someday. And all this brought to mind many other things. Mom couldn’t leave a gas station without a candy bar, and one for each of us boys. There was always an after school snack (sometimes healthy, sometimes not). There was nearly always a bedtime snack. Then there were the things that were scarce: Pop was only on hand if we were sick or having pizza. We didn’t have pizza very often. Chips were only served if we were having burgers and dogs. There is still a part of my mind that considers these things treats and rarely enjoyed despite the fact that I have them all the friggen’ time now.

“Better get it while you can.”

It has never been so clear to me that any health gain for me will not happen until I address this emotional attachment to food. Habits, fears of scarcities, attachments to childhood memories. These things I hadn’t figured on. Here I thought emotional eating meant only to eat as a way to deal with stress and hurt. It goes much deeper than that.

I am grateful for these discoveries.

A friend on Facebook posted a quote from Regina Brett in God Never Blinks:

"Forgiveness is giving up all hope of a better past. At first that sounds harsh, but once you let go of what you wanted the past to be, you can start changing the present and create a better future.”

I don’t know what her book is about or what context this quote comes out of, but boy oh boy it is powerful. Forgiveness is giving up all hope of a better past. Forgiveness of myself is giving up all hope that I won’t eat that gyro meat 9 years ago. It means giving up all hope that I’ll be able to restrain my compulsions of the past. It means giving up all hope that my mother will be a better example to the child within me when it comes to diet. It means to come to the final, inescapable conclusion that the past is set in stone. The hurts inflicted by myself and by others will not be erased and no hope in the world can change what has happened.

The present, however, can be changed. And that is more power than I've ever had before.

I have a lot of work to do.