The First Tentative Steps Toward Recovery

Before getting too much deeper into this, let me give you my numbers. Understand that this sharing is not something I'm permitted to do in front of my fellows for another two weeks. But in the blogosphere, anything is possible. 

I'm 54 years old, six feet three inches tall. 

My top weight was 328. I came into program (Jan. 1 of this year) at  326.

Today, March 14, I am 265. I have no idea what my goal weight is, but that's not even an issue any more. 

And yes, the weight loss is great. Of course I'm thrilled. But that's not even close to the best part of this program for me. It's the fellowship, and the spiritual connections I make. 

I've never been a religious guy. I was raised in the heart of the revolution, the San Francisco Bay Area in the late 1960s, early 1970s. I was very much a part of, or wanted to be part of, the new order, the new structure of social justice and monetary equality. I vowed to do what I could to help bring it about. I am what Rush Limbaugh and his dittoheads fear most; an unrepentant domestic terrorist wannabe. I never blew up a building, or took part in a violent action, but I marched in plenty of marches, and lost my voice a few times screaming for the fall of the pigs. That was not an environment in which one found a religious leaning. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

As I grew older, I came into a more reasoned political view, perhaps, but not a single thought to religion or spirituality. Eventually I half-heartedly found a Zen practice, but after a year or so, the practice became one of name only, and no actual practice. Still, the hunger for a spiritual connection was palpable, though I honestly thought the hunger was for ice cream and Nation's bacon cheeseburgers. 

As a young man, I was incredibly thin. And I stayed that way for years, well into my mid-thirties. I ate legendary amounts of food, of all kinds: cakes, ice cream, fried everything. My mother was from the south, and brought that mentality to her cooking. Banana pudding was a staple of my youth, as were fried eggs and bacon, grits and peanut butter and banana sandwiches. I ate copious amounts of everything, which only increased when I began smoking copious amounts of marijuana, a habit I gratefully retained for nearly 25 years. All this eating had no seeming effect on my thin frame. Women who watched hated me. Guys were constantly teasing me about it. 

When I got married the second time, I inherited a kid. Which means I stayed home a lot more, didn't drink as much, didn't party as much, tried to be more of a family man. That meant boredom to me then, and that boredom was mollified by food. Food plus TV plus middle age = bellies for guys. And I began to grow one, much to my chagrin. But it wasn't that bad, and meanwhile I picked up a fondness for methamphetamine (having quit a few years of cocaine), which kept my boredom and my eating down to a dull roar. And the two packs of cigarettes I had consumed for years now became three packs. 

Despite all of the chemicals in my body, I continued to slowly grow the belly. Once, at my dealer's house, a beautiful Asian woman was leaving as I arrived. My dealer told me later that she was a famous model, and said I was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, except for the belly. She couldn't handle bellies on men. That struck me at the heart of my vanity, and from that day forth I began to obsess about my weight, which was then probably around 220. 

But as any addict will gladly tell you, obsession is not the same thing as rationality. Quite the opposite, in fact. As my days of marriage started coming apart and my drug-fueled insanity began to manifest itself, food became something new -- a comfort, a place to go that was quiet and safe. I hadn't even noticed that. 

When I got divorced, I was suddenly faced with cooking for myself. Because of a severely reduced budget, I began to eat what I thought was a sensible, low-fat diet. I ate plates of steaming mounds of pasta smothered in olive oil and/or butter, thinking that since there was no meat on the plate, I was being very judicious. I ate whole loaves of french bread with brie and apples. Again, no meat, so no problem. Of course, I also ate lots of cheeseburgers, Chinese food, and other stuff in nearby restaurants when home cooking just wasn't going to cut it. And again, the belly continued to grow. 

When I quit meth, and pot, I had food and cigarettes left. Of course, I didn't consider food a drug. But if one plate comforted me, two plates might provide even more comfort. Before long, I was 260 and climbing. Not good. I was getting old, grey, and way overweight. This is not good news for a bachelor in a place like the Bay Area. 

Finally, on my 49th birthday, I quit smoking for good. But by then I had joined a gym, was starting to hike regularly, and was finally losing weight on a combination of exercise and Atkins. I stayed around 260, where it seemed my body wanted to stay. I was in the gym four to six times a week, lifting lots of weights, doing lots of hiking, and eating lots of organic vegetables. Apparently, I had this weight thing under control. 

Then my disk herniated. I required lots of pain medication, and an epidural. Despite that, the pain was severe, and my days of exercising were long over. Lots of TV time, and now, thanks to depression and paid meds, more food for comfort. The pattern returned -- lots of sitting, lots of sadness, lots of calories. It all added up to one thing: the belly grew again, and this time so did the rest of me. 

Near Death, I Stumbled In to a Room Full of Angels

Here's my story so far -- I had to lose a small child to save my own life. 

It was December 31, 2008. The holidays were nearly over, and it couldn't happen soon enough for me. My latest attempt at weight loss -- another shot at the Atkins Diet -- had died an ugly and violent death over Thanksgiving, when somehow it seemed OK to consume the forbidden flour and sugar products in quantities again. Turkey sandwiches with major mayo, pumpkin pie, dressing, whatever. . . 

So, you might ask, what's the problem? It's Thanksgiving, and that's perfectly normal. People expect to put on a few pounds over the holidays. It's an American tradition. We work a little extra hard during the new year to take those pounds away.

If this is your story, you're a fortunate one. For me, though, that kind of eating was becoming lethal. Literally. Yes, I write poetry and sing songs and have been accused of being hyperbolic, and it's probably true, but in this instance, believe me, it was very real. My life was near an end, and frankly, it couldn't have come soon enough at that point. I was done with the struggle. I couldn't move without pain, couldn't lie or sit without pain, my moods were out of control, I looked horrible, felt worse, and was in the best relationship of my life that I couldn't enjoy at all, because of my condition. 

A condition I didn't have a name for yet, but would the very next day.

As I played my New Year's Eve gig that Tuesday night, I knew something had to change. I couldn't stand and play guitar without severe discomfort for more than a few minutes at a time. I had to hold my guitar in different ways, because it rested on my bloated belly in unfamiliar ways. I couldn't do any moves that resembled sexy; all I could do was move around and look like an overexcited, bloated clown. I had great vocal power, thanks to all that extra diaphragm, but that was hardly compensation for what I looked like now. During the breaks, I scoured the tables with food for the cheese, the bread, the cookies. . . anything that wasn't a vegetable. Because, you see, I was working, so could afford to consume anything. I'd work it off. 

I got home, lumbered into bed, thankful my wife was away at a celebration of her own so I wouldn't have to feel ashamed to be naked in her presence (we had only been married less than two years!), and fell into a fitful sleep. I had to be up early to attend a meeting.

January 1, 2009, 9:25 a.m. I walked into a meeting room in a church in Walnut Creek, California, a prosperous San Francisco suburb not far from my blue-collar town of Martinez. It was full of women chatting excitedly with each other. I took a chair near the back, on the aisle, and sat down as the meeting began. I was so nervous, felt so out of place, and was careful to remind myself I was only there to check things out. A very attractive woman began speaking, telling her story. She said things that were hard to believe -- said she had been over 200 pounds, and now she was 125 pounds, and had been for several years. She said that, while the weight loss was great, the program she was in was far more important for its spiritual aspect, and the fellowship she shared. This sounded like a cult, but that weight loss thing really appealed to me. What had she done, I wondered? Then other women got up and shared their stories. More tales of 120, 130 pounds lost. More women looking slim and great. More tales of serenity and fellowship. Some tears, some laughter, lots of victories. I wanted this. 

At that point, a woman walked up to me and asked me my name. She was slim, attractive and serious. She asked me if I was interested in the program. I said I was thinking about it. She said I should do that, should come back for another meeting. I heard my voice say to her that I think I had found my home. She asked me if I needed a sponsor. I said yes, and she offered to be my sponsor. I thanked her, and the next thing I knew I was staring at my new food plan, and her phone number. I would call her each morning to commit to my food for the day, she said. And I would attend three meetings a week. And there were more things, but we would talk about those later. 

That afternoon, my wife came home and I could hardly contain myself. I blurted out all the things I had heard, and shared with her my new program, and to my dismay, my wife was not at all happy. Her best friend was in this program, too, and she didn't like the changes it brought about in her. My first major obstacle bloomed large before me. 

So where was I? What had I found? My fellows and I call it "program." To the world, it's called Food Addicts Anonymous. It's the Marine Corps of 12-step food programs. It's not for the faint of heart. And it's not for those who just want to lose a little weight. It's for those of us who are truly addicted to food, and who are quite literally a few steps from death. Those of us who cannot, no matter how hard we try, keep that fork, that spoon away from our mouths. Those of us who, with the very best intentions, wind up crying in a burger joint on the way home to dinner, because we just can't help ourselves. Those of us who throw dignity out the window and have a third piece of cream pie because the comfort it offers is much more than the humiliation it portends. Those of us who need medication because our bodies are now the enemy. Those of us who learn not to care anymore about the lengths we go to to find clothes that fit, cars we can fit into, and chairs that don't get up with us. We are food addicts, and we suffer a kind of hell that non food addicts cannot know. Unlike other addictions, we are strung out on a substance that is absolutely necessary for survival. One we cannot avoid or refuse. One we cannot live without, and one that is most certainly killing us. 

More later.