Through Thick and Thin #2 (August 1, 2002)
My Long and Winding Road
or
The habits, lifestyle and weight persist even after the emotional hole has been filled
As I've reconstructed my long and winding path to morbid obesity, I've made observations that have surprised or interested me. I share them with you now in the hope they'll be relevant, illuminating or instructive for you.
As a child, adolescent, and even young adult, I was never as obese as I thought I was, or as I was told I was. Sure, I was always a “husky” size when my parents brought me to be fitted for school clothes. And I was always one of the larger kids in my class. But my “weight problem” wasn't much of a real problem until I responded to years of blaming, shaming, judging and criticism by internalizing the distorted perception that I wasn't worthy of respect, dignity or love, or otherwise “good enough”, because I weighed too much.
When I graduated high school I weighed around 200 pounds (I'm 5'9.5” tall) and throughout college my weight ranged between 200 and 230. When I look back now at photographs capturing my image as a child, teen and young man, I marvel now at how relatively “normal” I actually looked. How I felt and saw myself was an altogether different matter: huge, bloated and disgusting, like a beached whale rotting on the beach. And then, in a terrible irony, my distorted negative self-perception drove me to eat compulsively until I became even more obese than my self-image.
My weight was the subject of a bitter, ruthless and ceaseless war between me and my mother. She passed away a few years ago, tragically and prematurely. I'm grateful that before she died we were able to reach a place of mutual understanding, respect and appreciation. I was able to accept that her words and actions, however hurtful they may have felt, came from a place of sincerely wanting me to be healthy and well. She was able to accept that, notwithstanding my obesity, I was a loving and good man, husband, father and professional.
But during my childhood, and
especially my adolescence, my mom seemed to take on personal responsibility for
my weight, and for whipping me into acceptable shape. It felt like it was a moral crusade for her.
I remember her words, looks and actions, laden with the power of guilt, shame
and blame, trying to convince, coerce or humiliate me into compliance with her
latest proposed diet or plan. I knew that
overt resistance was futile, so I became a covert eater — raiding the
refrigerator late at night when everyone in the house was asleep. If no one saw me eating, then it didn't
count, the calories weren't real, and the weight gain was an illusion.
Looking back, the only way that I felt I could be myself, or stand up for myself, was by my defiance in continuing to stuff food into my mouth. This was part of a doomed attempt to try to fill the emotional, spiritual hole I felt within. But this was the hole of not being enough, and there wasn't enough food in the world to fill it. So I ate compulsively, and for so many reasons. At first for revenge, or out of defiance, or for a sense of power in the battle with my mom. Out of a sense of shame for lacking the self-respect, the self-discipline, the strength to stop my self-destruction. I ate for comfort. For solace. For celebration. Out of boredom. And by the time I learned how to fill the hole, and meet my emotional needs, through self-love and other-love, I had developed a lifestyle and self-destructive habits that persisted even when the emotional needs that had prompted them were resolved.
It's so sad and unfortunate. This was a time in my life when some understanding and support, some education about healthful eating, and a reasonable exercise program would have been enough. Instead, concerns over my weight inspired verbal and emotional attacks that backfired and yielded counterproductive reactions that turned a potential problem into a serious lifelong health crisis.
My weight became the central aspect of my relations with my parents. It dominated every phone call and visit. I remember proudly bringing my wife and newborn child back east to Florida, where my parents had retired, to show them off and hopefully, finally, get some measure of approval for becoming a successful man, husband and father — good enough and worthy of acceptance and respect. And I remember my pain and despair upon entering their home when my mother took a horrified look at my bulk and said, “If I were you and had to look at that fat face in the mirror every morning, I would just puke”. It hurt me so much to feel that she saw me as a 250 lb. sack of fat, and nothing more. That my value as a man was judged by my weight on the scale.
Every interaction with my parents ended the same way: with a bitter, desperate and unsuccessful effort by my mother to blame and shame me — or later, my wife — into doing what had to be done for me to become a normal, and therefore acceptably-sized, human being.
Over the years, I tried every diet, fad, and program. During my early high school years, my mom brought me to a “diet doctor” who gave me pills and injections guaranteed to solve my problem. Over the course of six months, I lost 15 pounds, and gained back 25 pounds after I stopped seeing him because of the uncomfortable side-effects. (I didn't know then that he was prescribing “speed” type drugs to suppress my appetite.) Next, during summers home from college, I joined Weight Watchers. I continued this program off and on for a few years. I lost 20 pounds, and regained 30 after leaving the program. I hated the weigh-ins, and measuring food and intake, and ultimately rebelled against the regulation and attention to detail, which didn't fit well with my life as an undergraduate. Then I continued the diet dance with Stillman's, Atkins', the grapefruit diet and so many more. Back and forth to Weight Watchers. Liquid protein diets, which worked great, until I returned to eating solid foods. Nothing ever worked or lasted.
My appetite regulator never seemed to work right. I never felt full. So I grazed from the time I got up in the morning til the time I fell asleep at night. I weighed 240 pounds when I married in 1979. After our first daughter died tragically (and unnecessarily) during her birthing (the nurse failed to attach a fetal heart monitor, as directed by the doctor, and she slowly strangled to death when the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck), I sought serious solace in eating my way through my unbearable grief. This was a time when people generally didn't acknowledge a “stillbirth” as the loss of a child, which of course it was to us. The death of our child, and of all of the hopes and dreams associated with her. Within a few years, I snapped out of my isolation and unconsciousness long enough to weigh myself and found that I had peaked at 350 pounds, and realized — with a feeling of total terror — that there was no upward limit to what I could weigh.
That's when, desperate, scared and sick with fear and dread, I found my way to Overeaters Anonymous, a 12-step recovery program. I am forever grateful to OA for the gifts of a belief system, the Serenity Prayer (God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference), and the fellowship that changed my world view and life forever. However, while OA helped me heal my emotional wounds and restore my self-love, self-acceptance, self-pride and self-respect, my obesity still remained. In the two decades since discovering OA my food program has improved, and my weight has fluctuated up and down 50 pounds.
One of the greatest gifts of OA was my realization that dieting was as dangerous and self-destructive to me as my compulsive overeating. I resolved to never, ever diet again. Healthful and thoughtful and careful eating programs: fine. But diet: never!
I also developed, practiced and strengthened my emotional boundaries with my parents and other family members. Once I realized that engaging in discussions with my mom about my weight and weight loss strategies was counterproductive — i.e. it drove me to eat more and despair more rather than helping in any way — I laid down and enforced the boundaries that ANY discussions of my weight were out-of-bounds and unacceptable. If you want to maintain a relationship with me, I told my mom, you must agree to never go there.
Of course she still tried. And tried to enlist my wife as her ally and proxy to manage my weight. And when my wife refused to play this game and role, my mother reluctantly stopped talking about it, at least out loud and at least to me. My weight and her concern about it became a popular topic in her discussions with my siblings and other family members. And whenever we visited, I always cringed during that first look-over during which, however silently, she expressed her disgust and despair. But we were able to maintain our relationship and eventually, before her death, I came to understand that everything she did and said was driven by her sincere concern for my health and wellbeing, by her love for me and her hopes for my future. It's just that, from my perspective, her execution was flawed, and so very hurtful and counterproductive. Because that's what she was taught. She did it the only way she knew how. And I understand and accept that now. And Iforgive.
And so now, after all these years and all these diets and after the emotional rollercoaster ride of my struggles with my weight, I'm finally ready. Ready to undergo the surgical procedure that I know will deliver the outcome I yearn for, and that my mother always prayed for — my transformation from a morbidly obese man to a man at his ideal, and optimally healthful, weight.
There are times where I wish I had traveled a different, shorter and more direct path to this point. Mainly, I'm just grateful that I'm here, and will soon get my body back. And I'm preparing myself for the dramatic lifestyle, logistical and emotional changes that will be required for me to successfully complete this transformation. This is not an easy path, or a path for those weak in spirit and will. I'm ready, and I can't wait to embark.
Glenn
Next Issue (#3): Jumping Through The Hoops To Gastric Bypass Surgery
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