I think I first heard the word "fix" to mean a shot of heroin when I saw the movie "Panic in Needle Park" when I was maybe 7 or 8. Those were the days when movies were rated M for mature and there was no real age limit. The movie was an eye opener for little Stevie from the suburbs, I can tell you that. But I never put together that these people were fixing their problems with heroin, that the fix was really a "fix." I just thought it was a slang expression, and I never really thought about it.
But now I get the idea.
As a food addicted person, I'm constantly on the prowl for a fix. Fix my mood, fix my energy, fix how I feel, fix my boredom. Enhance, change, cure, modify, alter, soothe, placate, energize, mellow out, reward, punish, distract . . . fix.
I've been a doctor with an ever-complaining, ever-ill patient: myself, writing prescription after prescription for medicine I know won't work.
So yes, I'm definitely a food addict. I have been "using" since I was five years old. I first "OD'd" when I was 7 and stole a $20 out of my dad's wallet to go buy snacks at the 7-11. I bought a sack of goodies, went around to the back of the 7-11, sat down with my back to the wall and proceeded to gorge. I was pretty much in a sugar coma when my dad found me an hour later.
Most of my life I've had a $30/day habit. Another way to look at it is that I had a 5000 calorie/day habit.
When I was very poor and had only a dollar to last an entire weekend, I would go to the market and get 8 boxes of off-brand macaroni and cheese - they were 2 for $.25 - and eat one box per meal. You're supposed to make them with milk and butter, but I would make them with water and the cheapest margarine available. A box for Friday dinner; three boxes on Saturday; three boxes on Sunday; and if I didn't get paid on Monday, a box Monday night when I got home from work. I could've used the dollar to buy something healthy, but I was panicked at the thought that I wouldn't have enough food, enough bulk, enough calories to get through the weekend, so I ate this flavorless, nutritionless crap because it was cheap and filling.
Sometimes the special was frozen pot pies - 6 for a dollar. Inside the dough would be this MSG-riddled mucilagenous glop (gravy!) with one pea, one piece of carrot, and one cube of chicken suspended in it. Good times!
I don't think my addiction is a disease. I've tried since I was in my 20's to accept this idea. I know lots of people in recovery, people I admire and love, who have achieved sustained sobriety by believing in and accepting this premise, and I'm truly glad it works for them. The ability to place the "reason" for addictive behavior outside of the realm of "choice" is invaluable for many people - to get away from self-blame and self-loathing is one of the most important first steps to turning around addictive behavior, and labeling it a disease is one very good way of leaving guilt behind.
But it just isn't true for me.
There, I said it.
I don't have Voracious Ravenicitis, like Samantha Stephens did. I have a five-year-old's insecurities and fears about not being loved and being fat and being gay, and a 40-year history of treating these fears with a readily-available, gooey, greasy, crunchy, delectible, ineffective fix that even a five-year-old can score.
You don't need analyzing
It is not so surprising
That you feel very strange but nice
Your heart goes pitter patter
I know just what's the matter
Because I've been there once or twice
Put your head on my shoulder
You need someone who's older
A rubdown with a velvet glove
There is nothing you can take
To relieve that pleasant ache
You're not sick
You're just in love
Monday, June 26, 2006
Saturday, June 24, 2006
The wall is red.
Okay.
Back when it was just me and my ideas about self-esteem and doing work from home on the computer and having brief face-to-face interactions with loving pets and a sanguine housemate, it was easy for me to stay focused on the theories I've delineated here - that loving, accepting and forgiving oneself was the platform from which a person could turn around a lifetime of self-destructive behavior - in my case, overeating.
I still think the theory holds, but my ability to live it changed drastically when I got a job in the real world and was faced with the bombardment of "eat me" messages that exist out here in Consumerville, USA. Just yesterday, as I sat stopped at an intersection, a bus pulled up next to me and there, in gigantic close-up detail, was an image of a cheeseburger so plump, so glistening with salty/greasy pleasure, so lip-smackingly delicious, that the bus fumes smelled like broiling meat to me. Even the sesame seeds which studded the bun, each of them about the size of a mango, were somehow infused with shiny, nutty eat-me-ness. And as for the melted cheddar and globules of mayo oozing between the crisp lettuce and dewy tomato slices, I could sense their texture, temperature and flavor on my tongue. Ten seconds later, the light changed and I pulled away from the bus. But those ten seconds were a dreamy, creamy oasis, a slow-motion reverie, the fast food equivalent of Bo Derek running down the beach with her beaded corn rows whipping about her head. For those ten loooong seconds, I was not loving, approving and forgiving myself, m'kay? I was a cockroach, crawling between a hot, greasy broiled pattie and the crispy folds of an iceberg lettuce leaf, searching for the warmest, greasiest, saltiest, cheesiest, most perfect place on earth.
What is it I think I'll find there? What is there that isn't here, where I am, right now? Why does my head and heart and body and soul long to be there?
These three months out in the real world have brought with them greater exposure to visual food cues and the opportunities to go to fast-food places that promise instant gratification; greater opportunities to doubt my self-worth as I press against limitations in my experience and abilities at work; greater insecurities about the future as I realize that the company I work for will be closing shop in this area a few months from now; fear about applying, interviewing for and getting another job; a slackening of my commitment to see, feel and hear the truth of myself; greater desire to reward, punish and medicate myself with food; and a consequent erosion of feeling good about myself, even at a time when I'm accomplishing more, making more money, receiving accolades from students, and enjoying more independence and freedom.
Oh, and I've gained 20 pounds in these last three months. I had lost 120 pounds in the six months prior. Now I hover at the century mark, back on the tightrope, precariously wondering which way I'll go.
I've talked about how I'm used to using food as medication, to cure dis-eases that might even have been caused by the tasty, creamy, crispy medicine. There have been times when I was feeling so stuffed from a food binge that I thought, "I feel so uncomfortably full - I'll just eat something to feel better." Huh? What? Put MORE food into my overextended cavernous gullet in order to "cure" feeling so full? How can I even think this? Why are the lizard-brain impulses so strong as to make rational thought completely irrelevant? How can the desire for food vault obliviously over the stinking corpse of the obvious? It's like I'm staring at a wall, and it's painted fire engine red, and there's a sign that says, "Red Wall," and there's a report in my pocket from the doctor that says I'm not color-blind, and everybody around me staring at the wall is saying, "Wow, what a great red wall," and I SEE that the wall is red, and I THINK that the wall is red, and I BELIEVE that the wall is red, but I say, "Turquoise. Turquoise. Turquoise. That wall is turquoise. Yep. Turquoise."
I was in Beverly Hills last week for a training conference, all expenses paid. I walked from my hotel down Beverly Boulevard on Sunday morning, past the familiar-looking nameless Hollywood types eating at outdoor cafes and bistros, enjoying their lattes and croissants and cobb salads, dressed in their impeccably studied casual outfits (and serious bling), and I saw them surreptitiously assessing the other diners and stroll-bys, carefully calculating their fame, wealth, beauty and self-absorption relative to themselves.
It was a Vanity Fair magazine come to life.
An older man with an improbably buff body found a hundred excuses each hour to rub, touch or rake his hair, thereby displaying his veiny biceps for all to admire. A hot babe in a convertible Hummer required six loud, gas-guzzling drive-bys to find a parking space suitable enough for her. A tall, sexy stud dressed in skin-tight white jeans and a red and white striped French navy shirt managed to saunter provocatively up and down the sidewalk for more than twenty minutes and unconsciously show off his clearly defined genitals while talking the whole time on his black Razr (or whatever is the hottest, most expensive cell phone these days). I suddenly realized that these peacocks, these personifications of self-absorbed consumer excess, these bejeweled exponents of the human being as product, these walking, talking advertisements for happiness-through-stuff, these moisturized, modified creatures with their wrinkle-free faces and gigantic Visa bills - well, they're just as blind to their own reality, just as desperate to cure themselves with doses of ineffective medicine as I am.
But here's the difference: the visible signs of their dysfunction are applauded, encouraged and admired. Maybe not by everyone (I'm rather disdainful myself, as you can tell), but by many. In fact, there are entire enclaves - like Beverly Hills and a host of others - where the signs of self-destructive excess are a requirement for acceptance.
In case you didn't know, the side-effects of my dysfunction are not quite as admired by society.
Maybe I'm glad. What if my excess poundage was admired and encouraged by the world instead of hated? Wouldn't it be like adding premium fuel to the rationalization engine that runs so effectively already? Or would public admiration help obliterate some of the self-doubt and self-loathing that led to the excessive use of "medicine" in the first place? No, I don't think so. My Beverly Hills stroll showed me that. So long as the fix is external, it won't really take. That's why the hot babe with the convertible Hummer will be turning it in for a Lamborghini in a few months.
First comes the internal fix. Always.
My time in Beverly Hills reminded me that it's time for a recommitment to the internal changes I'm determined to make, not because I seek external approval or admiration (a delicious frothy beverage, certainly, but low in vitamins and nutrients), and not because I need to withstand the siren song of lip-smackingly bodacious fast food advertizing, but because I want to live in truth. I don't want to fool myself. I'm tired of being blind. I don't want to ignore reality.
The wall is red. And I say, "It's red." I have integrity with myself.
Back when it was just me and my ideas about self-esteem and doing work from home on the computer and having brief face-to-face interactions with loving pets and a sanguine housemate, it was easy for me to stay focused on the theories I've delineated here - that loving, accepting and forgiving oneself was the platform from which a person could turn around a lifetime of self-destructive behavior - in my case, overeating.
I still think the theory holds, but my ability to live it changed drastically when I got a job in the real world and was faced with the bombardment of "eat me" messages that exist out here in Consumerville, USA. Just yesterday, as I sat stopped at an intersection, a bus pulled up next to me and there, in gigantic close-up detail, was an image of a cheeseburger so plump, so glistening with salty/greasy pleasure, so lip-smackingly delicious, that the bus fumes smelled like broiling meat to me. Even the sesame seeds which studded the bun, each of them about the size of a mango, were somehow infused with shiny, nutty eat-me-ness. And as for the melted cheddar and globules of mayo oozing between the crisp lettuce and dewy tomato slices, I could sense their texture, temperature and flavor on my tongue. Ten seconds later, the light changed and I pulled away from the bus. But those ten seconds were a dreamy, creamy oasis, a slow-motion reverie, the fast food equivalent of Bo Derek running down the beach with her beaded corn rows whipping about her head. For those ten loooong seconds, I was not loving, approving and forgiving myself, m'kay? I was a cockroach, crawling between a hot, greasy broiled pattie and the crispy folds of an iceberg lettuce leaf, searching for the warmest, greasiest, saltiest, cheesiest, most perfect place on earth.
What is it I think I'll find there? What is there that isn't here, where I am, right now? Why does my head and heart and body and soul long to be there?
These three months out in the real world have brought with them greater exposure to visual food cues and the opportunities to go to fast-food places that promise instant gratification; greater opportunities to doubt my self-worth as I press against limitations in my experience and abilities at work; greater insecurities about the future as I realize that the company I work for will be closing shop in this area a few months from now; fear about applying, interviewing for and getting another job; a slackening of my commitment to see, feel and hear the truth of myself; greater desire to reward, punish and medicate myself with food; and a consequent erosion of feeling good about myself, even at a time when I'm accomplishing more, making more money, receiving accolades from students, and enjoying more independence and freedom.
Oh, and I've gained 20 pounds in these last three months. I had lost 120 pounds in the six months prior. Now I hover at the century mark, back on the tightrope, precariously wondering which way I'll go.
I've talked about how I'm used to using food as medication, to cure dis-eases that might even have been caused by the tasty, creamy, crispy medicine. There have been times when I was feeling so stuffed from a food binge that I thought, "I feel so uncomfortably full - I'll just eat something to feel better." Huh? What? Put MORE food into my overextended cavernous gullet in order to "cure" feeling so full? How can I even think this? Why are the lizard-brain impulses so strong as to make rational thought completely irrelevant? How can the desire for food vault obliviously over the stinking corpse of the obvious? It's like I'm staring at a wall, and it's painted fire engine red, and there's a sign that says, "Red Wall," and there's a report in my pocket from the doctor that says I'm not color-blind, and everybody around me staring at the wall is saying, "Wow, what a great red wall," and I SEE that the wall is red, and I THINK that the wall is red, and I BELIEVE that the wall is red, but I say, "Turquoise. Turquoise. Turquoise. That wall is turquoise. Yep. Turquoise."
I was in Beverly Hills last week for a training conference, all expenses paid. I walked from my hotel down Beverly Boulevard on Sunday morning, past the familiar-looking nameless Hollywood types eating at outdoor cafes and bistros, enjoying their lattes and croissants and cobb salads, dressed in their impeccably studied casual outfits (and serious bling), and I saw them surreptitiously assessing the other diners and stroll-bys, carefully calculating their fame, wealth, beauty and self-absorption relative to themselves.
It was a Vanity Fair magazine come to life.
An older man with an improbably buff body found a hundred excuses each hour to rub, touch or rake his hair, thereby displaying his veiny biceps for all to admire. A hot babe in a convertible Hummer required six loud, gas-guzzling drive-bys to find a parking space suitable enough for her. A tall, sexy stud dressed in skin-tight white jeans and a red and white striped French navy shirt managed to saunter provocatively up and down the sidewalk for more than twenty minutes and unconsciously show off his clearly defined genitals while talking the whole time on his black Razr (or whatever is the hottest, most expensive cell phone these days). I suddenly realized that these peacocks, these personifications of self-absorbed consumer excess, these bejeweled exponents of the human being as product, these walking, talking advertisements for happiness-through-stuff, these moisturized, modified creatures with their wrinkle-free faces and gigantic Visa bills - well, they're just as blind to their own reality, just as desperate to cure themselves with doses of ineffective medicine as I am.
But here's the difference: the visible signs of their dysfunction are applauded, encouraged and admired. Maybe not by everyone (I'm rather disdainful myself, as you can tell), but by many. In fact, there are entire enclaves - like Beverly Hills and a host of others - where the signs of self-destructive excess are a requirement for acceptance.
In case you didn't know, the side-effects of my dysfunction are not quite as admired by society.
Maybe I'm glad. What if my excess poundage was admired and encouraged by the world instead of hated? Wouldn't it be like adding premium fuel to the rationalization engine that runs so effectively already? Or would public admiration help obliterate some of the self-doubt and self-loathing that led to the excessive use of "medicine" in the first place? No, I don't think so. My Beverly Hills stroll showed me that. So long as the fix is external, it won't really take. That's why the hot babe with the convertible Hummer will be turning it in for a Lamborghini in a few months.
First comes the internal fix. Always.
My time in Beverly Hills reminded me that it's time for a recommitment to the internal changes I'm determined to make, not because I seek external approval or admiration (a delicious frothy beverage, certainly, but low in vitamins and nutrients), and not because I need to withstand the siren song of lip-smackingly bodacious fast food advertizing, but because I want to live in truth. I don't want to fool myself. I'm tired of being blind. I don't want to ignore reality.
The wall is red. And I say, "It's red." I have integrity with myself.
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