What if . . .

What if you could wipe away a hundred years of conventional wisdom about dieting and try something radically different?

What if you could offer people a method for losing weight that didn't cost a cent?

What if you could come to one realization that would forever change the choices you made for yourself?

What if you could turn it all around and make your desires and subconscious thoughts support you instead of defeat you?

What if you could pinpoint the one thing that has lead to all the destructive choices you've made?

What if life finally worked for you instead of against you?

A few more facts and figures

Never in history has there been more readily available information, scientific studies, surgical procedures, nutritional knowledge, weight loss plans, availability of exercise equipment, personal trainers, weight loss support groups, psychologists and counselors trained to work with eating disorders, vitamins, supplements, prescription medicines, recreational activities, diet foods, low-calorie frozen meals, low-fat versions of high-fat foods, availability of fresh vegetables and fruits, availability of low-fat meat products, low-fat dairy products, fat substitutes, sugar substitutes, self-help books, spas, weight-loss camps . . . . . . . .

Never in history has there been more societal pressure to lose weight, look good, feel better, maintain a healthy lifestyle, makeover your life, commit to healthy eating, get help, have buns of steel, defined abs, no flab, perky tits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

AND NEVER IN HISTORY HAS THERE BEEN A GREATER PERCENTAGE OF OBESE PEOPLE.

Facts and Figures

Here are some facts and figures to ponder:

So long as you take in less calories than you burn, you will lose weight. 100% of diets that follow this formula work. If you eat more calories than you burn, you will gain weight.

100% of all people who go on diets experience success to some extent and for some period of time . . . . . . however, 95% of all people who go on diets gain back whatever weight they lost plus more. (Now just take a moment to think about that - how many billions of dollars spent, how many dreams trashed, how may spirits broken, how many serious health problems returned, how many feelings of helplessness and failure and disappointment does this represent?)

100% of the people who gain back the weight they lost can point to at least one contributory factor that was out of their personal control which lead to their failure.

For people who undergo the most drastic surgical stomach by-pass procedure, the average weight loss is about 70% of what they need to lose (this means that if they need to lose 200 pounds the average person loses 130 pounds and remains 70 pounds overweight); and approximately 30% of patients figure out a way (drinking milk shakes and eating calorie dense foods) to "bypass" the by-pass, and even with a stomach the size of a peanut, gain back the weight lost.

100% of all people who are overweight KNOW they are overweight.

100% of all people who are overweight are inundated by thousands of messages in the mass media to feel bad about themselves.

100% of all people who are overweight think that their lives would improve if they lost weight.

100% of all people who are overweight have tried to lose weight.

100% of all people who are overweight find it harder as they get older to lose weight.

100% of people who are overweight think they would be more lovable if they lost weight.

100% of people who are overweight have experienced embarrassment or shame surrounding their weight.

100% of people will have different sets of contributing factors to how successful or how unsuccessful a program will work for them. These include genetics, background, health, access to food, income, age, race, activity, ability, disability, circumstances, support, education, intelligence, integrity, character, spirituality, motivation, commitment, willpower, tenaciousness, anger, love, hunger, sleep patterns, world events, ability to rationalize, ability to make excuses, ability to blame others, ability to cook, social commitments, relative belief in the potential for success in the program they have begun, relative belief in the advice and skill of medical professionals, competence of assistance, competence of support materials, the success or failure of friends and celebrities who have tried the same program, the tendency to binge, the tendency to quit, the tendency to win, the tendency to follow directions, the tendency to be depressed, the tendency to be hyper, the ability to stick to a routine, agility, skill in sports, access to recreation, latitude, longitude, political influences, optimism, pessimism, cynacism, need for immediate gratification, ability to delay gratification, altitude, attitude, responsibilities, talents, emergencies, sensory input, occupation, employment, retirement, addictions, expectations, dreams, desires, goals, willingness, marital status, birth order, country of origin, karma, past life experiences, sabotage, metabolism, nutritional balance, distance from home to a McDonalds, distance from work to a McDonalds, the number of fast-food places enroute from home to work, whether there's a Starbuck's within easy access to work, whether the person in the office next door keeps M & Ms in a jar on her desk, whether you have kids who go trick or treating, family holiday traditions concerning food, allergies, sexual activity or inactivity, sensitivity to heat, sensitivity to cold, humidity, sensitivity to chlorine, flatulence, regularity, irritability, irrationality, mental illness, living over a delicatessen, living over a bakery, living next to an Italian restaurant, exposure to ads for buffet restaurants, the number of coupons you get in the mail, the magazines you read, the TV shows you watch, the movies you see, the billboards you spot, dental health, and the ability to come up with a ridiculously long list of contributory factors that affect a person's success on a program.

Obese people spend approximately $180 billion a year on treatments for obesity.

Obese people have increased health problems and die younger than nonobese people.

Obese people experience more employment discrimination and average less income due to underemployment than nonobese people.

100% of obese people have great reasons to want to lose weight, and still 95% of them fail.

Affirmations as lie detectors

I've been experimenting with affirmations lately. I have a theory that an affirmation that isn't also true is useless. I've discovered that when I say an affirmation that I don't really agree with, I get a kind of flutter inside - like there's an internal mechanism that goes, "Tilt, tilt, tilt" and the affirmation is rejected.

I think this must be the way a lie detector test works. You tell a lie, and the little internal assessor says, "wrong," and the monitors pick up the physical changes.

This turns out to be an outstanding predictor of areas that need fundamental shifts in belief.

For example: this morning I said the following affirmation: "I deserve to be rich." Immediately, my internal assessor said, "No you don't!" It was a perfect indicator of how I don't believe I deserve to be rich. So I modified the affirmation and said, "I deserve to receive the bounty of the universe like everyone else does." This time, I believed it, so there wasn't a "clink." Then I said, "I am willing to be rich." Oops, didn't believe it. "I am willing to be financially secure." Better, but not completely there. "I am willing to move in the direction of financial security." There is was. My actual belief.

Working with affirmations like this is enlightening and encouraging. We can get to our truths, and we can change our core beliefs, by finding ways to believe what we may at first reject.

I am willing to learn to love, approve of and forgive myself.
I am learning that I deserve to love, approve of and forgive myself.
I am learning to love, approve of and forgive myself.
I deserve to love, approve of and forgive myself.
I love, approve of and forgive myself.
Every day I love myself more.
Every day I approve of myself more.
Every day I forgive myself more.
Every day I find new ways to love, approve of and forgive myself.

Confirming My Suspicions

It was sixth grade, and although I was an A student, captain of the patrols, a good piano player, second place winner of the bicycle derby, a published writer (an article in the local paper), a voracious reader, the spelling champ, and a reasonably willing lawn mower and chore doer, something was gnawing at my parents' approval of me: I was getting fat, and I hadn't "grown out" of my effeminate phase.

The first indications that my parents were worried about my development (or where that development was taking me) were subtle and not immediately apparent to me. I was crazy for the Lincoln Continentals in 1972. They looked so cool to me - like sharks. They even had gills. There weren't many of them in the Seattle area so when I spotted one on the road, I'd get excited and point them out, drooling over the various design combinations that were available. One afternoon, I was sitting in the back seat and talking about how gorgeous I thought the Mark VII was that we were passing. Mom turned to Dad and said, "See, he likes cars." And Dad said, dismissively, "Not like that."

I knew right away what this exchange implied, and it upset me, but I didn't say anything.

A couple of weeks later, Dad brought home two pair of boxing gloves and rolls of gauze tape. It seems he was going to teach me to box and we would be having sessions in the basement each evening. I had absolutely no interest in boxing. I was a completely non-violent, non-competitive person, who had already shown an interest and ability for swimming. But this wasn't just about exercise or fitness; this was supposed to "toughen me up," even "make a man outta me."

With determination and a good deal of gruff prodding, Dad and I donned our gloves and began to spar. The image of my Dad, sweating and bobbing around like Ali, saying, "Hit me! Hit me!" while he punched at me, struck me as absurd and silly, and instead of hitting him, I giggled (like a girl). I couldn't bring myself to try to punch him. I didn't mind the preliminary jump rope exercises, nor the calesthenics he showed me how to do, but when it came to combat, the experiment was a complete bust. Four or five lessons into the new regime, Dad gave up, and I relievedly shucked the gloves forever.

I saw the boxing experiment as a statement about my weight, an attempt to help me lose, and of course I saw it as a criticism, as disapproval of my body. I didn't perceive at first that it was designed to turn me from a sissy into a real boy. But I saw the initial disapproval of my body turn into disappointment in me when I failed to jump on the boxing bandwagon.

There was a basketball hoop contest at school. You had to see how many baskets you could get out of five. If you got two out of five, you went on to the intramural competition, and from there, on to the state competition. One day in PE we all tried to make baskets. I had never held a basketball in my hands before, much less shot a basket. But I was relatively well coordinated and, gamely, stepped up to the line. I got the first one in, a swish. All the boys looked at me in shock - Steve got one in? No way! The teacher was just as surprised. I was fat and a sissy - just as everyone knew I'd ace the spelling bee, they also knew I would be lame at anything involving sports. I could see it in everyone's eyes - revisionist history was being made.

The ball was thrown back to me. I tried to replicate what I did the first time, keeping my feet in the same direction and holding the ball exactly the same way. If I just got one more basket, I'd have achieved a sports-related victory like I never had done before. I took my shot, and the ball hit the rim, then bounced away from the basket.

No problem. I had three more chances. The other kids were actually cheering me on - that had NEVER happened before. Nobody cheers for you when you're in a spelling bee or a piano recital. I took another shot. Missed. Another. Missed again. Now I had only one more chance. I made a conscious effort to synthesize what I had just learned about basketball thowing and make another basket. I was watching the whole thing from outside my body, in slow motion. I took the shot. The ball hit the backboard, hit the front of the rim, then bounced away.

It was no big deal, really - nobody had any expectation that I would succeed. Least of all, me. But I was disappointed.

That night, at the dinner table, I mentioned the A I got on the math test. It hardly raised a grunt of approval - of course I got an A, it was expected. Pass me the broccoli. I started to tell about the basketball contest, and suddenly both my parents were riveted. I said I got the first basket, and that everybody was cheering me on - - - and my parents' eyes were sparkling, their forks suspended in mid-air, waiting for the punchline. Suddenly, it occurred to me I could lie. So I told them I made the last basket and would be going to the intramural competition.

They were so thrilled! They both spoke in such excited tones, looking back and forth to each other with a sense of delight - and relief. Imagine: Stevie had a success doing a "boy" thing like a sports competition! Oh, they were just so happy about it! They peppered me with questions - When's the next competition, who else made it, and on and on. I watched their obvious delight in this phony achievement and compared it with their indifference at my actual math test A. I kept lying through dinner, making up stuff - the competition would be at the high school in about a month or so, and Dr. Palmer (the principal) would be taking all of us "winners." There was even going to be some kind of awards banquet and I'd be getting a medal. The more I lied, the more I felt sad. That night, both Mom and Dad made it a point to come to my room and tell me they were proud of me.

The next day at school, Dr. Palmer called for me. I went to his office. He liked me - I was one of the best students in his school and was a member of the coin and stamp club, which he ran. I was captain of the patrols, and generally a high-profile student. Dr. Palmer was a kind man, and he gently told me that my mother had called him to volunteer to drive all of us "winners" to the intramural competition. I wish at that moment I had found the courage to confess my lie and maybe let Dr. Palmer know my conflicted feelings about the way my parents celebrated this non-achievement versus my very real academic achievements. But I lied to Dr. Palmer and said that, obviously, my mother had misunderstood, and that I only got one basket and therefore wasn't one of the school's winners, and that she must have thought because I got one basket, I was one of the winners. It was all a misunderstanding, obviously. Dr. Palmer gave no hint to me that he saw through my lie, and sent me back to class.

I dreaded going home. I wasn't sure what would happen. I went into the house, said "Hi, I'm home!" as I usually did, and found my mother in the kitchen. She was teary-eyed. She looked at me with such disappointment, then without a word, she went into her bedroom (carrying a plate of food) and closed the door. I went to my room. Dad came home later and looked at me with the same disappointment, but didn't say anything, either. He just changed his clothes and went down to the workshop, where soon the sound of buzzing saws could be heard. Nobody mentioned it at dinner. It was never discussed. I was a liar, a bitter disappointment to them. The one time Stevie had done something they could REALLY be proud of, something other little boys did, not like those sissy accomplishments I was racking up with boring regularity, well, it was all just a cruel lie, a horrible joke.

Now, not only was I fat and my sexuality was still suspect, but I was a big liar, too. Oh boy, we all hung our heads in shame now.

I knew I was gay. I had known since I was five or six. My first wet dream involved other boys my age taking their clothes off. Nobody told me about wet dreams and I was petrified - what the hell was this milky discharge? My parents had a copy of Dr. David Ruben's Everything You've Always Wanted to Know About Sex* (but were afraid to ask). I found it under the bed and took it into the bathroom with me. In a panic I found "milky discharge" and diagnosed myself with Gonorrhea. I figured I was one of those unlucky ones who got it from a toilet seat. Anyway, it took about a week before the light dawned and I rightly identified what had happened as a wet dream.

Dr. Ruben's book was a thrill - and agonizing. The paragraphs about erections and penises and testes and scrotums and ejaculation and all that was a huge turn on and I'd sit on the toilet seat with a boner and read, panicked that my parents would discover I had found the book. But it was the paragraphs about homosexuality that sent me spinning. I already knew I was one of those, and I knew "they" were horrible, but Dr. Ruben made it clear: homosexuals were deviants, interested in deviant behavior, an abomination, dirty, disgusting, disease-ridden pariahs. And there was nothing you could do about it if you were one of those except hang your head in shame and take the rejection of all of good society as your due.

That year, a new girl in school sized me over and said, "Fag," with a sneer. I could tell it was a huge put-down, but I had never heard the word, so I looked it up in the huge dictionary in the school library. First definition was a bundle of sticks used to start a fire. The second definition was a derogatory term for homosexuals. That girl had pegged me. It "showed."

The only people in the public eye who seemed like fags to me were Paul Lynde and Charles Nelson Reilly. They seemed really swishy to me, and as I paid attention to the jokes they made on Hollywood Squares and Match Game, I thought, "Yup, that's me, I'm crazy about Judy Garland, too." Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.

I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach for a year. I knew I was this despicable thing, and I wondered what my parents would say and do when they learned the truth. They had their suspicions, I could tell, but I think they were hoping that it was a phase I'd grow out of.

One day I was in the car with my Mom. She and I were very close, and I relied on her advice and opinions to formulate my own. If Mom thought something was awful, I thought so, too. Something about that day sparked a desire to tell her. I had been in the land of dread for so long, I just wanted it over with, no matter what the outcome. But I also was hoping that she would find a way to comfort me and help me get past all this anxiety.

Haltingly, with voice shaking, I thought I would open the discussion by mentioning that I had seen something on television about, umm, about . . . ah . . . homosexuals. I saw her jerk the steering wheel and our speed increased. I asked her, "What do you think of homosexuals?" My voice quivered with nerves and unexpressed emotion. Based on her answer, I might have the nerve to tell her I was homosexual.

Mom ripped off her sunglasses and looked right at me. Her eyes blazing and with a look of pure revulsion on her face, she said, "I think they are the most disgusting, dirty, pathetic and horrible people there are and I despise them all." She spit out each venomous word with fire and unquenchable anger. My heart leapt in my chest. My hands were shaking. Tears came to my eyes but she didn't see them - she had returned her attention to the road. I didn't say anything. I looked out the passenger window, and serruptitiously wiped away my tears so she didn't see. She didn't say anything more. She didn't ask me any questions. I didn't reply to her.

It took me awhile to find the courage to say anything at all - I was certain my emotions would give me away. But in a few minutes, I found something to say, about the sign in the dry cleaner's window, a sale or something. Mom acknowledged my remark and soon we were talking again like nothing had happened.

In that moment, when I learned of her intense hatred for homosexuals, I knew that if she ever found out about me, she wouldn't love me anymore. I already believed her love for me was conditional. Now I knew that there was no way I could keep the ball in the air. No matter what I might do or accomplish, no matter how much I pleased her, the truth was lying in wait to destroy it all and send me to unloved hell.

Sixth Grade - Access to Food

Our elementary school was "progressive" - four classrooms in one space, with kids being sorted by ability for each class. It was built to accommodate all the new housing developments in our area and was a short bike ride away. There was no cafeteria - you went through the line and returned to your desk to eat lunch.

For some reason (I don't remember why now), I became a member of the school patrol. I arrived at school early, put on my patrolman belt thingie, and attended the crossing area in front of the school. I also was let out of class at around 10 am to "guard" the dirst and second graders who had shorter hours than us bigger kids. The kids loved me and called me Patrolman Steve, if you can dig that! I also got out of class around 2:30 for the little kids' departure. I was on my honor, of course, to do all my homework and not let all that time out of class effect my work.

My mom packed my lunch for me every day that year. I asked her to. They were delicious - big meaty, cheesy sandwiches on good bread, lots of mayo, a piece of fruit, and a dime for milk.

I loved the lunch ladies and they loved me. When I stopped buying lunches, one of the dear little ladies said she missed me, and would I be interested in rinsing trays for a free lunch every day? I leapt at this. I was delighted to spend the "recess" part of lunch period working the steaming hot hose and rinsing the aqua melamine trays. When I was finished, my hands were beet red from the hot water, but I enjoyed doing it and the ladies loved me for it.

Since I was a member of the patrol, I stowed my bag lunch in the patrol's closet each morning, and started wolfing my lunch down while standing in the dark closet during the 10 am "shift." When I finished washing trays for the lunch ladies a couple of hours later, I'd grab a tray and get my free lunch.

But it didn't end there.

I learned that if I asked for extra green beans, the ladies, who were so delighted to have a student actually WANT their canned veggies, would heap the beans on my tray, then give me a double portion of whatever the main course was. Two pieces of pizza, or two scoops of mashed potatoes and hamburger gravy, or two squares of mac and cheese.

Wait! There's more!

As I walked back into the classroom with my tray, between the aisles of desks, at least two or three of the other students would give me their milk, glad to get rid of the detestable cow juice. Usually I'd get two extra plain milks and at least one chocolate milk. There was one kid, a tiny, super skinny guy, whose mother was attempting to fatten him up a little. She baked the most incredible white bread and cut two huge slabs of it, at least an inch thick each, then slathered peanut butter and jelly on it. Her son didn't care for grape jelly, so on those occasions when his mom used grape, he'd give me the sandwich. Every once in awhile, some other kid would give me some of their food.

It probably won't surprise you to learn that I went from 110 pounds at the beginning of the school year to 160 by the end.

My pants were so tight that I was constantly pulling them at the crotch to prevent my balls from being strangulated. My parents would say, "Don't touch yourself!" every time I did it, which was frequently. Nobody thought about getting me bigger pants. I didn't think to ask.

I was promoted to Captain of the Patrols about halfway through the year and got to wear the safety orange vest instead of just the white sash-belt. I remember standing in the dark little closet, wolfing down the lunches my mom packed for me, choking from eating so fast, tears streaming down my face because I knew that I was out of control. By the end of the year the orange vest (a Man's large) was tight on me, so I started wearing it unzipped.

I've jokingly said that sixth grade was the height of my popularity, and it's been downhill ever since, but in many ways it's true. I was well-known and liked by lots of other students and got a big round of applause at the graduation party, which shocked the hell out of my parents and me. I was a big fat kid, but I never got called "fatty" or "lardo" or any other derogatory fat words. I was respected.

I had spent an entire year lying to my Mom, engaging in sneaky, skulky behavior, and getting fatter by the minute. I was completely miserable. I knew that something was terribly, terribly wrong with me, and it wasn't just that I was fat. I had a secret - I was one of "them" - the most reviled and detested of creatures, and I was stuffing my face in a panicky fury to try to block out the hell that was just down the road for me.

Food Thief

In the land where I grew up, expectations were high. When I was eight years old, an only child, I lived with Mom and Dad, and Grandma and Grandpa lived next door. These four smart, articulate, critical adults focused all their ambitions, dreams, hopes, and high standards on me. Maybe if I had been less able to meet their expectations from the start, they would've given up setting ever higher and less reachable goals for me. As it was, I was an eight-year-old boy who excelled at school and had a natural talent for playing the piano. Chatty, cheerful, and always aiming to please, I was the apple of their eyes. For awhile.

Although I was a plump child (we called it husky), and although I was quite effeminate, it was tacitly agreed that these were phases that I was going to grow out of soon enough.

Food was a huge part of our lives together and I loved to eat. Dad, whose self-discipline was strong, kept within 2o pounds of trim; but Mom, Grandma and Grandpa were fat, Mom most of all. She was less than five feet tall and weighed about 160 pounds. She ate in shame and in secret. She would start the latest diet with good intentions but after two or three weeks and maybe five pounds lost, she would give up. I revered her and started to emulate her secretive food behaviors. I'd catch her sometimes in the middle of the night, making a big delicious sandwich for herself. When I did, she would giggle and blush, then offer me some. We would eat in the kitchen, in the dark, having a secret little food party, and I loved it.

At a general physical exam, the pediatrician looked over my eight-year-old pudgy body (and my pudgy mom) and put me on a 1000-calorie diet. He handed the little brochure to Mom and told me to come back in a month to chart my progress. Mom carefully followed the plan and cooked me tiny meals. I lost 10 pounds that month, going from 110 pounds to 100, and grew an inch taller besides. I looked the most "normal" I had ever looked, which was good, but I felt light-headed, and soon the bother of making the special meals and my own ravenous appetite brought an end to that diet. It took only a couple of months to gain the 10 pounds back.

Every morning, Mom made me a fried egg and a piece of toast with margarine, along with half a grapefruit and a big glass of nonfat milk made daily with Carnation powdered instant milk. My parents bought it in 40-pound containers from the commissary. I guzzled milk, as much as I could get, and thought of whole milk and even low-fat milk as nectar of the gods. I never had a bowl of cold cereal for breakfast; it was considered much more healthy for me to have the egg, bread and milk. We sneered at mothers who didn't take the time to make a "decent" breakfast for their kids.

I loved the greasy lunches at school as well as the meatloaf sandwiches smeared with mayo that Mom made for me a couple of days a week. We didn't have things like candy or soda in the house, but there was always cheese, deli meats, bread, mayo, fritos, cream cheese, and things like homemade granola (more akin to oatmeal cookies than cereal), homemade custard, leftover roast beef, blue cheese dressing, and such. I was adept at visually weighing food and soon was serving myself the biggest pork chop or hamburger patty at dinnertime. If I couldn't figure out which plate had the bigger portion, I'd ponder the decision for minutes while my father impatiently waited for his meal. Sometimes I'd tear up a little if I was served the smaller portion. My father was a full-grown man, but I got the bigger piece of steak or else I spent the entire meal looked longingly at his plate, like a sad-eyed puppy begging for scraps. He was disgusted with me. I didn't care. Food was the most important thing. I was hungry all the time.

I also laid claim to all rib bones, often loudly gnawing on them until they were as clean as a whistle. I snorted and grunted my way through meals and cleaned my plate every time. I had no problem with the "clean your plate" rule because I usually liked everything anyway, but at each meal I was admonished to "finish everything - there are children starving in Biafra." Grandma's version was "Eat it all for the starving Armenians, or you don't get dessert." If I had to, I would drop brussels sprouts into my napkin so I'd get dessert. Sometimes, while clearing the table, I'd grab the pieces of fat someone had cut off their chop and pop them into my mouth, or gnaw on someone else's inadequately chewed T-bone during the trip from the dining room to the kitchen. I could slip a half-eaten roll into my pocket before anyone saw me. If we were having some big roast, I'd excuse myself in the middle of dinner to fill up my water glass, then cut crusty, greasy chunks of meat off the roast as it sat on the cutting board, chewing hurriedly to get those extra delectible morsels swallowed before returning to the table.

Between meals, I was the fridge raider. I got expert at sneaking into the kitchen, silently opening the refrigerator, holding down the light-tripping button, carefully sliding open the cheese drawer, and pulling off paper thin slices of mozzarella from the five-pound block wrapped in wax paper. Six or seven trips to the fridge and I could swipe a half pound of cheese easily. The next day, we would all be in the kitchen, and Mom would say something like, "I guess we have a mouse because all the cheese is missing!" and I'd giggle and blush. If there was nobody around, I'd hack off a chunk of Tillamook cheddar, dip it into the Best Foods mayonnaise jar, grab a few sweet pickle chips, and scarf it all down, going back for more 30 minutes later.

We had a full-size freezer and a walk-in pantry in our daylight basement. I soon learned that I could sneak ice cream, sherbet, and even frozen hunks of cheese and cake from the freezer, and the pantry offered exotic treats like mint jelly, maraschino cherries, peanut butter, cocktail onions, banana chips, and if I was really brave, I'd sneak a can opener downstairs and feast on pineapple rings in heavy syrup, chili con carne (eaten cold), and smoked salmon.

Sneaking food gave me a devilish thrill. Sometimes I'd put a huge spoonful of ice cream in my mouth and slam the freezer shut just in time to avoid my father finding me. I'd turn my back to him and hurriedly swallow the ice cream so my thefts remained secret. I was frequently caught - after all, I was the only kid so it had to be me, and even if I only took a spoonful of ice cream at a time, the thefts added up and soon the container was half gone.

I made a leap to felony food crimes when I was ten. Grandma decided to get a jump start on the holidays by making a huge batch of tartlets at Thanksgiving time. Over the course of three days, Grandma made about sixty individual shortbread tart shells, then filled them with cheesecake, pecan pie filling, strawberry and apricot jams, and chocolate mousse. The tarts were in the shape of circles, diamonds, and squares. They were beautifully fluted and absolutely gorgeous. We each ate maybe three tarts at Thanksgiving. They were buttery, sweet and delicious.

The day after Thanksgiving, Grandma took a big, deep department store box (it was glossy white with the name "Frederick & Nelson" embossed in gold script) and carefully placed the tarts so that they didn't touch each other. Between layers, she cut out pieces of stiff cardboard and covered them in waxed paper. There were three layers of tarts and the box weighed about six pounds. She tied a piece of string around the box and asked me to put it in our freezer. The box would be pulled out at Christmas, and the whole family would enjoy another round of tartlets.

The first time I tried to open the box, the string was too tight and I had to take the box out of the freezer, place it on the laundry table, and pull at the string until it broke. I grabbed two tarts and slipped the string around the box so it looked like it was still tightly tied. The frozen tarts were just phenomenal, like the richest, most enjoyable popsicles in the world. After that, it was easy to open the freezer, reach my hand into the box, pull out a tart, and rearrange the others so it didn't look so obvious.

In the first week, I had eaten the twelve or so tarts on the top layer. I pulled out the waxed paper covered cardboard and rationalized that maybe Grandma would think she packed only two layers instead of three. I slowed my thievery down a little and ate only one a day for the next week or so, but soon the second layer was practically gone. I felt horribly guilty and kept blocking out images of Grandma having a hemorrhage (that's what we called being angry). She had worked so hard on the tarts and felt as good about storing away a huge boxful as someone would feel about depositing a thousand dollars into a savings account.

A week before Christmas, things got desperate. I ate the last of the second layer and had started to pilfer the remaining tarts. I seriously considered making some replacement tarts, but I knew my technique was woefully inadequate and it would generate a lot of rude questions from Mom and Dad. So I just hoped somehow it would work out all right, and kept eating tarts.
I was in the basement with Grandma when she reached into the freezer and pulled out the box for Christmas. She immediately could tell it was dramatically lighter - and in disbelief, she pulled off the string, removed the lid, and found four lonely tarts in the bottom of the box. By then I was tearing up, full of shame at what I had done. Grandma burst into tears and asked me what happened - and I confessed to eating all the tarts. I was so upset to see Grandma so upset, and I kept saying, "I'm sorry" and "They were delicious" over and over and over again. Finally Grandma pulled herself together and decided not to tell anybody about it (my Mom's wrath and my Grandpa's would have been incendiary). So she pulled the last four tarts out of the box, put them on the laundry table, and instructed me to throw the empty box into the fireplace cache. Then we each ate two tarts.

At Christmas, Mom mentioned something about, "Didn't you freeze some tarts, Mama?" But Grandma shot a look at me and lied about it, and soon the gorgeous tarts were forgotten in a sea of almond crescents, rum balls, mandelbrodt, ruggula, and other homemade treats. Later on, Grandma and I laughed about the tart robbery the way a master jewel thief reminisces about the emerald necklace he stole off a dowager's neck.

I was an insatiable food thief. I learned to lie, cheat and steal to get food. By the time I was eleven years old, I was a hardened criminal. Well, a soft, pudgy criminal, that is. But my biggest crime was yet to come.

Genesis II

At eight years of age, my family moved from DC to Redmond, Washington, a small town on the eastside of Lake Washington, about fifteen miles from Seattle. Years later, after I had left the area, a guy named Bill Gates started a company called Microsoft and built a huge campus just a half-mile from where I had grown up. But in the late 60's and early 70's, Redmond was a place of tract homes and cookie-cutter developments where housewives led Cub Scout packs and husbands commuted every day across the world's longest floating bridge. Gas was 32 cents a gallon, a complete 16-ounce steak dinner at Black Angus was $1.79 and my dad paid $31,000 for our split-level cedar shake home with a view of Marymoor Park, Lake Sammamish, and the Cascade mountains.

We had been excited about moving all the way to the Northwest from cosmopolitan DC. Dad said we would probably need to get a rifle in case bears came onto our property, and my mom speculated about hiring a nice native Indian girl to do housekeeping for us. We were all a little disappointed that Seattle seemed quite settled, and it was obvious we wouldn't be needing a shotgun. Already dominated by Boeing and the lumber industry, Seattle had come into its own just a few years before when the World's Fair brought international attention, hydroplane races on Lake Washington, and the awesome Space Needle. Schools were new, modern glass-walled wonders nestled among birch trees and rhododendron bushes. Innovative architects followed Frank Lloyd Wright's lead and built low-slung business parks surrounded by green fields. Entire communities sprung up in areas where orchards and dairy farms had existed just a year before. It was a boom economy held aloft by Boeing's success, and proud fathers made good money, providing three bedrooms, two baths, and Huskies tickets for their growing families while moms baked cupcakes for the cub scout troop.

About a month after we arrived, my Mom's parents moved from Southern California to be with us, and just a few weeks later, Grandma had a massive stroke. Although Mom and I had looked for apartments for them, including some gorgeous places right on Lake Washington, it was obvious that they wanted, maybe even needed, to live closer to us. I was all for that - Grandma and Grandpa were lively, funny, generous and loving people, a comedy team, really, like some Vaudeville act. As the only child of their beloved daughter Cookie (yes, that was her nickname), I was beloved by them, and was thrilled to find I had returned to my former status as golden boy. Dad bought the lot next door to our new house, scraped up the money to build a house on it, and rented it to my grandparents. It was a tight squeeze financially, but it was worth it, Dad later told me, if it meant Grandma and Grandpa weren't going to live with us.

Dad settled in to a life of satisfying work at the Naval base, gardening when the weather was nice, and constructing things in the workshop during the dreary wet winters. Mom took care of the house, did the shopping, took decoupage and macrame classes, and started another diet. Grandma, who had come home from the hospital in a wheelchair, figured out how to cook wearing crutches, passed the driving test after three failed attempts (a very important mission - Grandpa didn't drive), and discovered the only Jewish deli in a fifty square mile area. Grandpa, who had never so much as watered a potted plant, picked up a hoe for the first time and turned a bare pile of rocky dirt into the horticultural pride of the neighborhood. Grandma had quit smoking in the hospital, so the other three quit, too, in an act of solidarity.

As for me, I loved my new life. I adored my wonderful third grade teacher and made fast friends with Kenny and Cathy, two great kids in my neighborhood. Although I missed swimming, I taught myself how to ride a bicycle and spent hours circling the cul-de-sac, zooming down the street in front of our house, and waving at Grandpa in the garden as I passed.

There was usually a big project of some kind for us men to tackle each weekend that first year: dig a huge hole to plant a tree, lay down a couple of tons of bark, build a concrete block retaining wall around the vegetable patch. We sweated, strained, and felt proud of our accomplishments. Mom and Grandma would bring us glasses of iced tea and plates of meat loaf sandwiches, then ooh and aah our our handiwork.

On hot summer days, Grandma and I would pick bucketsful of blackberries from the thorny bushes along the main road. Then we'd collect Grandpa from the yard and drive down to Lake Sammamish in Grandma's powder blue Plymouth Sport Fury. While Grandma spread out a fine picnic lunch, Grandpa and I swam in the murky lake. Grandpa inevitably fell asleep on the way home while Grandma regaled me with stories about growing up in a family of ten kids in turn-of-the-century New York.

Every month or so, usually for someone's birthday or for a holiday of some kind, all of us would get together for a big dinner. The location alternated between G & G's house and our house. I was official helper and spent the day with either Grandma or Mom, setting the table, chopping the liver, grating beets for borscht or mozzarella for lasagna, setting up the relish tray, grinding the walnuts, stirring the cheese sauce, and licking the cake batter from the mixing bowl. Food was a big deal. All of us loved to eat, and we pulled out all the stops at these dinners. To accompany a dungeness cracked crab fest, Dad would bake crunchy loaves of italian bread from scratch, the smell of yeasty dough filling the house and making all of us drool. Mom would roast a huge prime rib with onions and garlic, or make an elaborate lasagna. Both my parents had a flair for exotic cooking and we frequently had complex curry dinners and authentic Cantonese banquets.

It wasn't a successful party unless everyone left the table groaning in pain from being full to bursting. If Dad laid down on the floor after dinner and undid his belt, everyone knew the meal was a hit. We didn't care about Pilgrims - Thanksgiving was about succulent turkey, rich gravy and marshmallow-sweet potato casserole. Sometimes the space between Channukah and Christmas was only a few days, but each holiday required a full banquet. A week later, it was time for New Year's Day, which meant a cloved ham, macaroni and cheese, and another relish plate.

Grandma, the most brilliant cook of all, created phenomenal meals using treasured recipes learned at her mother's side, yet freely adapted to the products available in the Pacific Northwest. She was an expert in all things Italian and all things Jewish, having been raised one of ten kids by an Italian mother and a German Jewish dad. She used salmon in her gefilte fish when she couldn't get pike. They were pink, but absolutely delicious. Grandma knew amazing little tricks, like putting a spoonful of good scotch in a bowl of chicken soup to add complexity to the flavor. She had a delicate way with baking and made hundreds of individual tartlet shells to be filled later with cheesecake, prailine, and apricot custards. Her almond crescent cookies were light as a feather and meltingly scrumptious. There was always a tray of muffins or crescent rolls hot out of the oven, ice cold sweet butter, and jars of clover honey. Sometimes I'd drop in on G&G at dinnertime, just a regular day, and Grandpa would be sitting down to a four-course meal - homemade soup, a fresh salad, pork chops, a nice red potato, some green beans, a good hard roll, and a lovely piece of chocolate cake. Her cooking was an expression of her talent, a matter of pride, a way to express love for her family, the main source of compliments and her chief pleasure in life. To show us how much she loved us, every dish was rich: walnuts and butter go with almost everything. Besides, she loved to eat as much as the rest of us, and her cooking, as everyone would agree, was sublime.

Grandpa knew how to make eggs and grill steaks, but his forte was serving ritzy hors d'Oeuvres like smoked oysters on melba toast. There was always a bowl of Planter's peanuts around, and some sharp cheddar cheese cubes ready to spear along with olives and cocktail onions.

I had a talent for cooking (and a love of food) and absorbed all I could from these accomplished chefs. I also read cookbooks and watched Julia Child on TV. We had the entire Time-Life series of cookbooks from each country in the world, and I'd dream of making a Charlotte Russe studded with candied violets. I experimented in the kitchen for hours, making huge messes but turning out intricate, delicious dishes swimming in butter, cream and cheese. I was addicted as much to the flavors and textures of rich food as I was to the fulsome compliments and grunts of approval from my family.

We ate and ate, grunting our approval and huzzahing over the flavors as we stuffed our increasingly fatter faces. Food was our entertainment. We would no more put up a badminton net and have a family tournament than we would hit each other. We cooked, we talked, we ate, and we felt loved. The richer the food, the more fulsome the love.

Love Yourself

Loving yourself is not an easy thing to do when you've had no practice at it. Affirmations have no meaning - and no effect - when the words you're spouting aren't true. I love myself - I love myself - I love myself - bringing meaning to that phrase is the key.

Intrinsic value: the "All God's Children" idea - you're the child of God, and you have intrinsic value that is more than enough to allow you to love yourself.

Your duty: it's your job to love yourself. God's plan is that you love yourself.

Preponderance of the evidence: all in all, you've done more good things than bad, so you are entitled to love yourself.

Means to an end: by loving yourself, you will have wonderful things happen to you, so love yourself.

Hmmmm.

It is Possible.

It is possible.
It is possible for me to love myself.
It is possible for me to forgive myself.
It is possible for me to accept myself.
It is possible that a fundamental shift in attitude can change everything.
It is possible that love, acceptance and forgiveness are transformative.
It is possible for me to be transformed by love, acceptance and forgiveness.
It is possible for me to love, accept and forgive myself.
It is possible for me to love, accept and forgive myself.

I believe that it is possible.
I believe that I can love myself.
I believe that I can forgive myself.
I believe that I can accept myself.
I believe that a fundamental shift in attitude can change everything.
I believe that love, acceptance and forgiveness are transformative.
I believe that I can be transformed by love, acceptance and forgiveness.
I believe that I can love, accept and forgive myself.
I believe that I can love, accept and forgive myself.

I deserve to believe in myself.
I deserve to love myself.
I deserve to accept myself.
I deserve to forgive myself.
I deserve to make a fundamental shift in attitude in order to change myself.
I deserve to be transformed by love, acceptance and forgiveness.
I deserve to love, accept and forgive myself.
I deserve to love, accept and forgive myself.

I believe in myself.
I love myself.
I accept myself.
I forgive myself.
I am transformed by loving, accepting and forgiving myself.
I love, accept and forgive myself.
I love, accept and forgive myself.

Genesis

When I was three-and-a-half years old, my parents and I lived in Japan and I had an amma (nanny) named Shizouko San. Shizouko San was a dear little lady, maybe four and a half feet tall, probably around 50 years old, who took care of me. She wore dark, spotlessly clean kimonos and obis, tabi socks and clackety shoes. I loved her with all my heart. She was so kind to me. As was typical of Japanese people in those days, she would cover her mouth with her hand when she smiled, and she hardly laughed, but her twinkly eyes and loving countenance were everpresent.

I remember going to Shizouko San's house in Yokusoka one day for a very special visit. Her husband was a real estate salesman. They lived in a traditional shoji screened house, as tiny as they were, and each of the squares in the translucent ricepaper walls had a hand-calligraphed notice about a property for sale. We sat on the tatami-matted floor around a very low table, a low-watt bare bulb glowing overhead, and Shizouko-san brought in a steaming plate of delicious noodles. One noodle was colored red, and another was green. It is good luck and a sign of respect to be served one of the colored noodles. I was served both noodles. I sat on that floor with Shizouko San and her quiet husband, and I felt like a prince. There was esteem and respect for me, a five-year-old boy, and love, too, from dear Shikouko San.

Why did I have an amma? My mother didn't work. We lived in the former summer home of a high-ranking member of the Japanese royal family (it was the crown jewel on the property seized by the US for use as a Navy base) and we had a cook, maid, and gardener to tend the house. As the ranking officer's wife on the base, my mother had certain social responsibilities, but she eshewed them as much as possible - in fact, her lack of interest in such matters was duly reflected in my Dad's fitness reports (yes, for a Naval officer in those days, the wife's level of social support was graded and factored into the husband's yearly ratings). I was a well-behaved, cheerful child, friendly and outgoing, an only child who worshipped my Mom. Was it just because hired help was dirt cheap? Or did my mother have a sense that she was unprepared for parenting?

We lived in Japan for two years. I suppose every child at that age thinks of his parents as heroic. My dad, extremely handsome and tall, would put on his impressive uniform every day and be whisked to the office by a chauffeured car. My mother, plump and pretty, sailed through the house in patterned silk dresses made to order by a seamstress who came to the house once a week. Adorned in pearls and sparkly gowns, she went to functions at the Officer's Club with her dashing husband and taught the finer points of speaking native English to bright Japanese grad students. She loved her life and I found favor in her glances.

I had a fundamental understanding, even at that age, that I was responsible for her happiness and that a continual stream of good behavior and accomplishment was expected of me, or else love would be withdrawn. No problem: I had a talent for music and had a good ear for picking up melodies, which I would pound out on a little electric Yamaha keyboard. I was a standout in pre-school and brought home colorful drawings liberally sprinkled with silver and gold stars. People stared in awe at me wherever we went because I was blond, had light blue eyes like my father, and looked a great deal like the much-admired American president - townspeople would call out, "Kennedy San, Kennedy San!"and bow when we passed by. Having learned Japanese quickly, I'd translate for Mother in the dusty antique shops and haggle on her behalf with amused storekeepers. She was pleased with me, I was a positive reflection on her, and her approval radiated like sunshine upon my upturned, eager face. And I knew: so long as I kept up the good work, she would love me.

It was different with Shizouko San. I knew that she loved unconditionally. I felt no pressure to perform or achieve for her. Yes, she was paid to love me, basically, but her affection was real. She delighted in who I was, not what I did, and I felt loved. That was not the case with my mother.

My mother's moods could change lightning quick. From euphoric highs to sputtering anger, she ping-ponged through life, an intelligent woman whose opportunities to expand beyond the roles of wife and mother were limited by the times, her husband's career and a lack of higher education. I learned to spot the warning signs and modify my behavior to avoid her wrath. She never hit me, but her words - and her eyes - stung like darts. So long as Shizouko San was there to shuffle me back to my room or take my hand and go outside, it was okay. In Japan, I had an ally, and besides, I was the golden boy. But I understood deep inside myself that my mother's love was conditional, and I became aware of a hollow feeling inside me. At five years of age, way before I understood it, I started to rely on food to quell a continuous feeling of anxiety. I frequently sat in the kitchen, eating bowlsful of rice dripping with butter and soy sauce, while the ladies who worked for us chattered away in Japanese. When I was full, really full, the emptiness and anxiety went away, and I felt better.

My mother, who was just under five feet tall, became quite plump in Japan. She had a tendency for plumpness all her life, and both her parents were plump, but through rigorous dieting, she had kept her weight in check. By the time we returned to the States, she was about 50 pounds overweight, and I was proportionately just as plump.

The next three years were hard for all of us. My dad was stationed at the Pentagon and we lived in a boring brick apartment in a huge treeless complex on the outskirts of DC. Needless to say, there was no maid, cook, gardener, chauffeur, or nanny. There was no seamstress paying weekly visits to the house. There was no prestige (my father was one of thousands at his rank at the Pentagon). And as my mother sunk into depression, I found that my ability to please her deserted me. My every action received her criticism, scorn, and dismissal. At seven years of age, I struggled to make her happy but as I grew fatter and more obviously effeminate, there was a chasm of disappointment that I couldn't get to the other side of. A report card full of A's would please her for ten minutes; a good performance at a piano recital gave her a few moments of pride, but by the time we drove home, it had dissipated. Dad, for his part, tried to mediate on my behalf, but he was as wary of her moods as I was, so to make it easier for everyone, I spent most of the time alone, making lego buildings in my room. At dinner, all three of us polished off hearty portions of greasy food, unless my mom was trying one of her ladies' magazine diets. My father exercised daily at the Pentagon and kept his body trim, but mom and I grew fatter. When we moved to Seattle for Dad's last tour of duty before retirement, we all hoped things would be different.

For awhile that first summer in Seattle, Mom's mood lifted and so did mine. I taught myself how to swim and dive in our apartment's pool and became a dolphin, spending hours in the pool. I skipped meals, lost weight, and began to find pleasure in things other than food. I entered the third grade full of high expectations and was thrilled with my teacher and the other kids. I kept up piano lessons and taught myself how to ride a bicycle.

My parents had spent many weeks looking at model homes and were on the verge of making a decision: should they buy a house which was located just a block from a great indoor public pool? Boy, was I excited about that! Just before they agreed to purchase it, the realtor showed them a view lot in a new development, where the same house could be built. Problem: no pool. My mother decided to put the choice in my hands. This is how she put it: "Stevie, darling, you get to choose: should we get the house that's older and not as nice, but is close to a pool you could swim in everyday, or should we build a really nice new house that doesn't have a pool nearby but has a much better view we could all enjoy?"

I was eight years old. Everybody knew how much I loved to swim, and everyone saw the transformation I made that Summer. But I knew that my mother preferred the other house, and with a horribly sick feeling, a feeling of utter helplessness, with tears in my eyes, I said, "I think we should pick the nice new house." There wasn't any question, really. I was trained to put her happiness first. I never had learned to look out for myself. It had been a trap; just an exercise in manipulation and power, and a way to have it be "my" decision so that I wouldn't complain about not having access to a pool.

My mother exchanged a look of smug satisfaction with Dad, and I ran to my room to sob in private. After that, I stopped swimming.

Cause and Effect

Obesity has become a hot topic of discussion lately. From medical bulletins about the growing epidemic to a flurry of celebrity surgical by-pass success stories, America is being fed a groaning smorgasboard of facts, figures, predictions, suggestions, fears, and warnings -- and the amount of money being thrown at the problem each year is increasing faster than America's waistlines. Fifty billion, sixty billion, seventy billion dollars a year being spent by Americans to lose weight. Public service announcements; revamping the food pyramid; catastrophic medical warnings about the increased risks for heart disease, stroke and diabetes (and the related costs to "society" of medical treatments) ; celebrities in fat suits having tearful realizations about how badly most people treat obese people; fast-food exposes; interventions; an endless parade on the news of neck-down "on the street" footage featuring jiggly asses, balloon bellies, and non-existent ankles; exponential increases in expensive surgical procedures -- all this and more -- and still we get fatter, less fit, less healthy.

I was normal weight until I was five. After that I was chubby. When I was eight, my mom took me to the pediatrician and I was put on a low calorie diet. I lost 10 pounds. By age 12, I weighed 150 pounds. At 14, my mom and I joined Weight Watchers and we both lost 20 pounds. By the age of 17, I was 5'11" and about 240 pounds. At 18, I was at 325. At 19, I went on a protein-sparing modified fast and dropped 100 pounds in 9 months; two years later, I had gained it all back plus another 50. At age 26 I went back on the fast and dropped 100 again, then immediately gained it back - plus more. I hovered somewhere between 350 and 400 pounds and began about twenty "programs" over the next seven or eight years without much success, then jumped on the phen-fen bandwagon, started exercising regularly, and lost over 150 pounds. The thinnest I ever got was 314 pounds. Yes, I call it "thin," because that's my perspective. Over the course of the next few years, I gained almost 200 pounds, topping out six months ago at just over 500.

I can point to all sorts of circumstances, genetics, tragedies, rationalizations, failures, explanations - a world of excuses - why I was fat.

I have felt awful - ashamed, humiliated, embarrassed, deeply depressed and mournful about the life I might have had were I not fat -- almost all my life. I have been made well-aware of society's disgust and scorn. I have had strangers say and do the most hateful things when they've seen me. People I love (and who love me) have looked upon me with pity, despair, and disappointment.

Every single time I've resolved to lose weight and get fit, the catalyst has been a moment so low, so full of self-disgust and self-hate that I had to do something drastic to make a change. In other words, I've hit bottom - many times.

Every single time I've lost weight, become more active, made positive changes in my life, I've sworn - SWORN - that I would never ever go back to the life I hated, that I would NEVER gain weight again.

Every single time I've lost weight, I told myself that "this time it's different," but it really wasn't.

Every single time I've lost weight, I've had a devastating situation or circumstance crop up in my life, whether completely out of my control or self-precipitated, that I allowed to interfere with my being able or wanting to stay on track, and with a huge wave of (familiar) sadness and defeat, I'd throw it all away, return to old patterns of eating, and I'd gain it all back, plus more.

Sometimes success on a diet would come at the expense of another area of my life spinning out of control: spending, drug use, destructive behavior in relationships, destructive behavior on the job. Whatever happiness I was putting together for myself by losing weight was dissipated by an equivalent amount of despair and worry over the compensatory self-hating behavior.

Going on a program was like dancing on the edge of a knife: in a split-second, success would become failure. Whatever resolve or willpower - or hope - I mustered would die in a moment of agonizing defeat, and whatever progress I had made would be buried in an avalanche of self-destructive behavior.

I've seen a psychologist. I've read hundreds of self-help, diet and workout books. I've belonged to churches and other spiritual communities. I've made huge changes in my daily circumstances. I've joined gyms, hired personal trainers and aerobicized to videos. I've said my daily affirmations. I've prayed. I've meditated. Friends have tearfully and solemnly encouraged me to get help. I've made commitments to myself, my partners, my family and friends.

Cogito ergo Sum: I think, therefore I am. I'm obese, therefore I'm unhappy. Of course I'm unhappy - I'm obese. I've been full of self-loathing for as long as I remember - after all, I'm obese! How can I love myself if I'm fat? How can any sense of self-esteem or self-appreciation live in a fat body? Shouldn't I hate myself? Don't I have a lifetime of justifications for not loving myself?

Which came first, the obesity or the lack of loving myself? Does a lifetime of obesity cause a lifetime of self-hate? Or does a lifetime of self-hate cause a lifetime of obesity? Does self-hate breed behavior, situations and circumstance that legitimize the self-hate? Am I justified in hating myself because I'm fat and because I've done all these hateful, self-destructive things?

Slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly - like the tiniest seed deep in the frozen dirt, making its first attempt to sprout, comes the germ of a thought - what if obesity is the symptom and the inability to love myself is the cause? Can I be obese AND love myself? Can I learn to love myself, regardless of my weight? And if I learn to love myself, will the obesity fall away?

This blog will explore my journey from self-hatred to self-love. I expect there will be many challenges along the way. I am persuaded that with this fundamental shift in my core belief, I will experience a shift in behaviors and, therefore, a shift in consequences. I believe that self-love breeds self-care, which brings the ability to begin and maintain constructive behaviors, resulting in a life that is a reflection of my self-love instead of self-hate.

Previous Posts

I've done some research on metabolism and diet and here's what I've concluded:

Small, frequent meals is the way to go.
My diet should consist almost entirely of lean protein and vegetables.
I should eliminate all fat from my diet at this time - there's enough in various protein sources.
Carbohydrates should be limited to three small servings per day (includes fruit, potatoes, oatmeal and rice).
Caffeine is okay but dairy and soy milk need to be avoided at this time.

So here's the way it looks:

Breakfast - egg whites and a carb
Brunch - 5 oz protein and veggies
Lunch - 5 oz protein, veggies and carb
Linner - 5 oz protein and veggies
Dinner - 5 oz protein and veggies and carb

No nighttime snack; no eating after 8 pm.
Vitamins: Cal/Mag/Zinc, Vitamin C, Glucosamine, multivitamin
Exercice half hour after one of the meals that includes a carb.
Lots of water (of course).
Lots of lemon, herbs and pepper.

Eliminate salt completely at this time (for significant initial stored water loss).

The theory behind this is that my metabolism will start to rev up and I'll burn fat. Also, down the line, I can add more cals but the metabolism will be burning hotter and the cals won't be stored as fat.

This sounds extreme but "everyone" says I won't be hungry because of the frequency of meals. I'm going to cook my food in advance each day and divvy the meals into tupperware containers. If I want to nuke it, I can, but I probably will prefer it cold.

So I started yesterday and I'm sure to see dramatic results. I know that boosting my metabolic rate is a key factor to future and continued weight loss. So much of what's happened to me in the last couple of years is the virtual shut-down of my metabolism, coupled with great fatigue and the consequent loss of muscle from lack of activity. I remember when I first came to Seattle this last time and I was tipping the scales at 400 or so, I was still able to go for a two-mile walk with John, and shop for furniture with Mary Jo. That was about 100 pounds ago, but more than that, I am practically incapable of walking more than 100 feet without feeling too exhausted to go on.

Obviously, more activity is on the menu, but I'm not going to set up an impossible routine for myself at this time. If I get the food program on track, that will bring me plenty of positive results for now, plus I'm sure to feel more energized and motivated to increase my activity level.

So here we go!

Monday, August 29, 2005

Making a plan for the week ahead

So this week, Ande leaves town with her dogs and I'm alone. In the past, that kind of scenario meant a free pass to eat anything I wanted. But I'm not gonna do it this time. I'm making a plan right now to eat appropriately all week and keep to a schedule of activities that will benefit me, benefit the house and feel like accomplishment.

I will get some tamales from that great place nearby, so I can have a couple a day. I'm also going to cook up some broccoli and marinate it so I have a delicious container of green to dip into whenever I'm hungry. It's a healthy way to get some veggies into me!

Today I'm going to go to the dump with some boxes, and I'm going to get ONE breakfast burrito on the way. ONE. It's possible, you know. You don't have to stock up for the winter every time you buy food. You're not feeding a family of four - you're just feeding yourself. Come on, Steve, see if you can do it! Order ONE burrito and one diet drink and be satisfied! You can always stop somewhere else later if you're just DYING. But for now, have just one. I know you were thinking about getting at least two - really, it's not necessary. You're not even hungry. You just want to treat yourself, but remember, it's really not a treat. It's a trick.

Trick or Treat - making the decision to eat right, time after time. How's that for a book title?!

Sunday, August 28, 2005

Chalk up another good weekend

I just saw an evangelist on TV. Don't worry, I'm not "that kind of person" by any means, but we don't have cable, so I was channel surfing and I stopped momentarily on this guy. He's a very handsome, fit looking preacher. I've never seen him before. This wasn't a Jan Crouch moment. Anyway, he was talking about how a breakthrough doesn't happen after one good thought, but after repeated good thoughts, one after another, over and over and over and over. He was talking about discipline, and how we all have it in us to be disciplined, whether we've been successful with it or not.

And of course this is exactly what it means to be on a diet. One good choice after another after another, time after time, day after day, week after week, and on and on and on. Then, "suddenly," comes the success.

It's really easy to toss it all away and overeat. It's really easy to persuade myself that it's only a little step backward to go off the plan. But I rely on the momentum I've developed these last few weeks to keep my intention on track, and to stay the course. I am being propelled by my thoughts and the things that are happening as a result of those thoughts. It's like two forces, working in tandem to get me where I want to go.

A day like today could've been thrown away with a self-indulgent food thought. Instead, I just hung in there, kept reasonably busy, and didn't overdo the consuming. I'll be in bed in a few hours and I'll be able to say to myself, "Steve, you stayed on track this weekend, and you can be happy about that." I can also say, "God, thank you for letting me find this path to be easier and easier with each succeeding day. "

Friday, August 26, 2005

I'm having a little pain because . . .

I quit taking ibuprofen four days ago. I would take five in the morning, another 4 or 5 midday, and 4 or 5 at bedtime along with 4 diphenhydramine. A little eccessive, I know. I used to take 4 to 6 aspirin morning and midday, then 4 Tylenol PM at night. I switched to ibuprofen because I thought it would be a good idea to switch off. Then I realized I was really overdooing the ibuprofen, so I quit taking any pain meds at all.

First, my hands started to ache, mostly around the thumb joints. Then I noticed that all my joints, particularly my hips, knees and ankles, were stiff and achy. Not bad, but definitely hurting. I also have a vague headache, it seems, kind of a sinus headache. Now, all of this was basically hidden from me by the meds. I knew I was taking them for a reason, but I had lost touch with the actuality of what hurt and how badly. Now I know.

I think it would be a good idea to stay off the meds for awhile and learn to accommodate the discomfort. It's not really pain, it's just aches.

I could take a low dose of aspirin every day for the anti-heart attack benefit. I mean a LOW dose.

Dietwise, things have been very good. I'm averaging about 1500 cals a day, even on "special" days like Ande's birthday. Mostly I'm not that hungry, so I credit the phentermine. I started my second month on it today. I plan to continue taking it for another few months. I would like to keep dropping.

Yesterday I noticed how much looser my linen shirt is. It used to fit snugly around my belly when I sat down. Now it's got a lot of room! I was surprised, because I can tell I've dropped weight in my face and chest, but I wasn't sure about my belly. That's very good news! I'm really very happy about it. I'm surprised, though, that I still feel so tired and not interested in doing much exercise. I feel wobbly on my feet, like I can't get balanced, and I know it's because of my size. I may need to drop another 50 pounds before I can begin a more concerted effort to exercise. I think about how much activity I used to participate in when I weighed 320. I would go for two-mile walks on the beach, and ride my bike, and move around all day. Now I sit down and it's all I can do to persuade myself to get up. It's hard to get up. I'll feel so much better when it's easier for me to get up and move around. Until then, the best I can do is keep on track with my food. A report I saw says that lowered intake is 80% of the reason for weight loss, the other 20% being increased activity. For now, 80% is just fine. Just don't start slacking. Commit to a renewed clarity of thought and vision on this and soon you'll feel better!

Dear God, I'm grateful for everything and I recommit to continuing down the path of health.

Amen.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Conflict/Resolution

I had an emotional moment with my housemate Ande yesterday. She said something hurtful, and I said something hurtful, and we didn't speak to each other the rest of the evening. I didn't sleep well and awoke this morning with the intention to write her an email. Which I did. As it turned out, my email morphed along the way from some sort of inflammatory, accusatory treatise to a more thoughtful statement which included a sincere apology. I saw the truth of what happened, and I was able to let go of the anger and pain that initially colored my thoughts so I could see that what was really at the center of it was my supersensitivity to criticism.

Whatever might motivate a criticism aimed at me, regardless of its relative truth or fairness, I respond by pulling into myself and having a painful internal battle of self-esteem. You see, I grew up with no siblings in a family with four smart, critical adults who found fault with everything I did. I couldn't win. Even if I brought home straight A's I was still lousy at baseball. If I won a piano competition, well the kids I beat weren't that good. I could rub my mother's feet for hours and still I was fat sissy, and therefore a huge disappointment. I believed that whatever affection my parents and grandparents had for me would evaporate if (1) they knew I was gay, or (2) I didn't keep pleasing them. That's the recipe for a person who takes criticism way too personally and who thinks that "You didn't vacuum very well" sounds alot like "I don't love you anymore." This is my issue, my big fat issue, and has been the part of my personality I despise the most my whole life. I'm always looking for an opportunity to feel sorry for myself and to confirm my innate unlovability. That's what John used to say and he was right. I know this about myself.

In many ways, I'm here with Ande to give me a chance to change on this issue. I need to change. I must change. Part of my obesity is built on the platform of low self-esteem, which this feeds so well. This sort of emotional stuff always comes up when you're dieting. Change happens, and buttons are pushed, and old beliefs and ways of being move forward, demanding to be heard. Trying to reestablish their preeminence. But dramatic change, such as moving in a helthy, self-respecting direction, is a catalyst for other changes in the same area. That' why I didn't just retreat to my sulky place like always. This time I saw the intrinsic truth of the situation and, from a healthier place, could reexamine its underlying factors and acknowledge that it wasn't the criticism but my reaction to it that was the dis-ease.

Here's the funny part - I didn't eat at all yesterday. After Ande and I had our moment, I retreated to my foodless bedroom for the evening. I suppose I could have left home and gotten some fast food last night, but I didn't, not last night. Maybe that's why this morning I had some insight into my behavior. Maybe if I had stuffed my face last night, I wouldn't have gotten the point. I'd probably feel even more sorry for myself.

Today, after I sent the email, I went out and got two burritos, a chicken sandwich and two apple turnovers. I ate them all in an hour. Actually, for a cumulative two days, it wasn't so bad. Later, Ande sent me an email in return, which fairly and honestly gave her side of things, and when she came home, we hugged. Tomorrow is her birthday. I'm very relieved we worked through it and aren't still in conflict.

So at this time I'm going to say, Dear God, thank you for giving me insight into my behavior and motivations, and thank you for allowing me now to release these things that stem from believing I am not good enough. I let go of low self-esteem and I release self-pity. I accept my innate goodness and worthiness as a person and let go of thoughts that equate real or perceived criticism with unloveability. I am loveable. I am loved. I am blessed and I am grateful. Amen.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

A so-so weekend

Yesterday I took a spin. It was a beautiful day, typical for summer here in Albuquerque. Clear, hot but with a nice breeze. I enjoyed leaving the house after being on the computer for hours most days last week. I went looking for the burrito place I found once that makes these great stewed chicken burritos (very delicious and not too much fat). I wandered around for awhile and didn't find it, so I stopped at Mr. P's and got a barbecued turkey leg to take home. As it turned out, Ande brought me a hamburger and ice cream from her friend's house, and suddenly I found myself chowing down on what was a high fat, high calorie dinner after managing to avoid eating too much during the day. As it turned out, I had a very uncomfortable feeling of fullness and bloating. I belched my way through the night and had acid reflux. Basically, it was not a pleasure. Besides, the hamburger was blah and the ice cream wasn't very good.

So now it's today. I ate the turkey leg for lunch and it was very good, not greasy at all. I followed it up with pineapple. Tonight I'm having my usual poached chicken, carrots and onion over rice. It's good - I returned to eating right and the weekend isn't a total loss by any means. It just wasn't very fun. I would like to figure out something to do other than eat when I go out. I can't move around very much so shopping isn't fun, and I'm not the kind to go to a bar and hang out. I think I was onto something when I was contemplating taking a pottery wheel-throwing class. It's food free, creative, and sit-down (for the most part). I'm gonna put it back on my list of possibilities.

The other thing I wanted to do was get out the paints and start on a canvas this weekend. Well, I didn't. I got really busy with the computer and the next thing you know there wasn't time. This week I'll get the paints out, lay them out, and set everything up so I can just jump in and start painting when the mood hits.

So what's the plan for the upcoming week? I'm going to do very moderate food all week, get some fresh veggies and fruits to augment what Ande has in the house, and plan on chalking up a success by the end of the week. Ande's birthday is Wednesday but that doesn't mean I need to blow my program. I can eat a piece of cake or whatever, but I'll know it's coming and eat prior to it accordingly.

Okay, just a boring post, but the truth is that being on a program is often boring. The enthusiasm wanes, the measureable and visible benefits diminish, and all you're left with is your commitment to yourself. As it turns out, that's plenty. I can find pleasure, satisfaction and success in the week ahead if I stay the course. Keep on keeping on, Steve.

Thank you, God, for my journey, and thank you for your continued support. Amen.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Later the same day

I got ravenously hungry this evening, and against my better judgment I went out into the world and got some mexican food from the local burrito place. It was sort of good, but mostly it was an unfulfilling experience to eat. I liked it, but I would have felt better eating a chicken breast and some broccoli. So go figure - In the past, when I succumbed to temptation and ate the "forbidden," it would taste incredibly delicious to me, then afterwards, I would feel remorse. This time I felt so-so eating it, it definitely was not a taste treat, and afterwards, I don't feel remorse exactly but I feel like it's something I don't want to do again. I guess it's a successful experience, but it didn't start out that way.

Is it the progress I've made lately? Is it a shift in my perception and goals? Whatever brings me to this place at this time, I'm glad for it.

Plan better, eat a little more during the day, and don't let yourself get to that place of ravenousness that prompts you into doing the wrong thing. Besides, you don't really want to do it anymore, anyway, so it's better to make a little oatmeal for lunch, or open a can of turkey chili, or do whatever you need to do to be moderate and comfortable. At this point I don't feel comfortable - I feel bloated. I feel a little nauseous.

I believe I won't do that again.

I believe I can avoid the situation I found myself in by eating moderately through the day.

I believe my desires have changed, and my behaviors will follow.

I believe that I can be happier without bingeing.

An amazing few days . . . .

Not a whole lot to report, just wanted to say I've kept cals down these last three days and am feeling very good! Today, I'm a little hungry, which is a good thing, and will still remain on track.

Sometimes I look back on a good period and wonder why it was so; in this case, I just kept busy, kept access to food to a minimum, and simply "sat" with my hungers until they dissipated.

Thank you, God, for this success and help me keep on track.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

A Red Letter Weekend

This was the kind of weekend I want to have again and again - moderate food, moderate exercise, a few small accomplishments along the way, and even a few compliments! I also signed up a new member for my site, and looked into a variety of at-home jobs that are much less stressful and uncertain as sales (although probably not as lucrative). I went swimming Saturday at Ande's friend Susan's house, and it was blissful. A calm, relaxed, watery pleasure from beginning to end. I so enjoy being weightless and able to move around without the stress on my knees, back, and sweat glands.

I've got lots to do this week but I'll push through and derive a feeling of satisfaction from it. I'll also keep my eating moderate, and look for ways to increase my activity level.

Thank you God! I'm doing it.

Friday, August 12, 2005

A Rainy Day in Albuquerque?

I have a picture of me on my cork board. It's about 9 years ago in Palm Springs. I put it there because, although I'm grayer, this is where I want to be in a year or so - about 350 pounds, tan, happy, active, and enjoying life.

Ande says that I'm gonna be surprised about the way the monsoon rains hit here in the winter, and I suppose she's right, because today it suddenly grayed over, thunder roared, and a torrential downpour drenched everything for about an hour. It was quite exciting, and cooled off things by about 20 degrees, always a plus.

I'm having a very good day today, staying busy and keeping the intake down. There's not much to eat in the house, but I'll come up with something for dinner. God knows it's better than going out and eating something I don't need to be eating, like hamburgers or fried chicken or something.

This was an unsuccessful week as far as scoring some commissioned sales, but I've learned a lot and all I have to do is persevere. I guess that's the lesson of my life right now - keep swimming, keep trudging down the path, because good things will come my way so long as a persevere.

Dear God, thank you for keeping me on the path, and thank you for allowing me to see the subtle but sustaining rewards for staying there. I'm blessed and I'm grateful.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Just Trudging Down the Road

One of the rewards of "dieting" is that you start to look better, thinner, and your clothes start to feel loose, and this reward invigorates your willpower, so the good behavior is reinforced. The fact is, with a person as large as I am, even a drop of 20 or 30 pounds isn't immediately apparent. It's a little daunting, looking in the mirror and hoping to find evidence of weight loss, and just looking at the huge belly and the thunder thighs and the big fat face. But if I look closely, I can see a little difference. For example, my double chin (which used to be consistently round and full from ear to ear) is now less full on the sides, and the bottom is starting to form into a wattle. Eventually I'll lose the fat in the wattle, too, and it won't be so pronounced. But for now, it's the most visible sign that I'm losing weight.

Another sign is that my belly doesn't steer the car anymore. Before, the steering wheel dented the pillow of belly fat (and left a black smudge on all my clothes). Now there's a hair's breadth of space between the wheel and the belly.

These are tiny, tiny signs that seem ridiculous, but I have a need to be reinforced by perceiving progress, no matter how small. I have to remind myself that, although 20 pounds is just a drop in the bucket for a person of my size, it's actually a substantive amount of weight - two bags of kitty litter, for example. I know from experience that, sooner than I think, the pounds start adding up and by Christmas (or by Easter) the weight loss is significant. I also know that, as soon as I drop a few more pounds, I'll be able to be more active, more able to walk around, and that will spur another drop in weight. For now, I just have to keep my eyes on the day before me, and do the right thing, and keep going in a positive direction, because it's soooooooooo worth it.

I'm reminded of something a marathoner said once about a large-sized entrant who obviously moved a lot slower. He said, "You know, I can finish the marathon in 2 hours and 45 minutes, but for the big guy, it takes him over 8 hours. I couldn't do that!" I've said it before: being huge is like walking around with a 300-pound barbell on your shoulders and wearing a fur coat. There aren't many who could do it. It's the old Paul Bunyan trick: starting when a calf is just born, pick it up every day. Soon the calf is a cow and you've accommodated its weight by increasing your strength. Somewhere in my thighs and calves are muscles that can lift me up out of a chair, and propel me along the path. There's strength in there somewhere, ready to come out and help me down the road. I have it in me to be active and healthy. It's all about keeping on the path.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

It's a Great Feeling . . . .

. . . when you put on your clothes in the morning and what used to be tight is loose! It's one of those uplifting experiences that puts a bounce in your step and sends you out the door whistling!

I'm hungry for something really delicious, but my hunger is outweighed by my happiness in being successful with taking off some pounds. I think I'll go get some BBQ chicken - it's a good substitute for the beef ribs, not nearly as greasy or caloric, but almost as tasty, and will quell the Mr. P desire for another few weeks. It's like the more I deny myself the Mr. P experience, the bigger the desire grows, so a little mollifying is in order. Today would be a good day for it. It's cool, it's beautiful, I'm dressed in my (loose) clothes, and it would be a simple hop, skip and jump. Besides, it's nice to go out into the world a little. I've been hiding for too long. I need to be more connected to the world.

So that's Plan A: a nice drive, BBQ chicken, and a peaceful rest of the day. I'll use today to gear up for the rest of the week. I feel wonderful! I intend on keeping that feeling alive.

Or Plan B: I could eat a couple of tamales and take a nice long nap. Doesn't sound so bad, actually!

Either way, life is good. Thank you, God. I'm blessed and I'm grateful. Amen.

Saturday, August 06, 2005

Memory Lane

Here are some mileposts in my life as a dieter/eater/fattie:

First diet: age 8. Third grade. Prescribed by my pediatrician. 1200 cals a day. I weighed 95 pounds. I lost 10 pounds. My mom made me: an egg and a piece of toast for breakfast; a pineapple yogurt for lunch; a lamb chop and green beans for dinner. Pretty much every day.

Weight, age 10: 105. Fifth grade.
Weight, age 11: 150. Sixth grade. What happened? I hit puberty, figured out I was gay, got very nervous about blossoming sexuality and the "interest" of girls. I kept thinking I would be invited to some makeout party and my homosexuality would be revealed to everyone because I couldn't perform. What a ridiculous fantasy! I also found a great opportunity to eat: as the captain of the school patrols, I got a free lunch in the cafeteria. I didn't tell my mother, so she kept packing me a lunch. I'd eat her lunch at 10:30 in the morning, wolf it down while I stood alone in the patrol closet (no light, just choking down the meat loaf sandwich). Then I'd eat the cafeteria lunch at Noon. No wonder I gained. I added fully a whole meal to my intake. What I remember distinctly about that year was that my pants were sooo tight that I was constantly pulling at my balls to free them from being bound up. My parents kept saying, "Don't touch yourself" but didn't buy me new pants.

Weight, age 13: 188. Seventh grade. I grew a lot taller so I was proportionally just a "husky" kid but I was in the hospital with an undiagnosed disease (turned out to be mono) and I remember the corpsman being shocked that I weighed so much, more than he did.

Weight, age 14: 225. Eighth grade.
Diet #2: Weight Watchers. My mom and I went together and we both lost about 20 pounds before we gave up. Weight Watchers at the time encuraged you to make these abominable recipes, like pumpkin souffle made with canned pumpkin and gelatin. It wouldn't even flush down the toilet.

Now here's the amazing thing - my weight pretty much stayed the same from age 14 to age 17. I even grew a few inches. My tenth grade PE teacher was a very nice, young guy and he had me run a mile every day instead of doing stupid sports. I didn't lose weight (I had discovered the salad bar at the cafeteria and would ladle on the 1000 island dressing by the half-cupful) but I didn't gain.

Then my mother got sick. She had cancer of the pancreas. She was sick for a year and a half. Then my mother died. During the time she was sick, she lost 100 pounds, but of course it wasn't a good thing - she was dying, she was losing muscle mass. It seemed so ironic to me that she was actually glad to have lost the 100 pounds. About three weeks before she died, she tried on some of her fancy evening dresses from Japan and they all fit; in fact, they were too big. But she was so sick, she could hardly stand up.

She was by far the most important person in my life, and as an only child, almost completely estranged from my father, I had nobody to relate to when she died. I started overeating within 45 minutes of her death. We were circled around her body in the hospital room, and I asked my dad for some money for the sandwich vending machine in the visitor's lounge. "Of course, Son, here you go," he said, with big compassionate eyes. And I wolfed this vending machine egg salad sandwich down my throat so fast I almost choked.

In the year after my mother's death, I gained 100 pounds.

Nobody suggested I talk to a counselor. Nobody offered to help me. I just was in my own world, getting A's in school, working on the school yearbook, and trying to fill the big empty hole I felt in my stomach (it's called a broken heart). By the time I graduated from high school, I weighed 325.

Then I moved to Long Beach, California, and started a protein-sparing modified fast with Dr. Lindner. I lost 100 pounds in 9 months and felt really good. But then I started at USC and the attention from girls was so strong that I panicked. I started stuffing my face, and sure enough, soon I was too fat to be attractive. 260, 280, 320 - - - it didn't take long to put it all back, plus more. By the time I was 20, I weighed about 350.

Age 23: 389. Back to the Lindner clinic for another try at a protein diet. Sure enough, 100 pounds dropped, and once again I stalled. Slowly the pounds inched back on, and I had the humiliating experience of watching all the people on the office who had cheered me on for the weight loss now avert their eyes from my belly as I walked toward them in the halls. It was excruciating. But soon I was up to about 400, where I hovered for almost 10 years.

Funny thing was, so long as I wasn't yo-yoing on a diet cycle, I'd stay pretty constantly at a given weight. I'd make futile attempts to lose, but it was always half-hearted, and I'd just go on being 400 or so.

When I moved to Palm Springs in 1995, I was 37 and weighed 450.

That's when I went on phen-fen. I was swimming every day in my pool, I was riding my bike around the parking lot of a deserted shopping center, and I was feeling really good about myself. I dropped 120 pounds and made a move to San Diego.

By then I was off a doctor's supervision and making trips to Tijuana to buy the meds.

At first, San Diego and the work I did were conducive to continued weight loss, and I crept up to the magic 300, swearing I'd be under 300 for the first time since I was 19. But I just didn't make it. By then, I was embroiled in an emotional roller coaster of unrequited love, knowing I would never have the love returned to me, and the pressure of working and going to design school became too much. I started creeping back up the scale and it wasn't a year before I was up to 400 again.

In 2001, I was 42 and my father was extremely ill. I moved back to Seattle to be with him and to remake my life after it had all fallen apart in San Diego. I hovered at 420 for the year I spent healing the relationship I had with my father. For the first time I felt like my dad wasn't judging me because I was fat; he was frankly too sick to care. He was just glad I was around, and we mended our bond. When he died in late 2002, I figured I wouldn't have a consequent weight gain, but of course, I did, and a year later I was up to 480 or so. This is where I've hovered for the last two years. When I moved to Albuquerque, I was a neat quarter-ton - 500 pounds.

Along the way, I've tried Atkins, Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers again, my own concoctions, my own regimens, going to a gym, and so on, but they were little ripples in the pond. Mostly I lived from day to day, in a funk about my weight and my health and my discomfort, but not really motivated to do anything about it.

Maybe I can look this "history" over and see what I need to do to avoid the usual slide back up the scale. Maybe this will enlighten me -- maybe I can do the right thing this time.

Friday, August 05, 2005

I ate - and I kept it moderate!

I chose #2: go out and eat something moderate. And that's exactly what I did. I went to Blimpie of all places (basically because I knew nothing there would be thrilling) and got a 1/2 roast beef sub with double veggies and no mayo. It wasn't delicious but it was filling, and it was a successful attempt to be moderate.

On the way home I stopped at this huge Mexican take-out restaurant that's right by the house. It's been there since 1921. I bought a dozen tamales and threw them in the freezer. Now I've got something tasty but not too high in cals/fat that I can pop in the microwave and be eating in two minutes. I will limit myself to one at a time, and one a day (either for lunch or dinner). Not for bedtime snack. An apple is the only choice for that.

I am aware of my stomach feeling FULL. I am aware that I do not feel hungry at all. I am proud of myself and look forward to a great weekend!

Hooray for Stevie!

Okay, I really want to EAT

All right, here are the choices:

1) NO! You're not really hungry, just bored/agitated/anxious. Take a nap and forget about leaving the house today.

2) Go for a drive, get a huge iced tea and something SMALL and low-calorie/l0w-fat to eat, and then, when the pressure's off and you're feeling less frantic, come back home and make yourself a bowl of oatmeal.

There are no other choices. You CANNOT got to Mr. P's. You CANNOT binge eat.

All right? What's it gonna be, dude?

Why do I want to (over) eat?

Because I'm disappointed in myself and to overeat fits the pattern.
Because I'm feeling down and want to cheer myself up.
Because I'm tired and want to feel energized.
Because I'm lazy and I'd rather eat than try to fix my problems.
Because I don't want to do anything else.
Because I keep imagining the taste of the food in my mouth, the grease bathing my tongue and slipping down my throat.
Because sometimes I don't give a fuck about my future and figure, "What the hell."
Because I figure that, somehow, it will change things.
Because I'm sad and lonely and food is friend, my companion, my lover.
Because I can.
Because.

Why DON'T I want to overeat?

Because I know that the ultimate outcome will be that overeating will hurt me.
Because I really want to feel better about myself, not worse.
Because I can derive better results from taking a nap and engaging in a little activity.
Because I've made progress these last 10 days and I don't want to throw it away.
Because I respect myself (or am trying to).
Because I love myself (or am trying to).
Because I can.
Because.

What will I do today?

Actually, I'm not sure.
I believe I can NOT overeat.
I believe I will NOT overeat.
I believe I am capable of helping myself.
I believe I can be thin and fit and healthy and happy.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Push-Pull

While my life goes on in a relatively boring way, there's this relentless discussion going on in my head: the relative merits of maintaining low-calorie/fat intake vs. the orgasmic pleasure of burying my face in a plate of greasy barbecue beef ribs. It's almost constant: do I or don't I?

Instant vs. delayed gratification. A moment of happiness now vs. many moments of happiness later. Is it worth it? Bad vs. good. For every day I choose "sobriety" there's a stronger pull to the negative: "Well, I mean, it's been 10 days, for God's sake, since you've had any ribs, it won't be that bad, it won't hurt you. Go ahead, so what? So it puts you back a day - big deal!" And on and on. The clever, rational voice of the inner addict, looking for any opening, any opportunity to say, "Look! We feel differently this moment, we're excited, we're bored, we're lonely, we're depressed, let's jump on this and make us feel differently with a big jump into the instant pleasure/pain of overeating.

There isn't a moment when my inner addict isn't looking for an opportunity, a crack in the facade, a break in my willpower. Needing comfort? Needing self-flaggellation? Needing a surge of energy? Needing to be "bad"? There he is, arms outstretched, ready, willing and able to return me to my misery. Because whatever I'm feeling, whatever I'm doing, it's just not enough - it's always time to self-medicate with food.

Happy? Extend it with ice cream.
Lonely? How about some cheese and crackers.
Bored? Maybe some Thai food.
Tired? Try a cheeseburger.
Excited? Here's some peanut butter cookies.
Sad? Time for a big bowl of pasta dripping with butter.
Morning? Egg McMuffin.
Noon? Chef Salad laden with 1000 Island dressing.
Evening? A big huge plate piled with food (after all, it's dinnertime).
Bedtime? Well, something really special because it's the last chance of the day, so maybe some honey-baked ham and swiss cheese and a pile of mayo to dip it in.

Mood, time, circumstance, attitude. A lifetime of learned behavior, experience, habit, compulsion, ready to flood me.

A tidal wave being held back (at this moment) by sheer will, a little pill, and a moment or two to chill out.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

Off and Running

I had another excellent food day yesterday. I stayed home and made a chinese dinner with tofu, bok choy, scallions, peppers, zucchini and rice. It was delicious. I'm hungry today, not really HUNGRY but it's been awhile since I had a food-related treat, and I feel myself itching for something super delicious/greasy/bad. But I can skip it. Honestly, it's so much better if I just don't go out there and tempt myself. I'd so much rather keep doing the right thing. It's good for me. Really good for me!

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Stayed Home - Took a Nap

With the strong desire to leave the house yesterday and EAT, I decided I could best avoid a disaster by staying home, eating some fruit and taking a nap. So that's what I did, and I'm so glad.
The nap was a way to "celebrate" my new job but do it in a way that was healthy for me. So I turned on the a/c, snuggled up next to my dog, and enjoyed two hours of comfortable rest. Compared to getting in my non a/c'd vehicle and chowing down on a huge order of barbeque beef ribs, it was a distinctly positive move.

posted by Stephen Alexander at 9:42 AM

Monday, August 01, 2005

I'm feeling like having a celebration, and want to go get something to eat. Now, that would be fine, depending on what I get. So here's the plan:

a. Go out and drive through someplace that offers reasonably low-fat choices and get something reasonable.

b. Realize that going out is a ticket to disaster, stay home instead and cook something.

I'll report later on what I decided.

Monday, Monday

Traditionally, Monday is the day when fat people start diets. You never start on a Thursday afternoon. Scheduling a diet to begin on Monday allows for a weekend of "lasts" - this is the last lasagna I'll ever eat, this is the last ice cream, the last cheddar cheese, the last pastrami sandwich. It also labels the diet as work, because it starts at the beginning of a work week. If dieting were seen as an exciting opportunity to achieve health and vitality instead of a difficult period of deprivation, then you'd leap at the chance to begin on a Thursday afternoon.

The current thinking is to shy away from the word "diet" completely and call it a living plan, or a health plan, or an eating/exercise plan, but let's face it, it's a diet. Traditionally, the word diet meant that which you ate. It wasn't meant to be the word to represent a restricted calorie regime. It's simply what you eat. And the word diet is what I've called it all my life, from the years when I watched my mother go on diets, to my first doctor-prescribed low-cal diet at age 8.

So this will be my new definition: Dieting is an exciting opportunity to achieve better health and vitality. Dieting encompasses everything I do to that end: the food I eat, the pills I take, the exercise I do, the sleep I get, the amount of self-love and self-care I expend on myself, my attitude, my happiness, all of it. It's my diet, and it's a complicated, multi-faceted, organic collection of actions, efforts, and beliefs that changes and grows with time and the challenges set before it. It all boils down to doing the thing that's good for me at any given moment, instead of the thing that pretends to be good for me (like the pleasure of eating a fatty meal) when in fact it's bad for me.

I am responsible for my own loving care. I am uniquely qualified for the position! I know exactly what I want and need, and I am ever-present to fulfill those wants and needs. I am literally at my own beck and call 24 hours a day. No servant could do as well serving me as I can do serving myself. Besides, it's how God intended it.

My training as a child by my mother to be a servant to her, and to put my own needs second to whomever it was I was trying to please, was a wrong turn down a dark alley. It is my duty, right and ultimate joy to do for myself.

My life is so full of promise and opportunity now -- it is of my own making, and I am thrilled to be at the helm of an operation that can become more fit, more happy, more successful . . . . . the sun is shining, the sky is blue, the flowers are blooming and the joy of life is everywhere. I believe in myself, accept myself and love myself fully, because that is how it is.

I believe in the inherent goodness of myself and forgive myself of all my mistakes so that I may walk without burdens from the past into the now.

Sunday, July 31, 2005

Success!

I pulled it together yesterday and kept a moderate calorie/fat intake, which makes me feel much better. I went to a Thai restaurant with Ande and her visitors and I felt satisfied with a "regular" serving of food. Also I realize that I haven't had a bedtime snack in a few days!

I'll just say Dear God, thank you for this opportunity, and thank you for the continued weight loss as I walk towards a healthier life. Amen.

Saturday, July 30, 2005

Plan B

With great intentions I started the day yesterday and felt really good - then something unexpected happened, pushing the diet ("food plan") to a back burner, and subsequently I ate more than I had planned. I got a call for an amazing job, did a rather high-stress telephone interview, and will be doing another IV, this time with the boss, on Monday. I was so excited, I jumped in the car. I initially planned to find the burrito place with with the good, stewed chicken burritos. Instead I got caught in a traffic jam, and my plans flew out the window. Next thing I knew, I was ordering fried chicken at Church's. Three big pieces of fried chicken and a honey biscuit. It was delicious. I felt bad.

Later, Ande and her mother made pressure-cooked pork chops with broccoli, and I ate a full dinner, then followed it with a bowl of ice cream. All in all, I ate probably 4000 cals instead of around 1500, and went to bed feeling like I had failed for the day. It's a punishment, isn't it, a self-flaggellation, when I overeat.

This morning I got to spend liesurely in bed, watching Roman Holiday and The American President on DVD. Ande took her mother and her mother's friend to Susan's house and I didn't even get out of bed until noon. I also didn't eat anything this morning. Now I'm on the computer and I haven't really made a food plan for the day. Well, this is it: we'll be going out to dinner tonight, so for now I'll eat a little more broccoli/pork stew for lunch and stay off the grazing until tonight.

I want to get back on track ASAP and learn to have contingency plans. It's like my plans don't work out, so I'm "allowed" to cheat. It's a bullshit way of being, and I've been doing it forever. I'm going to find a solution to this and get on top of what's been a booby trap for me on a million occasions.

Take a lesson, Steve: plans that don't work out is not permission to "cheat." Find an alternate plan that still gets you to the finish line like you want. Keep your eyes on the prize. Find another right way to achieve what you want to achieve.

If you have to, make Plan B concurrently with Plan A. Establish a "just in case" mind frame.

Dear God, let me get this lesson, absorb it, and implement a solution. Help me break old patterns and keep my eyes on the prize. Amen.

Friday, July 29, 2005

Moving Ahead

Yesterday was amazing - I cooked a fabulous chinese dinner for eight (low-fat, gluten-free) and was around food all day, preparing the meal, but didn't eat much at all. I could've gone for another plate of food after dinner, but it was all gone. I also noticed yesterday that my huge double chin is less round and there's a wattle forming! Normally I would guess that would be bad news to most people, but for me, looking for signs of weight loss, the wattle is gold!

But it's funny: those first actual signs of weight loss coupled with increased energy usually sends me out foraging for food. It's like my subconscious says, "WARNING! Fat reserves low! RESTOCK!" The hungry button gets hit. But if I wait it out I'll keep losing and the subconscious finally grasps that this is what I want to do, and it starts supporting the loss. I always think of the Queen Mary. I went on a tour of it when I was 13 and the thing that struck me the most was that it took 45 minutes to turn the ship around. I've been moving in the fat-storage direction for so long it takes awhile for all the various divisions of Stevie Inc to get the memo and start following the plan. Physical, spiritual, emotional, conscious, subconscious, mental, lizard-brain, dreams, they all need to be in sync to get this ship steering toward health.

I didn't sleep very well last night so today I'm a little more tired. I feel good, though. I am going to leave the house for awhile today - go for a drive, mail a couple of things, maybe get the car cleaned, and of course I'll eat something. But instead of going to Mr. P's, I think I'll try to find the burrito place I went to that had the great traditional stewed chicken burritos. They're actually delicious and not that high calorically or fatwise. Or maybe I'll find something else. I just need to get outta here.

As I write this post I'm listening to ambient radio and it's wonderful. Reminds me of tooling around Palm Springs in my '63 Olds 98 convertible with "Songs of the Pliedes" blasting away. I felt so connected to the universe there. I feel it here, too. Darielle said it's because living in the desert is like living on a huge pile of crystals, all focusing energy. I used to float in my pool at night and look up at the stars, try to spot the various constellations, and just wonder at the vastness of it all. In Seattle, you rarely see the stars, sometimes you go days without seeing the sun or the moon, and there's a disconnectedness to it. Here, I see the moon, the sun and the stars every day and night.

This blog is an important tool, too - there's always a connection in my life between things going well (i.e., losing weight) and journaling. This is a little different, because the journal isn't just for myself (well, right now it is). But I know it helps to set down my thoughts and feelings, and the process is conducive to healthy living.

I'm also singing a lot more now. Again the iTunes is fabulous for allowing me to put together a file called "singalong" with various songs I love to sing, then just playing it either on my computer or on my iPod. I used to say that the vibrations of singing turned all my cells around so they were facing in the same direction. It's like taking a vibration shower and everything gets smoothed. That's why I pursued the music therapy idea in Palm Springs, because I was deriving so much benefit from toning, not the muscle kind but the music kind.

I used to say that with every pound stored on my body there was an event or sadness or issue stored with it. And when I lose the pound, the event is brought to the surface to deal with. This is a generalization, but I still believe it. It's the best part of the diet process, really, because it gives me an opportunity to "deal" with stuff. I know it's coming, it's important, and I'm ready to deal with it. All of it. Whatever it is.

One of the things I used to do when journaling was to end each entry with a prayer or affirmation, and I know there's a hokey factor here, but I'm gonna do it with this blog.

Dear God, thank you for where you've brought me, all the blessings you've given me, and for the path ahead. I am eager, willing and grateful to take the steps you encourage me to take. I love and accept myself as I am, just the way I am, even as I make efforts to change. I love and accept the person I will be tomorrow, the next day, next week, next year, ten years and more from now, because then will become now, and now is when I love and accept myself, just the way I am.
Amen.

Thursday, July 28, 2005

I had a great day yesterday, felt great and refrained from eating things I normally would want to eat. I'm more energized and more willing to be active. This is very important, because lots of times I eat because I'm tired and want to perk up. But eating doesn't usually help.

So yesterday I was out and about, had to take some boxes to the dump, and I have been dreaming about a trip to Mr. Powdrell's all week. A little background: Mr. Powdrell's is a fabulous barbeque place with a DRIVE-THRU window! This is pretty much my fantasy come true. I spotted it on the old Route 66 the first week I was here, and have been there maybe five times in the last two months. Their beef ribs are tender, greasy, caramelized, and a total debauch. I park under a tree in a mobile home park nearby, balance the container on my belly, and have twenty minutes of total pleasure. They sell a pound of ribs but they must give me twice as much, and it couldn't be worse for me, but oh damn, it's a fantastic treat. Anyway, I didn't get to Mr. Powdrell's since early last week, and I was DUE - I think about it every time I'm in the car, and dream of the flavors and of the grease coating my mouth. I could easily have gone to Mr. P's yesterday, but I DIDN'T WANT TO. I took my "temperature" and discovered I wasn't really hungry (or craving anything, for that matter) so I decided to skip it. This is the sort of event that, frankly, hardly happens. I usually go ahead and do the bad thing when it comes to food. But yesterday I didn't.

That craving for a mouth full of fat, basically - so amazing. My body wants to store fat, it wants to collect it in the most expeditious way possible, and it wants to experience the explosion of endorphins which are unleashed when my mouth and stomach are full of high-fat deliciousness. I never naturally think, "I'll eat something nutritious now, flood my body with vitamins, and I'll feel great." No, at base level my instinct is for dense, high-calorie, high-fat food with a smooth fat mouthfeel: cheese, meat, ice cream, mayo-laced sandwiches, butter-laced pastas and breads, cream cheese, sour cream, whole milk. I like sweets but they're not my heaven the way fats are. I like vegetables but I prefer them dripping with fat. I like salads, but with lots of dressing.

Surprisingly, I love fresh fruit and plain water. I believe these are the only two things I like which are actually good for me!

I wonder if the reason I like the feel of fat in my mouth is that it mimics wetness. Wetness and fatness deliver the flavor quickly to the tongue. I enjoy soups, even clear fat-free broths, because the flavor is delivered quickly. Compare that to a mouthful of unseasoned brown rice. It takes seconds before the actual flavor (which I like) starts to permeate my tongue, and I don't get the "rush" of a flavor blast. It's good, but it would be better with butter and salt. It's part of my immediate gratification need.

Once in a blue moon I'll take a slug of vinegar or soy sauce, just to have the flavor overdose. I love to suck on a lemon wedge. If there were a way to add the "total flavor experience" to foods that were good for me, I could get satisfaction. Something to think about.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

I'm pretty dang happy these days! I love the sunshine and the warmth and the dogs and cats and especially Ande's daily company. I used to go days in Seattle without hardly talking to anyone, hardly seeing anyone. I'd plan it that way, just hole up for the weekend and barely move, order food delivered, watch DVDs, pure hibernation. The thing was, I never got to a place where I felt energized or "rested" - mostly I'd be just as logy Monday morning as I was Friday afternoon. Now I get up around 7 every morning, sip my iced soy latte while the dogs scamper around the garden, do a little chore here and a little chore there, and my outlook is phenominal.

I've dropped about 20 pounds since moving to Albuquerque. I've cut back on my eating a lot since moving here, the heat and sunshine are conducive for weight loss for me, and the other part is I'm more active, doing chores and basically moving around more.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

OKAY, HERE GOES

This is the first post on my first blog. Since I came here to Albuquerque with certain goals in mind, I started this blog so I could chart my progress. At this point it's all just for me, but if in the future someone stumbles across this and finds it entertaining or helpful, so much the better. For now, I'm just gonna let it be a chronicle of my "New Mexico Chapter."

A couple things to start:

I'm 46.
I'm a gay white male.
I weigh 500 pounds.
I'm starting a diet really soon. No, really!
I'm living with my friend Ande.
We have three dogs: Stella, Fozzie and Gypsy.
We have five cats: BG, Paloma, Taz, Bobbo and Pippin.
We have one chicken: Puddin'.
I have my own internet business.

That pretty much says it. So my goals for this life chapter are:

Get thinner, healthier, more mobile and energized.
Build my business into a rousing success.
Enjoy family life with Ande and the "kids."
Bring out the brushes and canvases and start painting again.
Find a spiritual outlet, whether church or meditation or prayer.

One year, two years, three years, or more, who knows? But this is an important chapter for me and I'm blessed to have Ande's support.

So here I go, cross your fingers, wish me luck!

posted by Stephen Alexander at 2:43 PM