In the midst of recent tragedies involving gays, I hope I can bring you a small bright spot.

Last week I was in Los Angeles attending the annual Workplace Summit hosted by Out & Equal Workplace Advocates. I was one of six representatives sent to the Convention Center in downtown LA by Intel Corporation who has supported Out & Equal since day one.

Out & Equal champions safe and equitable workplaces for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) people. They advocate building and strengthening successful organizations that value all employees, customers and communities. The conference was four days of inspirational speakers, workshops, seminars and most importantly the fellowship of all those LGBT folks and Allies. (Well, there was also the “bling.” I now have a dozen tote bags, twenty five or thirty pens, tons of note pads and half a dozen coffee cups.)

The conference had 114 corporate sponsors and was attended by 2,410 company representatives, records for both. In addition to Intel, I saw folks from IBM, Accenture, Aetna, Dow Chemical, Inuit, Clorox, New York Life, Boeing, Northern Trust, Citi Bank, Microsoft, Chrysler, and dozens more. These companies have policies ingrained into their corporate cultures designed to bring about a non-threatening workplace for LGBT employees as well as providing benefits for Domestic Partners and Transgender healthcare.

It was quite an experience for me, not only in what I learned in the sessions I attended, but to see how such a diverse group of individuals can work together for the common good of our community. It renewed my hope that there are other options out there for service; that I can find and work with people interested in building bridges with respect and kindness. I had given up hope of finding such an opportunity. Tonight I am reinvigorated.

What does all this mean? To me, it shows that corporations are leading us into an age of greater acceptance. They understand the value of diversity and use it to their advantage and we reap benefits as well. They are doing this while showing respect for the beliefs and traditions of all their employees. Even now, companies are looking to future policies regarding Transgenders who desire to remain fluid in their presentation, more male on one occasion, more female on another. I suspect it will be Corporate America that finds answers that will meet the needs of this newest generation while remaining thoughtful over the concerns from non-LGBT men and women.

And a note to those Transgenders that curse the Human Rights Campaign; read the article I have highlighted below. It will revolutionize health coverage for Transgenders within the corporate environment.
http://www.hrcbackstory.org/2010/10/hrc%e2%80%99s-new-corporate-equality-index-requires-removal-of-exclusions-to-transgender-healthcare-and-benefits/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+HrcBackStory+%28HRC+Back+Story%29

Are these companies completely free of harassment? Unfortunately no. As long as we are dealing with people, there will be misunderstandings and hate. What they bring is exposure and education. I was approached by a coworker recently who wanted to thank me. She had no idea what life was like for many LGBT folks. Through my transition and stories, she was motivated to find out. She is now a dedicated Ally. Through their policies, companies are bringing about the opportunity for us to change hearts and minds. People learn that even the most flamboyant in our community are not a threat and are deserving of the love and respect due every human being.

I am so fortunate to work for Intel Corporation and proud that they are such a dedicated supporter of workplace diversity. Whether it is LGBT, religion, race, creed, color or gender we work together, side by side and in the process gain understanding and respect for each other.

Take Care,
Billie

The Worst Kept Secret

On the first visit to my therapist, I was given a questionnaire to complete. One of the questions was, “What is your sexual preference?’ Without hesitation, I wrote, “I want to be a girl.”

And thus it has been for decades. In every fantasy or dream I’ve ever had correcting nature’s disconnect, the measures taken were always complete; the transformation provided the missing internal organs, removed the surplus and added a tittle on that Y chromosome to make it an X. Of course there was also the fabulous figure, great cleavage, stunning gams and thick luxurious hair. :) Sadly, transformation technology that is actually available, regardless of the cost, is a lot less capable.

In regard to my own, real world Transition and Transgenderedness, my ideal state is living my life, fulltime as a woman without ever being “detected” as being born or having lived male. For my personal happiness, I don’t need a “fantasy” transformation to achieve that ideal state. I would have no problem living with the knowledge that I still had a Y chromosome and a prostate and that I didn’t have a cervix, uterus or ovaries. However, to be ideal, those items could never be detectable by others. Unfortunately, that’s not possible, at least not for me. The unexpected, the unforeseen will ensure that someone will know; someone will find out, eventually.

If I had begun my transition in my teens or even early 20’s, I might feel differently. Although the physical issues would still exist, there would be far less “male history” to undo. As it is, I have too much past to elude. Even if I tried to out run it, it would eventually find me. And as things omitted are wont to do, I’m sure they would pop up at the most inopportune times. People feel deceived when they find you’ve omitted key details of your life story and it doesn’t seem to matter that you had good reasons for doing so.

Anyway, I am tired of secrets and I am tired of wondering if the warm smile and happy greeting would change if people knew I once had a penis.

Thus I have come to realize I shall never achieve my ideal state and that’s OK. Bill will never be completely gone. He is the occasional glimpse from the corner of my eye, the not-quite-forgotten thought on the tip of my tongue, that “feeling” that I’m being followed. It may be a comfort to many that a portal to Bill exists; that he lives still and is happy to wander the hills and dales of that past life; that Billie, a benevolent host to a beloved symbiote willingly animates Bill’s existence, bringing it to life with pride and gratitude. After all, though not always apparent, they have been together a very long time.

Is my dream then shattered; that dream to live my life, full-time as woman? A realistic look at my life revealed that everyone I know knows I am a Transsexual. Family, friends, friends of friends, FB friends, co-workers, doctors, hair dressers, nail techs all know; if not from the start, eventually, either from me or someone else. Perhaps the important question to be answered is this, if I am treated like a lady, does it matter that they know I was once a man?

When “just the girls” go to lunch, when my son holds the door for me, when the dermatologist says I have beautiful skin, when I’m chatted up in the ladies room or when my brothers call me “sis,” does what they know about me matter? Should I be concerned about what they might be thinking? I think the answer is “no, it doesn’t matter.” What matters is how we treat each other in spite of what we know.

In fact, it’s better that they know. Then their caring for me is genuine, done with the knowledge of who I am, who I was and who I want to be. There are no illusions for them, no assumptions, only loving interaction despite the truth. They know I once had a penis and despite any uncertainties, they look past them to the person I am, the person I want to be and interact with me on that level. Which, coincidentally, is the level I have always dreamed of achieving; to live my life, fulltime as a woman. And in a very real and practical sense, when I am surrounded by these people who know me and still interact with me as a woman, I am for all intents and purposes, undetectable.

And that my dears, is ideal.

Take Care,
Billie

Vaya Con Dios

I saw something today that delivered a right cross square on my jaw and knocked me lower than the Dead Sea. I have been in an emotional nose dive for a couple of weeks now, so it only took a moment for this to speed the descent.

It should not have affected me so. My reaction was most probably an over-reaction. There is no knowing if malice was intended. Maybe it wasn’t because I had decided to live as a woman, but a dozen other, unrelated reasons. Perhaps it was expediency, maybe forgetfulness or perhaps I had misjudged this person all along. Only the author of the deed knows for sure. Still, it got to me.

It’s been three years since I came out. It is unfortunate that we live in a society and time that is filled with mistrust and hate. It was mistrust and hate I feared enough that I kept to myself. It is mistrust and fear that drive some to call me liar and fraud. The best among us seek to bridge that divide. I have done what I can with the rest.

The past is hard to cut loose; especially when the events, places and people hold special meaning. I have wanted to restore the damaged relationships so those memories might be shared. But my decision brought out the disease in some of those people and it is time for me to move on; for my own good, for my own wellness. I can do nothing with them or for them. As it is, a restoration was only important to me thus my departure won’t even be noticed.

These people are no more or less flawed than I. I do not condemn them. I have simply come to the point where I have no use for them and no need of them.

Good-bye

Billie

A Good Cry

It still startles me when I experience a sudden emotional rush. You know, like when you stop by the grocery store after work, just for a few things and you’re debating the value of paying $14.99 for a pair of tongs because they have pink tips and all-of-the sudden without any warning whatsoever, you burst into tears. It’s a gusher of emotion rising from your gut so fast the tears are running down your cheeks before you even know you’re crying. You barely stifle the audible wail, but there is no concealing the deep, deep sobbing.

It’s turn-toward-the-display crying while you dig through your purse for a tissue and in your mind you’re screaming wtf, wtF, WTF!! Dab a cheek, dab another cheek, blow the nose, follow-on eruption and the flow begins again. “Where in the hell is this coming from??” Digging for a dry tissue, a quick survey to see if anyone is staring. Thank God, no. “Get a hold of yourself, girl.” Dab a cheek, dab another cheek, blow the nose take a breath; another breath and then two more. You begin to move again, eyes down because you know your mascara is a mess and your eyes are all red. The search begins.

Maybe it’s because 21 years ago today my Dad died. Or that a week from Sunday it will be two years since my baby sister died. I miss them. I miss all my family.

Could it be I’m tired of watching my friends getting kicked to the curb by their “loved ones?” Or the gossip and backstabbing that goes on in the so-called “community” of Transfolk?

Could be the job; it changed recently and won’t be nearly as much fun as before. People are already saying that I am not my “old self.”

Perhaps it’s the constant battle with food. Every waking minute of every day all I do is fight the urge to eat. I’m fat, out-of-shape, fighting an infection and ragweed is in bloom. Could be.

Maybe it’s all of the above; I really don’t know. I guess you don’t need a reason to cry do you?

I can tell you this; I’m going to make a cup of tea, pull out the guitar and sing sad songs.

And have a good cry.

Anyone got a tissue?

Take Care,
Billie

I don’t write on Transgender topics very much anymore. I live my life as a woman these days. Nonetheless, I did go through a transition; a phase where I changed the life I lived in the “real” world to match the life I had always lived in my heart and in my mind’s eye, Fortunately, there were many, many people who did everything they could to make that change a wonderful experience.

This past weekend was an anniversary of sorts. I began my transition on the first weekend in August, 2007. But the reason for my nostalgia is the announcement I received at work that “Jack” was beginning a new life as “Jill” (not the real names) effective July 27th. It is a time of joy and celebration in the office, as it was with my announcement. It has always amazed me that a group of relative strangers, my coworkers, have consistently been so loving, so accepting and so supportive.

I am obligated to say that I am not an official spokeswoman for “MyCo.” These are my thoughts alone. Though many that read this know where I work, I do not have permission to name the company, so I won’t. Still, their efforts should be applauded. My transition at MyCo remains one of the best experiences of my life.

MyCo’s culture is one that prizes diversity and the right of employees to make personal decisions in their lives. Diversity expands our thinking and fosters innovation. MyCo believes that our work environment should be safe and healthy, free from harassment, intimidation and discrimination. Knowing not everyone will make the same personal choices, MyCo doesn’t ask those who disagree to change their beliefs, but simply be courteous, respectful and professional. I have yet to have a single negative experience at MyCo since my transition. I wish I could say the same for the rest of my world.

I transitioned from Bill to Billie at MyCo in April, 2008 after three and a half months of preparation. In addition to my manager, there was a team of people from Human Resources, Legal, Security, Benefits, and Occupational Health. People from each of these departments were tasked to find and solve any issues that might come up in my transition as well as figure out how to let everyone know what was going on.

April 7th, Executive Management was informed and my HR records were updated to my new name and gender. April 8th, I met face-to-face with the individuals I was closest to. April 9th my e-mail address was changed and over 450 e-mails were sent announcing that “Bill McReynolds will take the name of Billie McReynolds as she transitions from male to female.” April 10th I got my new ID badge and April 14th, after 15 years at MyCo, Billie reported for her first day at work. I have included the photo taken to commemorate the event.

I received abundant e-mails and personal visits for days afterward. They not only expressed congratulations to me, but pride that we worked for a company that would go to such extraordinary lengths for a single employee, one out of thousands. With Jill’s announcement I was reminded of how wonderful it felt to walk those familiar aisles as Billie. Nothing else was changed; I sat in the same cubical, belonged to the same teams, worked with the same people and they were all able to make the transition with me. I am still amazed by that and still hold that sense of pride in MyCo.

Congratulations Jill; I know your experience will be every bit as wonderful as mine.

Take Care,
Billie

Hay Siempre Mañana

At a meeting the other day I mentioned that I was closing in on sixty years old. Later, I was approached by several folks who told me I did not look anywhere close to sixty; mid-forties tops.

It’s wonderful what estrogen has done for my skin. But there is a down side. It feeds into a notion I have that there is plenty of time before I “have” to get healthy. Sure, the body sends me little messages to the contrary; small aches and pains, bladder infections, a weird rash on my ankle and high blood pressure. But half a dozen prescriptions keep all that in check, feeding the illusion there is yet still time to get the life I really want and live into my eighties. “Hay siempre mañana,” there is always tomorrow.

But a fresh coat of paint doesn’t do jack if the wood underneath is rotting. At any moment, despite the best attempts at detection, my body could send me a new reminder of my lengthy abuse; a stroke, heart attack, diabetes, cancer or God knows what; a message beyond the reach of “take two and call me in the morning.”

I can imagine my despair; all those todays I pushed into mañana now unobtainable, the bridge between them having collapsed. I can’t see myself as the brave convalescent; dedicated to arduous and painful therapy to recapture a small fraction of mobility or speech or cognition. I would likely sit in my chair, sipping a drink, watching television and wondering what was for dinner.

Much like the life I have now.

Hay siempre mañana.

Take Care,
Billie

Hurley

I heard something the other day that intrigued me. The person said that we carry our fate with us; that circumstances don’t affect it, only we can change our fate by changing who we are.

My earliest memory of being ridiculed for being fat is the 3rd grade. During elementary school, my parents put me on diets. My father would punish me if the scales didn’t show a reduction. I wore “husky” jeans, often several inches too long so the waist would fit. In high school, I had the nick name Billie Moon because my face was round and chubby. My self image was fat because everyone around me said I was fat.

Adulthood brought no relief. Controlling my weight was a constant struggle; in the Army, in the dating scene, to fit into my wedding suit, as a partner, as a father and now as a divorced woman. Since the late 80’s, it has been a losing battle; most of that time spent over 400 pounds. The 50 years since my first “hey fatso” appear to support the notion that we carry our fate with us regardless of the circumstances. There is nothing we can do; there is no place we can go that will change fate.

Even losing more than 100 pounds didn’t change my fate. I have done that three times since 1989. The latest loss was 185 pounds in 2001. But by Christmas, 2003 I was over 400 pounds, again. Fate has cursed me with some morbid propensity and plunked me in the middle of a society that deifies food and has no shortage of same. And now I have the additional burdens of age, gravity and estrogen conspiring to seal my fate unto death do we part. Perhaps I should accept the inevitable and surrender, get one of those electric scooters and ride into the sunset and a double-wide casket.

Perhaps I would except for Hurley.

In the television series “Lost,” Hurley believes he is cursed with bad luck since winning a lottery. The “curse” controls his life. In an inspiring scene, Hurley and friends find an old VW Microbus, but the battery is dead. Hurley hopes to jump start it by rolling it down a steep hill and popping the clutch. It’s a dangerous gamble. Nonetheless, Hurley flips fate the bird with faith that he can get the van to run. As the Microbus hurdles down the hill, Hurley says over and over, “There is no curse, we make our own luck.” You can watch the scene at the YouTube link below.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwZOmB9Fi30&feature=PlayList&p=28849ED323C7D9FC&playnext_from=PL&playnext=1&index=24

It’s time to make my own luck, tell fate to FO and start living thin, live the life I want, fight through the pain and fatigue and do the things I want to do, be who I want to be; right now, today.

There is no curse.

Take Care,
Billie

Just Call Me Dad

Many of you know my story. Aware at the age of 10 that something was wrong with my gender assignment, nonetheless I assumed the roles and responsibilities mandated by my genitals. By the time I understood I was Transgendered, I was married and the father of three children.

I was exhilarated at the thought of becoming the woman I was born to be. Yet, I was certain the cost would be the loss of my children. That was too high a price. Thus I decided not to transitions until the kids had all passed their eighteenth birthdays. As it turned out, my daughter was 22 and my boys were 20 when I revealed my intensions. For their entire lives up to that point, I had been Dad.

Today, my femininity is so comfortable, it is hard to believe I have lived as a woman for only three years. Some friends will occasionally comment that my children still call me “Dad” and I should ask them to call me “Mom” or “Billie” particularly in public.

I don’t think I will, for a couple of reasons.

First, I am quite sure my “ex” would have apoplexy if she knew her children were addressing me as “Mom.” But more importantly, I am not and never have been their Mother. I may have changed my gender but it’s not retroactive. By the grace of God, all three of my children are outstanding adults. I am proud of each one and whatever my contribution, the role I played was their father. Forgive my hubris, but I am proud of that.

If I had my druthers, I would go through life with no one knowing that I wasn’t born a woman and if someday my children want to start addressing me as Billie or even Mom, that’s OK. In the meantime, just call me Dad.

Take Care,
Billie

Oh Where Have You Been Charming Billie

Before transition, I frequently isolated myself. There were a lot of reasons for that. I didn’t like the life I was forced to live and I was ashamed of my obese appearance and habits. I walled off the world whenever I could. I had no social life and apart from my children, no close relationships. One or two were closer than others, but no one, no one knew my heart. I promised myself that if I ever transitioned, I would tear down the walls and get a life.

But old habits die hard and so I seek comfortable surroundings when confronted with life’s truths, trials and trouble. There are no happy endings, just happy moments; moments that are all too fleeting and endlessly stalked by the next failure, the next betrayal or the next disappointment. Delight is smothered by the shadow of something waiting to destroy my joy, break my resolve and send me running for sanctuary.

Thus I have spent a lot of time this year in an alternate world. I do what must be done in this world then travel to another place where time doesn’t matter, deadlines don’t exist and dealing with the ugliness can always wait one more day. I drop my purse and computer bag on the couch. I walk by days of dirty dishes, weeks of dirty laundry, unopened mail and overflowing trash cans. I ignore the flashing light on the phone, the looming health issues and a solid start on the food plan. I rush to the portal, jack-in and in moments I am gone.

In this alternate world I am a forensic archeologist using my scientific talents to solve murders and resist my attraction to the FBI agent I work with. I am a brilliant structural engineer breaking my innocent brother out of prison. I am a quirky New York Police Detective solving major cases. I am a recovered coma victim that with one touch can see your future or something in your past. I am young genius who discovers how to stabilize the "Einstein-Rosen-Podolsky bridge” so I can “slide” to alternate Earths. I am anything I want to be, can do anything I need to do and sooner or later, I always triumph.

In the morning I awake having traveled back sometime in the night. I am tired and groggy and smashed to pieces. I sigh deeply, “Shit.” The tears well up. Through the haze I see the remnants of last night’s journey; the consequences piled atop the crushing weight of all those other tasks left undone. I want to go back, but I can’t. I cry as fear lays over me as surely as my blanket. A thousand ticks tocked last night, little bits of my life redeemable only in this world, worthless where I’ve been, thrown away; bits taken from a finite reservoir whose depth is known to no one. And so each morning goes, wondering if the road will end before the journey does.

I have to pee. I kick off the blanket and wrench myself out of bed. In the bathroom I stand only inches from the mirror. The tears have washed my eyes to a brilliant blue and my cheeks are rosy red. I rub the sleep from my eyes and just stare. “You have great skin; I’ll give you that much girl.”

Hope’s a funny thing.

Take Care,
Billie

Edema Part 3 of 3

The reduced circulation that causes edema also makes it harder for my body to fight infection, particularly on the skin. The bumps are apparently small, local infections caused by normally harmless bacteria typically found on the skin. Who knew they would turn out to be little opportunistic bastards; at the first chance they get, stabbing me in the back or leg as it were?

The strategy is to hunt down the treasonous little buggers with both a frontal assault and parachuting troops in behind their lines. The frontal assault is an antibiotic ointment applied topically three times a day. It’s thick and has a tacky feel once applied. It must be like one of those “humane” sticky traps for rodents that holds them in place, alive, until you have a chance to dispatch them somehow. I will have to wear dresses more often because my slacks stick to the medication.

To sneak up on the troublemakers from behind, a broad spectrum antibiotic was added to the mix. I will take this pill four times a day for ten days. I am keeping my fingers crossed on this one. I have been on so many antibiotics over the past 18 months, it’s anybody’s guess what is going to work. Hopefully whatever is responsible for the trouble down there won’t be able to mount a strong resistance.

The last medication is designed to aid in alleviating the root cause, too much weight. I have not been able to sustain a good food plan for more than a day or two. I have fallen into a horrible sedentary routine along with eating too much food, particularly in the evening. This pill is supposed to help with the food. It is an appetite suppressant. It is a stimulant. It is a psychological boost. It is a tool, a short term one at that. It’s worth a try.

As I write this, my dining table is covered with more pill bottles than you’d find in a small pharmacy. I have not mentioned the proton pump inhibitor I take, the nasal spray, the inhaler or the girl pills I take twice a day. There are also the vitamins and calcium. And nearly all of this is because I eat too much food. Food. I am not sick, I have no diseases, I simply eat too much. What's up with that?

Why is cracking this so difficult? I know what to do; I just have to do it. I see my future, likely a short one, laid out on the table in orange bottles with white caps. But is this finally enough? Have I reached the tipping point or will I simply adjust like I have in the past? Will I accommodate the addiction or annihilate it? In the dark when I am alone and the only sound is the hum of the refrigerator, I stand face to face with my choices and fear the only possible victory will be found in death. The dead don’t eat. Well…except for Zombies of course.

And just in case anyone takes this wrong, I don’t see suicide as a solution. Although it has the benefit of ending the overeating problem, it has a fatal flaw, literally. Any solution must also allow one to enjoy life being thin.

I can change this; I’ve beaten it before. I must change this.

In the meantime, perhaps I should take the stimulant and the diuretic in the afternoon instead of the morning. I may be up all night, but I’ll be too busy peeing to eat.

Take Care,
Billie

Edema Part 2 of 3

Due to the length of this piece, I am posting it in three parts. This is part two.

Edema is the accumulation of serum in the spaces between cells. Poor circulation is the typical cause. As blood backs up, it leaches fluid into those spaces, which then accumulates and causes swelling. It can be a symptom of disease or, as in my case, a result of obesity.

It takes only 3,500 extra calories to create a pound of fat. Each pound of new fat requires the body to create seven miles of blood vessels to nurture it. In my last Body Composition Analysis, I was carrying 150 pounds of excess fat. That’s over 1,000 miles of blood vessels to support that adipose mass; from Phoenix to Denver, Colorado. Is it any wonder my poor heart, now nearly 58 years old, is having some trouble keeping up?

So I was prescribed a wheelbarrow full of medications. I was already taking three pills that barely kept my blood pressure in check. After a zillion tests earlier this year, the only issue found was a slight enlargement of my heart due to my moderately high blood pressure; which try as they might, never seems to leave the 140’s. I was told to stop taking one of those pills as it can cause fluid retention.

In its place, I am now taking a strong diuretic that causes me to pee every 20 minutes for the first several hours of the day. The first time I took it, I had to pee like a Russian race horse by time I got to work! (Interestingly enough, that expression comes from the fact that racehorses are given the same diuretic I am on, presumably to lighten the load since water weighs eight pounds per gallon.) I am reminded of the doctor who once told me I was healthy as a horse, I just weighted as much as one. The nights will be rough if I take this one too late in the day.

Peeing a lot means the body looses crucial minerals, Potassium in particular. Potassium is critical for proper heart function. So now I take two Potassium pills a day. Staying with the equine theme, they are freakin’ “horse pills.” It’s a good thing I don’t have any phobias around swallowing pills!

The rest of the pills on Monday along with my exciting conclusion!

Take Care,
Billie

Edema Part 1 of 3

Due to the length of this piece, I will be posting it in three parts over the next three days.

Private note to my Evangelical friend with the Jewish Mother: I say this in my best imitation of the Prophets of old, “Stand fast and read these words with dread as they will open your eyes and behold, you will see your future.” (Well, maybe not the pedicure part, although I highly recommend it.) :)

A pedicure is one of the most luxurious experiences in the world. There is the usual treatment of trimming nails and removing calluses of course. But the full treatment includes a foot and calf massage, sea salt scrub, mint lotion with calves wrapped in hot towels, moisturizer rubdown and a paraffin treatment for the feet. For the price, there is nothing like it, and you have pretty feet and toes to show off in your summer sandals!

Who knew that a pedicure could be a diagnostic tool?

During my pedicure two weeks ago, I noticed my calves didn’t “jiggle” like calves do when you tap them from the outside of your leg. There was no movement at all, they were solid. I pressed on the skin and there was no “give;” as if I was pushing on the shin bone itself. Both of my lower legs were tight and firm as if they had somehow been filled with sand. No matter how hard I tried to relax the muscle, the result was the same.

This was troublesome. I have dealt with minor swelling in my feet for some time, but this was different; this was something I had not seen before. Still denial springs eternal. Perhaps it was temporary; perhaps it would go away in a couple of days. It didn’t, it got worse.

There was no pain, no itching. My feet weren’t blue or cold. But along the shin, the skin started getting red and tight enough that it shined like a bald man’s head. I started seeing bumps appear just below the calf muscles about two inches above my ankles, or what was left of them.

Then two of those bumps burst open and began leaking fluid. (I found out later the medical name for that fluid is serum.) If I pressed on the sore, the pressure would force more fluid out, leaving a small indentation. During the day the serum would creep down my ankle and dry into a clear crust that I would have to wipe off with wash cloth when I got home from work.

So yesterday I went to the doctor.

Flat on my Ass

I haven’t quite been my joyful, optimistic self of late. I’ve been hiding, watching TV and trying to motivate myself to do something, anything. There are a number of reasons for this cloudy disposition, but I will spare you the details, save for one, THE one, THE battle, THE bane of my existence; food.

Over the past couple of weeks, I have been eating between 3,000 and 4,000 calories a day. My weight is up to 421 pounds. Not quite a record (427) but close. It is a mystery of the human mind that I hate the consequences of overeating, but love the act itself. Hence the depression and frustration. I want both to eat and be thin and refuse to accept the empirical evidence of 50 years that it is not possible for me to have both to the degree that I desire.

I needed a kick in the ass.

I got one.

Friday afternoon I went out with friends to get hair and nails done. Color, cut, mani and pedi, we spent hours relaxing and talking girl talk. I was sure that the Vietnamese nail techs were commenting on the horrendous condition of my feet. I could see my tech was working up a sweat trying to scrape months of neglect off the bottom on my feet. Weight and poor circulation had created a barely penetrable armor plating, particularly at the heel. But Jay, not his real name, eventually prevailed so, gorgeous, pampered and light nearly $90 each, we went to the restaurant next door to have dinner and let the polish cure.

It was a lovely evening with a gentle breeze and just a hint of coolness. We decided to dine on the patio. They had checkered table clothes, candle center pieces, umbrellas and those molded plastic chairs. I hate those plastic chairs; they are always too narrow so by the time dinner is over, I have deep gouges on the outside of my thighs and no feeling in my feet. I hate being the killjoy, so I sucked it up and gently squeezed my ten pound ass into that five pound chair.

As is typical with this model, I could feel that I was forcing the chair’s arms apart as I settled all 421 pounds on to the four legs. I could hear the plastic complain under my weight as the legs bowed ever so slightly. I paused for a second, checking my “spidey sense” for trouble. All seemed in order, so I began to sit back when “CRACK” the chair literally exploded into a dozen pieces!

I have been carrying around excess weight for many more years than not and I have thigh and calf muscles to prove it. I reacted immediately and those oversized muscles contracted holding me in mid air, locked in that sitting position mightily poised to lift my substantial bulk to a standing position, avoiding the embarrassment and humiliation of a fall and quite likely cause the half-dozen shocked bystanders to gaze in awe at the strength and agility of this remarkable, if not hugely obese woman.

Alas, estrogen has done its job and my strength isn’t what it used to be. Frozen in time for only a moment, I couldn’t pull up and the table was quickly beyond my reach; not that grabbing it would have helped. Like a pilot in a shattered plane, I realized I was headed to the ground and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Horrified, I crashed onto the concrete patio with a terrible indelicate “thud.”

Instantly, I was surrounded by people asking if I was OK, reaching out their hands to help me up. I was flat on my ass leaning back on my left hand. I took stock of my vitals and everything seemed in one piece, no blood, no bones, no bruises, except for the massive one direct center of my ego. I swung my right hand over to the outstretched hand of my friend’s daughter, Dana; not her real name. Seconds before we clasped hands, I yanked it back. “Wait!” I said too loudly. “The nails!! Watch the nails!”

I shunned the offers of help, got up on one knee and hoisted myself up using a chair for support. I headed over to one of the patio lights where I could use the bright light to once again check my vitals. The manager came over. “Are you alright,” he asked. Surveying both hands for several more seconds, “Yes, I replied. The nails survived.”

As my friend said to me later, “Thank God you weren’t wearing a dress.” Amen to that!

I tell the story with humor to help block the thoughts that are fighting to get in. The thought that all those witnesses got into their cars and laughed hysterically at the stupid fat woman that fell on her ass. How could she think for even a moment such a chair could support the tonnage being placed upon it? I imagine the story being told to others and praying that no one was at the ready with a cell phone camera. I couldn’t imagine seeing it on YouTube. Humor helps block those thoughts, mostly.

Today I am back on my plan, as I was yesterday. One day at a time.

Take Care,

Eleven Steps Back

Last week was a rough week. I gained back 11 of the 12 pounds I lost the previous week. (Oh how I don’t want to admit that!!)

It was a busy week, so didn’t log my food. I just don’t want to accept that my calibration is off and I MUST log my food to know how much I am eating. So, it is back to the logbook.

I don’t understand why it is so hard to make this a priority in my life. I don’t have a lot of years left on this Earth and every day I fiddle fart around with my food plan is another day lost to the life I dream about living.

I hate pictures of myself. There is something about the mind’s eye that is much more forgiving than the camera lens. When I see a picture of myself, I look HUGE. So, next week, I am having a friend of mine take a picture of me and make a life-size cardboard replica of Billie as seen through the camera lens.

My cellulose twin will take up a position blocking the refrigerator door. I will post a photo on Facebook when it is in place. :)

Take Care,
Billie

Living to Eat

A food addiction is a most vicious addiction. I have heard from some of you that are fighting this same battle or have, so you know; this addiction is meaner than sin.

Most food addicts don’t look like they are struggling; their lives don’t show the debilitating effects some other addictions can manifest. The worst food addicts will be extremely overweight, may have trouble getting around and suffer obesity related illnesses like high blood pressure and diabetes. But many, many more food addicts adapt their lives and bodies for years, until suddenly, time runs out. Someday, I will share some of the ways I have adapted.

Recovery in many addictions is focused on abstinence. All the recovery energy is focused on one single point, do NOT have the first drink or puff or hit. Addiction is a lot like fat cells, once there, they can be diminished, but never eliminated. Just one experience is enough for most addicts to send them back into the dark abyss from which they worked so hard to extricate themselves. Just once. I can’t tell you how many times I have stood on the scale looking up from the bottom of the pit, bitter and hopeless. Having known the joy of success only to have returned by my own hubris was devastating. It’s by God’s grace I never used a bullet to solve the problem. Some do.

I imagine there are some addicts that can flirt with their “demon” and not succumb to their old habits. I don’t know any, though. As a smoker, I would toss out, tongue-in-cheek, that overused quip, “I can quit smoking; I’ve done it a thousand times.” All it took was one cigarette and I was back to two packs a day before I knew what hit me. I finally succeeded by walling off anything that had to do with smoking or smokes until I firmly established the ability to resist. For me, I was able to finally stand firm when the smell of cigarette smoke became unpleasant and its presence irritated my nose and throat. With lung cancer the primary killer in my family history, I may have added a number of years to my life. But to do it, I had to do whatever was necessary to keep tobacco from getting near me.

There have been a couple of times I have abstained from food for extended periods. Two or three times I have done ten-day fasts, consuming only water. Twice I did medically supervised Optifast plans where I did not eat solid food for the first 40 days. I drank 5, eight ounce “shakes” instead. When the 40 days was up, I drank four shakes a day and had one meal. My last Optifast experience, from early 2000 to mid-2001, I lost 185 pounds.

One of the reasons the efforts above eventually failed is that complete abstinence from food is not possible. Sooner or later we have to go back to the table. Imagine the alcoholic forced to have cocktails after work EVERY DAY, but not get drunk or the smoker required to have a SINGLE cigarette after sex. Food addicts are in the terrifying and contradictory position of having to court our death to stay alive.

Is it any wonder why so many diets fail?

Step One

Hi
My Name is Billie
I am addicted to food.

I have been here so many times before and for this trip it is still necessary to begin with the beginning. The First Step, “I admit that I am powerless over food and my life has become unmanageable.”

It’s true. Over food, I am absolutely powerless. I quit smoking 30 years ago, cold turkey and never looked back. I drink occasionally, but alcohol has no sway over me. I might be the only person in America that has expired beer in the fridge. I was on Percocet for months and months. My doctor was concerned that I would become addicted to the pain killers until I told him I would rather have a double cheese burger. When the pain ended, I just stopped taking them. I think I still have 6 pills left in the bottle.

It is also true that my life is unmanageable and food is the biggest contributor. Food is the perfect partner for procrastination, poor discipline, “couch disease” and laziness; all afflictions of mine. I eat huge amounts of food, so much that I often have to lie down as I cannot keep my eyes open. I call it a “food coma.” If too many carbohydrates are involved, I will be groggy and have a killer headache when I awake. My stomach will be so full that I can barely move. It is the pathetic sight of an addict in full service to my addiction.

That addiction has controlled most of my life, kept me from doing so many things, seeing so many people and going so many places. I can barley climb one flight of stairs, let alone hike a trail. I have half a dozen pair of beautiful shoes that I don’t wear because I cannot reach the ankle strap to buckle them. They are in my closet, waiting for me to surrender this battle so I can fight it.

More later,
Billie

Food Fight!!

The original reason for starting this blog page has died a quiet death at my own hands; and that’s a good thing. Since the funeral, I’ve been wondering what to do with the thing, especially since I own this domain name across the known universe, with the possible exception of the Klingon Empire. Negotiations are ongoing.

A few days ago, I had an idea. (No it’s not the only one I have ever had, but this is one of the good ones.) I will use it to journal about the toughest battle I will ever fight. Where before I intended to share opinions, in this effort, I will share my life. Particularly, that part of my life pertaining to the final major hurdle to my happiness.

The technical name for it, appropriately I think, is Morbid Obesity. The not so technical names we all know, but to state the obvious, I am a very fat chick and need to change that for a number of reasons.

As with my life, this will be chaotic. I will write about what’s on my mind at the time. No time tables or set subject matter. One day you may see a simple progress report, another a story from my fat past, another a rant against society’s love affair with food. It won’t be for you, it will be for me, and thus I will be blunt and you will read things you may find distasteful. But I need to see them in all their pixel ugliness. In sharing I will accomplish two things; the first is I will come out of hiding and bare my last deep secrets and second, hopefully this will help someone else. It has the additional appeal, at least to me, that it is about a much different transision.

Let’s begin.

Today begins the second week of attempt number 18,615 to lose weight. I weighed in at 393 pounds. I lost 12 pounds last week. Before you get all excited, remember a gallon of water weighs 8 pounds and reducing Carbohydrates, at least in my body, results in constant peeing. Still 12 pounds is 12 pounds. I have a tendency to ignore the positive in exchange for a recitation of my past failures. And there are plenty of those. I worked hard last week to stay focused on the successes.

I weighed in on Day One at 405 pounds. I have weighed more. I decided in that first week to cap only one parameter and that was Carbohydrates at 110 grams a day. That’s 440 calories, roughly one-and-a-half Snickers bars. For someone who loves bagels, rolls, and sandwiches, that ain’t a lot of Carbs. I could eat whatever else I wanted and as much as I wanted as long as I held the Carbs down.

I held the line on Carbs and I ate plenty of whatever else I wanted; around 3,000 calories a day give or take, mostly fat calories. This week I am capping two parameters; Carbs at 125 grams and total calories at 2,500. I am holding down Carbs because I have ample evidence and experience to show that I have developed a resistance to my own insulin (Syndrome X.) If I keep my Carbs in check, my blood sugar tests well within “normal.” If I let the Carbs go, my blood sugar will test in the 110-115 range; so called “pre-diabetic” levels.

Enough for today. You won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t read this. As I said, it’s for me. I need a breakthrough; maybe this will be it.