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
Monday, May 10, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
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 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.
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.
Monday, April 19, 2010
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,
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,
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
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
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
Thursday, March 11, 2010
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?
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?
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
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
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
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