The Hardest Addiction to Beat. (aka: Going Uphill On A Slippery Slope)

If you had a chain smoker that wanted to give up smoking, how well do you think they would do if you told them they had to have three cigarettes a day – no more, no less.

Or, how about an alcoholic?  What if a recovering alcoholic – let’s say one who prefers straight up Scotch – were told they had to have five small beers a day.  How well do you think they’d be able to avoid going back to the Scotch?

Heroin and Cocaine addiction is so bad, they are actually given medication to ease their withdrawal symptoms and make detoxing easier.  As part of their recovery, they are specifically told to cut ties with others who are still using to lessen the pressure and temptation.

These are horrible, terrible addictions that can all make you unhealthy or even kill you in time.  But, it is possible to throw out the cigarettes, pour out the Scotch and never, ever touch drugs again.

But, it’s a whole other story for overeaters.  The only thing we can quit cold turkey is cold turkey.

Trust me – as I said before, I dabbled in anorexia and the horrible truth is that anorexia was ultimately a hell of a lot easier than dieting.  Walking away from food all together…sure, you’re hungry as hell for a couple of days.  For a week or so, all you can think about is what you are NOT putting into your mouth.  The withdrawal from food is torturous as it starts to turn inwards and eat away at itself.

But then, this switch flips and the hunger pangs ease and then stop.  And you get this satisfaction with yourself…this sense of pride at overriding your natural instinct to eat.  Every time you turn down food, you feel somehow stronger.  It’s literally a power high.  You’ve dominated your stupid need for sustenance.  You’ve risen above it.  You’re better than that now.

Then – unlike the smoker who quit smoking, or the recovering alcoholic or the drug addict that beats withdrawal – the anorexic is not congratulated.  The anorexic’s body may become thinner – but it does not become healthier.  No one calls an anorexic a “recovering overeater”.

You’ve done the same exact thing at the other addicts but, guess what?  Society says it’s wrong and your body wholeheartedly agrees.

No –only the Food Addict faces the overwhelming battle of having to CONTINUE THEIR ADDICTION JUST A LITTLE BIT AT A TIME.

You don’t just have to eat….they expect you to eat three to five times every single day.  Three to five times when you must face absolute temptation, measure your every response and not give in.

You don’t just have to eat something…you don’t even get to eat the stuff that you really, really want to.  Like the Scotch drinker who is given beer, you don’t get cookies and cake and ice cream….you get celery and carrots and lettuce instead.

And unlike the Drug Addicts, we can’t simply cut ties with our friends who eat.  We can’t simply “avoid temptation”.  This day in age, there are snack and soda machines everywhere.  Our social lives revolve around food.  We go to dinner on dates and then order popcorn at the movies.  We buy cake, candy and ice cream to celebrate our birthdays.  We throw pizza parties for kids who do well in school.  We bring pastries and bagels into work.  We munch on hot dogs and pretzels at sporting events.  Even our department stores now have food counters or full blown restaurants within them, not to mention that you must pass a barrage of unhealthy food choices to get to the health foods.  Then, when you find the healthier foods, you must pay more for them then their less expensive, less healthy counter parts.

And, although there are now medicines like Phentermine that help to reduce hunger and boost energy, the recovering over eater isn’t supposed to lie down in bed waiting for their hunger to stop or for their belly to shrink back to a healthy size.   While we give our bodies less than they are used to and while we eat things that don’t satisfy our cravings, we must then move more than we do on average.  At this lowest of lows, we must climb out of bed and move.  Run.  Walk.  Climb stairs.  Ride bike.  Go swimming.  Dance.

And, while you must now give up your down time to exercise, you must also take more time to prepare your meals – either to pack in advance or to cook to ensure that it is prepared properly.

It’s not a competition.   Addiction is a horrible thing in all of its many shades and I personally sympathize with each of them.

But, that doesn’t change the fact that I believe overeating is the easiest to do and the hardest to beat.  A person can literally go their entire life without ever smoking a cigarette, sipping alcohol or using drugs – but from the moment we are born, we are encouraged to eat. 

Between the temptation, the ongoing need to eat, the difficulty, the costs, the time necessary – it is a constant battle trying to climb uphill on a slippery slope.

Please be kind.

My Introduction (aka: I've Lost More Than I've Gained)

Hi.

I’m the Chubby Chick, but you can call me Chuchi.

I’ve been a chubby chick since I was five years old.  Around that time, my mom had to have surgery and left me in the care of my grandmother. I love my grandmother, but every time I cried, or I was bored, or I was angry, or I acted up…she seemed to think I needed to eat.

So, she fed me.

Cookies, if I remember correctly.  Maybe there were chips or popcorn too, but I’m not entirely sure.

So, I learned to eat my feelings.

My mom loved sweets and snack foods.  When I was little, she’d buy Entenman’s chocolate donuts for breakfast.  I started off eating two for breakfast.  By the time I was a teenager, two no longer satisfied me as I could easily eat four of them.  We’d go to Denny’s late at night for dessert and talk and laugh till our plates were clean.  She’d buy bags of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, or Butterfinger Mini’s, or York Peppermint Patties and we’d eat handfuls at a time while playing games.  I was a girl scout, which meant we’d have cases of cookies in our house.  My favorite was the Tagalongs.  We’d go through a couple of cases of Tagalongs before cookie season was through. 

Mom grew up in a southern family of eight, so she learned to cook fried foods and creamy foods in large, oversized vats.  She loved baking, and she was raised with the belief that you should never run out of food for a meal or a party; there should always be extras.

Dad didn’t have as much of an affinity for sweets.  He was a snacker.  He grew up in a household that taught him to make sure he finished his plate.  He grew up in a household filled with hungry boys, and learned to eat quickly and to grab seconds before they were gone.  

I’ve always been a lot like my Dad.

Food was emotional. It was social.  I ate a lot of it.  I ate the wrong things.  I ate for the wrong reasons.

At the age of six, I went on my first diet.

I was taught to be a hard worker.  To study.  I was taught to do what I felt was right.  To be open and honest.

I was raised to treat others as I wanted to be treated.  To be positive.  To be kind.  To be generous.

I wasn’t taught to eat healthy.  I wasn’t taught to eat only what I needed.  I wasn’t taught to exercise.

I was raised to eat and enjoy life – and then diet. 

We did Slim Fast.  We did Doctor’s Weight Loss.  We did Weight Watchers.  We did Slim Fast again while Dad did Atkins.  We did Weight Watchers again.

There was no maintenance.  There was just yo-yoing; periods of time where we lived absolutely carefree.  There was weight gain, following by weight loss, followed by more weight gain.  Together, my parents and I slowly got fatter and fatter and fatter.

For a brief time in Junior High School, I got down to and maintained a size twelve.  My parents didn’t know at the time – we were on one diet or another and they assumed that that – coupled with our nightly walks around the neighborhood –was working for me.

The truth of the matter is I was nearly anorexic.  I didn’t eat breakfast.  I gave away my lunches and I ate as little at dinner as I could possibly get away with without my parents becoming suspicious.  Instead, I spent my lunch periods walking around the field as many times as possible, to double the efforts of our nightly family walks.

I still felt like the fattest, ugliest girl in my school.  It didn’t help when I overheard my crush telling someone he would never date me because I was too fat.  I tried to skip dinner that night, determined I wouldn’t let any more food ever pass my lips.  My parents forced me.

My father developed high blood pressure.

My mother developed diabetes.

My father’s knees started going bad.

My mom had severe back pain.

Dad’s cholesterol shot up.

Mom started have heart trouble and chest pains.

I started High School in a size 14 and could no longer shop at most department stores.  Instead, I had to go to special shops that specifically carried “Plus Sizes”.

By Junior Year, I was a 16.  By the year after I graduated, I was an 18.

I vaguely remember the short period of time I was a size 22.  I have no recollection of being a size 24, but I do remember crying the first time I had to try on and buy jeans in a size 26.  I tried on a skirt that day, and couldn’t have felt less attractive.

Sizes 28 and 30 are a complete blur, though I was able to maintain a size 32 for a year or so. Then…eventually…I outgrew my 32’s and with it, I left behind the “Plus Size” stores like Dots, The Avenue and Lane Bryant.

I bought my 3X clothes from a little store called Fashion Bug, and subsequently my 4X and then 5X clothing.

Fashion Bug closed shortly before I reached size 6X, so I have now been secluded to the world of online shopping.  My clothes must be at least a 6X because anything tighter hugs my body and shows my rolls, leaving me terribly uncomfortable and horribly self-conscious.  Despite living in hot and humid South Florida, my sleeves must be 3/4 or full length, to hide the drapes of skin that hang from my upper arms, gathering and dimpling at my elbows.  I buy – and only buy – tops that are called Tunics because they fit loosely, and I have learned to specifically buy tunics that are 32”-34” in length, as these are long enough to flow loosely over my now hanging, saggy belly.  It wasn’t until about a month ago that I realized how low I can feel it against my upper thighs.

I don’t wear pants or skirts.  My legs haven’t seen the light of day since I was about 14 years old.  My myriad of pants are all elastic and stretchy now as at this size, buttons simply pop out – the edge of the pants folding out and away from my body.

Always an asthmatic, I now struggle to breathe every single day from the exertion of maneuvering all of this extra weight.  My lower back constantly aches from the extra stress my stomach puts on it.  My knees grind as I step, and it now hurts to climb stairs or simply stand up from a chair.  My ankles – which I sprained numerous times in high school – now remain swollen on most days.  My right shoulder was injured one day as I tried to reach about my mass to scratch an itch on my lower back.

My heart has begun to race sometimes when I walk and – although doctors are amazed I am not showing any signs of diabetes – I’m beginning to experience problems with my eyesight that I worry may be attributed to high or low blood sugar.

I’m only 35 years old.

I’ve given up acting because I’m embarrassed to go on stage and move around in front of an audience.  People tell me I should try stand-up comedy, but my ego is too fragile to handle failure in that form.  I used to love going on rides, but they no longer accommodate my size.  I have to choose restaurants carefully – some have chairs with arms that dig into my hips and thighs.  I’ve given up travel as I don’t want to inconvenience fellow flyers.  The list of things I’ve lost far exceeds what I have gained.  I have gained weight and pain and insecurity and discomfort and judgement.

And because of my parents, I see what lies before me if I continue at this rate.

My mom…my cook, my baker, my morning donut buddy, afternoon snack supplier and late night dessert friend…my role model and best friend passed away on July 1^st at the age of 64.  She did not die on account of her weight, but it certainly did not help matters.

Her death marked the end of a tumultuous four year period of hospitalization.  My father was having and recovering from six different knees surgeries while my mom was in and out of the hospital for numerous health issues.  For one six month period, I dieted and walked 2 miles every single day while working full time, taking care of our pets and our home and visiting both of my parents in two different hospitals 30 miles apart.  I lost 60 pounds, and maintained the weight loss for five months.  However, at 301 lbs, I reached the same damned plateau I’d reached four times before and no amount of diet or exercise would help me defeat it.  And eventually – the stress and emotions and aggravation and frustration got the better of me.  I am now 123 pounds heavier than that plateau.

My mom went into a coma the month I decided to go to a Bariatric Surgery seminar.  She had been unresponsive when I attended my first appointment to pursue Gastric Sleeve surgery.  I dieted while she was transferred from one hospital to the ICU of another.  I gained three pounds the three weeks I lived with her in Hospice.  She was cremated three months before I received the news that I’d finished my six month preparation and was finally fully approved for surgery.  I had lost 30 lbs during the duration of my mother’s demise.

Therefore, I know I can diet.  I know I can exercise.  I know I can lose the weight, even while battling the most excruciating heartbreak of my life.

 I’ve proven it.

But there is a plateau I have been unable to beat, and I’m at a point where I know I need help to conquer it.

I lost all of my paid time off during my mom’s death, so from October, I postponed surgery until May 13, 2016 in order to build up some more time off.

Sadly, my asthma, my back, my knees….all of the co-morbidities of being morbidly obese…have prevented me from saving up any extra time.   Still – I will be going to the hospital on Friday the 13^th to get the help that I need.

I am excited. 

I am terrified.

And honestly?  I want my mommy. 

But the fact that she can’t be there for me is a sobering reminder of why I need to do this; so that I can be healthy enough to live a long life, and to be there for my friends and family in the moments that they need me.

So, this is my story.  It’ll be about Bariatric Surgery – especially the Gastric Sleeve – in the hopes that it may be a resource for others who are looking to pursue the same.

But you know what?  It’s going to be about a helluva lot more than that because – although I am the Chubby Chick – I am so much more than fat.

Fat just happens to be the particular demon I’m facing right now…the monster I wholeheartedly hope and intend to slay before my happily ever after.

Thanks for joining me on this journey.

Please be kind.