Me vs. Food
Food is comforting. Food evokes memories. Food is culture. Food is celebration. Food is all of these things, but for me, food is also dangerous.
I made a Doctor's appointment for Feb. 27 because my knees had been hurting for the last six months. At my weigh-in, I cringed--my weight was 279. I knew I had gained some weight since my last appointment, but I didn’t realize it was that much. The doctor made an appointment for me to see a specialist for my knees but also gently suggested that losing some weight would probably help.
In 2015, I had a stroke–you can read about that here. After my stroke, the doctor was very clear–I had to control my cholesterol and saturated fats to avoid another one. Due to the need to teetotal, I went completely vegan for the next two years (I did eat eggs, though). Initially, the doctor prescribed a statin to control my cholesterol, but I was doing so good with my diet that my cholesterol got too low, so he happily told me to stop taking it. I lost 50 pounds, got down to 200 pounds, and was the healthiest I had been in a long time.
But life happens, and I slowly started introducing meat and dairy into my diet, just a few bites here and there. But those few bites turned into meals, and eventually, I was off the diet. Since that initial time, I have tried multiple times to go back to my vegan diet because I know it is what is best for me. But I always end up making a deal with myself:
I will eat less meat.
I don’t have to totally give up dairy–a piece of cheese now and then won’t hurt.
It’s ok to indulge on the occasional weekend as long as I’m good through the week.
This never works, though, and within a few weeks, I’m right back to where I was before, with any lost weight coming right back.
I wish I could be one of those people who eat only for sustenance or forget to eat or don’t eat until they are actually hungry. But I’m not. I eat when I am stressed or to celebrate. I eat when I’m hungry or not hungry. I eat when I’m bored. I overeat because I enjoy the flavor of something. My relationship with food worsened with each successive thing I put into my mouth. I have come to realize I have always had an unhealthy relationship with food. And, like many other things in my life, I didn’t know this until I was much older.
Don’t get me wrong. There is absolutely nothing wrong with enjoying food. I still love to watch Top Chef, Anthony Bourdain, and other cooking shows on TV. Food is comforting. Food evokes memories. Food is culture. Food is celebration. Food is all of these things, but for me, food is also dangerous.
According to family lore, just after I was born, my grandmother happily exclaimed that I had the biggest and roundest bottom she had ever seen. I don’t believe she meant anything by that comment other than that I was a rotund baby—and many babies are—but for some reason, something would always trigger in my brain when my family would retell that story.
Only within the last year have I realized I struggled with body dysmorphia for the majority of my life. I have always seen myself as being overweight and fat–even though I was not. I was never a slim child, but I always wished I was. It didn’t help that I was not athletic; my parents would encourage me to go out and play basketball or go outdoors and be active. However, the teasing I had endured in PE class for not being skilled at sports was scarring–I felt very self-conscious about playing and participating in any sporting activity. Even to this day, participating in any athletic event, even as a family, makes me very uncomfortable. My lack of activity and seeing myself as fat seemed to set a precedent that I would carry for years to come.
As children, my sister and I had to clean our plates and be members of the “clean plate club” to leave the dinner table. I never had a problem cleaning my plate after a second or even a third helping. Cleaning her plate was usually more of an issue with my sister. My parents would always say she was too busy to take the time to eat, and I was always filing a hollow leg. Meals would usually end with some sort of negotiation with my sister–“Eat three bites of broccoli and the rest of your meat, and you can be done.” Often, as members of the clean plate club, we would have dessert–coffee with cake, cookies, or ice cream.
I have perpetually struggled with overeating. I wouldn’t stop eating, even if I felt full or satiated. I would eat to the point of feeling stuffed and engorged. Rather than paying attention to my stomach, I paid attention to the taste of the food. If I enjoyed something, I wanted as much as possible. I remember one particular Thanksgiving feeling so full that I had to lay motionless on the floor because I felt like I was going to throw up otherwise.
A few months ago, I was looking through some old photos, and a thought struck me. While I had never been muscular or physically fit, I was definitely not fat. But my mind and my conscience always told me otherwise. This realization hit me like the proverbial semi-truck. At first, I was mad. My entire life, I lived with the impression and shouldered the weight (no pun intended) of thinking that somehow I was less than due to being “overweight.” I was mad and upset–why had I never been encouraged to see and understand that I was not fat? After I processed the anger, I felt sad. Sad that I had carried this for my entire life. Sorry that I didn't invest the time I spent feeling bad about my weight into something more productive, such as developing my self-esteem.
To deal with the anger and sadness, I started looking through pictures of myself as a child, teenager, young adult, and adult. I needed to see the proof that I was never fat.
Looking at these photos is proof that I was not overweight when I was younger. But now, at 49, leaving my doctor’s office, I am officially fat.
The post-appointment notes from the doctor’s visit used morbidly obese. Officially, I was the heaviest I had ever been—drastic measures needed to be taken– starting with going back to my vegan diet immediately.
I had to be serious this time. So I committed, and over the next two weeks, I dropped 8 pounds. That felt good; I was making progress. But the feelings I had as a child slid back into my consciousness, and I still did not like what or who I saw in the mirror. At a follow-up appointment, I asked about using a weight loss medication in addition to my diet. My doctor agreed and found one he thought would be successful. On March 25th, I took my first dose and waited.
In a few days, I will be taking my third dose. As a result of the medication, my entire approach to food has changed for the first time in my life. I don’t get hungry. When I do eat, I can only eat a small amount. The other day, I was making myself a vegan microwave meal and got sidetracked with something. I completely forgot about the food in the microwave until about ½ hour later. That has never happened to me. I would never forget the food that I prepared for myself. I can count the times I have forgotten to eat in my life on two fingers. I always looked forward to my next meal. Now, I have to remember and force myself to eat just to get enough calories to be productive.
These realizations gave me pause.
I needed to work on fixing my relationship with food. Why did I eat like I used to? Why did I use food as a crutch? Why did I eat when stressed? Why did I gorge myself? I am working on answering these questions.
I have become obsessive about weighing myself every morning (something I need to work on, I know). But I was amazed when I stepped on the scale today.
With the help of the medication and the vegan diet, I have lost 20 pounds. I have two goals: to get back to 250 pounds and then back to 200 pounds. It boggles my mind that I went from 200 to almost 280 pounds.
I am trying to find a way to end this essay because my journey has not come to an end. I’m still at the beginning of this trek, and reaching my goal will not be the end of it. Maintaining that weight is a whole other battle. Regarding the anger and sadness, I’m returning to a place of good and hope. But this is not something I can do on my own. With my wife and family's emotional and physical support, I will be successful.
To be continued…