no one knows the monumental battles that i fight with food when i'm alone. what a godawful struggle it is and how it drains me mentally and emotionally, how much it consumes of my mental and emotional life -- what i ate, how many calories it was, what i'll eat next and when, how many calories will that be and does that fit within my plan. what i'll buy next and when and where, what i'll cook next, where i'll find a recipe or two or ten, what i weigh and is that more or less than the last time i weighed myself and by how much...
the donuts, candy, chips or cookies that are just snacks, just food to normal people to eat when they want a treat or are a bit hungry are crack-cocaine, meth or heroin to me. i crave them. i obsess about them.
i am obsessing about binge-eating right now. i don't want anything in particular. just food and more food.
no, it's not the food, really that i want. i want the feeling of that binge-trance that engulfs me during a binge. the rest of the world fades away, and all that exists is the motion of eating--putting it in my mouth, tasting, chewing, swallowing, reaching for more.
that calm, non-feeling trance state where all the anxiety, depression and boredom of my life cannot reach me. gone, all gone, as long as i keep eating and eating, and stay in that "zone."
if this is what it's like to be a drug addict, i so understand why addicts keep chasing the dragon, and why it's so hard to break out of the cycle of addiction.
several years ago, after Carnie Wilson had her gastric bypass, i saw her on 20/20 or one of those news-zines talking about the 150-or so pounds she'd lost and how happy she was to be slim.
then they showed her home, and her enormous cookbook collection. hundreds of cookbooks, stashed all over her house.
and i recognized a kindred spirit. a sister sufferer, and i thought, oh, girl, that does not bode well for your keeping that weight off. the surgical restriction of your stomach may physically constrict the volume of your eating, but the obsession with food, the craving, remains inside you like a cancer.
i have flirted occasionally with the idea of lap-banding or other surgery when feeling depressed and desperate, but i have no major physical health problems - diabetes or heart disease, for example - that would qualify me for it other than the fact that i'm 100 pounds overweight. my health insurer wouldn't pay for it because my life isn't in immediate danger, and i certainly couldn't afford to pay cash.
but i know, deep down, that unless they surgically lap-band or bypass those areas of my mind and soul that crave that binge-trance, the surgery would be only a temporary solution. like the many diets i've gone on, only to regain everything i've lost.
writing (again) about this urge to binge-eat has diminished the urge somewhat. it's lost some of its urgency and driving power.
i've crossed to the other side now, but i still feel vulnerable and fragile. the urge will return. it always does.
until i find ways to sedate that screaming, clattering demon that don't involve thousands of calories of salt, fat and sugar, i will continue to struggle.
© 2009 All Rights Reserved
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
anatomy of a binge
There are some days that the Sugar Queen breezes through serenely, almost effortlessly, unfazed by the phantasmagoria of food around her, happily eating her berries and diet shakes, oblivious to the glistening doughnuts in the break room, confident that she will reach her goal and stand proudly one day as one of the former fatties who "made it."
She could be locked overnight, alone in the Lindt Chocolate Factory, and emerge at morning's light with not a wisp of cocoa on her lips or fingertips, on those days.
Today is not one of those days.
Today is one of those horrible days when her food addiction claws to get out, where she is hanging on by her fingernails obsessing about eating and every type of food in the house.
She is consumed by thoughts of Eating More. Eating Something else. Eating Anything else. Now. Now. Now.
It's not about hunger. It's about a damned frantic urgency of needing to escape. Of wanting to dive into the mind-numbing, soul-deadening dark abyss of a binge where nothing exists but the tasting, the chewing, the swallowing, the continual hand-to-bag-to-mouth motion over and over and over, eating past the point of enoughness.
Eating past the point of fullness, of too-fullness, of not wanting to stop eating when she's feeling stuffed and sick.
Just eating and eating and eating. Oh, if she could just continue eating, unconsciously forever!
But eventually she will stop, will have to come back up from the cavernous dark, blinking in the blinding light, and survey the battlefield, see with horror what she has wrought--again--the terrible ruins of empty wrappers and bags that surround her.
The shame. And the sadness and despair. Hopelessness and defeat.
It's almost unbearable.
Despite all the food that's been thrown at it, the clamoring desperation to escape ... something ... is still lurking there, but it's a little duller now, weighted down by thousands of empty, unneeded calories and drowned out by the hissing and screaming voices in her head.
"Sick!"
"Disgusting!"
"Fat!"
"Loser!"
Then comes the desperation to hide the evidence, the empty containers and aftermath of her excess, so that she can pretend it never happened and likewise hope that no one else will uncover the depths of her gluttony and depravity.
There were split-seconds during that frenzied eating where she wanted to stop, but chose not to, where she could have put the food down, and said, "no more," but then that frantic feeling welled up inside her again, and she took another bite, and another, hoping that it would silence whatever was screaming to come out.
Feeling sluggish, drugged and bloated, she lumbers to bed, wondering why she didn't stop. Again.
© 2009 All Rights Reserved
She could be locked overnight, alone in the Lindt Chocolate Factory, and emerge at morning's light with not a wisp of cocoa on her lips or fingertips, on those days.
Today is not one of those days.
Today is one of those horrible days when her food addiction claws to get out, where she is hanging on by her fingernails obsessing about eating and every type of food in the house.
She is consumed by thoughts of Eating More. Eating Something else. Eating Anything else. Now. Now. Now.
It's not about hunger. It's about a damned frantic urgency of needing to escape. Of wanting to dive into the mind-numbing, soul-deadening dark abyss of a binge where nothing exists but the tasting, the chewing, the swallowing, the continual hand-to-bag-to-mouth motion over and over and over, eating past the point of enoughness.
Eating past the point of fullness, of too-fullness, of not wanting to stop eating when she's feeling stuffed and sick.
Just eating and eating and eating. Oh, if she could just continue eating, unconsciously forever!
But eventually she will stop, will have to come back up from the cavernous dark, blinking in the blinding light, and survey the battlefield, see with horror what she has wrought--again--the terrible ruins of empty wrappers and bags that surround her.
The shame. And the sadness and despair. Hopelessness and defeat.
It's almost unbearable.
Despite all the food that's been thrown at it, the clamoring desperation to escape ... something ... is still lurking there, but it's a little duller now, weighted down by thousands of empty, unneeded calories and drowned out by the hissing and screaming voices in her head.
"Sick!"
"Disgusting!"
"Fat!"
"Loser!"
Then comes the desperation to hide the evidence, the empty containers and aftermath of her excess, so that she can pretend it never happened and likewise hope that no one else will uncover the depths of her gluttony and depravity.
There were split-seconds during that frenzied eating where she wanted to stop, but chose not to, where she could have put the food down, and said, "no more," but then that frantic feeling welled up inside her again, and she took another bite, and another, hoping that it would silence whatever was screaming to come out.
Feeling sluggish, drugged and bloated, she lumbers to bed, wondering why she didn't stop. Again.
© 2009 All Rights Reserved
Caution: Scale rage ahead
On Sunday's episode, Ruby had a meltdown when she discovered that the scale she'd been using at home was 25 or 30 pounds lower than the scale in her doctor's office. Ouch!
The show ended with Ruby and her housemates destroying the defective scale with hammers and concrete blocks.
Oh, yeah. You go, girl. The Queen has to brace herself for trips to the doctor's office, knowing that she's going to weigh several pounds more on the doctor's scale than at home what with the added weight of clothing, shoes, food and drinks, jewelry...heavy mascara, air in her lungs, hairspray...
But 25-30 pounds more? Whew. She doesn't even want to contemplate her shock, rage, despair and humiliation in that scenario.
However, it also came out that Ruby had been slacking off -- hadn't been food journaling, had been skipping workouts and had been eating out more instead of eating the diet meals.
Oh, yeah, the Sugar Queen can name that tune in two notes. "Screwin' up," it's called.
Every so often the Sugar Queen needs a gentle reminder (okay, more like a whack up side the head with Denise Austen and a truckload of lettuce) about accountability: the importance of painstakingly writing down every morsel that passes her lips, of moving her royal ass on a semi-regular basis a little farther than from the refrigerator to the couch and back, and of staying somewhere in the general neighborhood of "on plan."
And she needs to realize now and forever that she can't go back to her 272-pound lifestyle if she wants to have a 150-pound body.
Many a time has the Queen wanted to hurl the scale across the room into the throne when it gave her the results she'd earned, not the results she wanted.
Thankfully, that's not been recently.
But thanks for the reminder, Ruby.
If you want to be somebody else,
If you're tired of losing battles, baby, with yourself,
If you want to be somebody else,
Just change your mind.
("Change your mind" - Sister Hazel)
The Queen is...
Relishing the NSVs of wearing three new pair of slacks and a top that she bought last year and could not fit into before now, and being told often by her sweet, loving husband that she looks great.
© 2009 All Rights Reserved
The show ended with Ruby and her housemates destroying the defective scale with hammers and concrete blocks.
Oh, yeah. You go, girl. The Queen has to brace herself for trips to the doctor's office, knowing that she's going to weigh several pounds more on the doctor's scale than at home what with the added weight of clothing, shoes, food and drinks, jewelry...heavy mascara, air in her lungs, hairspray...
But 25-30 pounds more? Whew. She doesn't even want to contemplate her shock, rage, despair and humiliation in that scenario.
However, it also came out that Ruby had been slacking off -- hadn't been food journaling, had been skipping workouts and had been eating out more instead of eating the diet meals.
Oh, yeah, the Sugar Queen can name that tune in two notes. "Screwin' up," it's called.
Every so often the Sugar Queen needs a gentle reminder (okay, more like a whack up side the head with Denise Austen and a truckload of lettuce) about accountability: the importance of painstakingly writing down every morsel that passes her lips, of moving her royal ass on a semi-regular basis a little farther than from the refrigerator to the couch and back, and of staying somewhere in the general neighborhood of "on plan."
And she needs to realize now and forever that she can't go back to her 272-pound lifestyle if she wants to have a 150-pound body.
Many a time has the Queen wanted to hurl the scale across the room into the throne when it gave her the results she'd earned, not the results she wanted.
Thankfully, that's not been recently.
But thanks for the reminder, Ruby.
If you want to be somebody else,
If you're tired of losing battles, baby, with yourself,
If you want to be somebody else,
Just change your mind.
("Change your mind" - Sister Hazel)
The Queen is...
Relishing the NSVs of wearing three new pair of slacks and a top that she bought last year and could not fit into before now, and being told often by her sweet, loving husband that she looks great.
© 2009 All Rights Reserved
Missing: 1 chin; Seeking: 2 normal boobs
This just in: The Queen is down to a single chin! Hip hooray!
That embarrassing double chin that was wobbling like a turkey's wattle has disappeared. Gone! I look so much younger. Less tired and saggy.
There seems to be a little less junk in the trunk too, although it's hard to crane my neck around that far to get a good look. The husband has made several comments to that effect too, and he is a self-proclaimed "ass man," so he devotes a fair amount of time to observing and ... well, let's leave it at that.
Funny how I always lose weight off my ass first, so my paunchy gut looks all the paunchier until the weight begins to drop off up in front too. Still got that saggin' apron of tummy fat and loose skin that I have to move out of the way in order to shave the tops of my legs, though. And still have those underarm flaps, too, that make me look like Batwoman. Must start hitting the triceps machines at the gym.
Can't wait to reduce The Girls from the 40s to the high 30s. I miss having sexy 38-ish cleavage. Yes, I'll admit, I always loved to show off The Girls when we were younger and of normal weight. I miss my beautiful Girls.
When I'm fat, I feel like The Girls are flabby, ridiculously huge and just unsexy. Yuck. Look like somebody's big mama-cow. There is such a thing as too much, Dolly dear.
Case in point: With a blond wig, fake nails and the right tacky Dominatrix-cum-island-ho wardrobe, The Girls and I could be stunt triplets for Dog the Bounty Hunter's wife and her big, bobbin' unholstered buzooms.
The Girls are clamoring to go shopping for some sexy new bras and low-cut tops when they reduce to a manageable size--that is, a size commonly carried by Victoria's and other underwear merchants. Yesterday The Girls were quite proud to wear one of our prettier 42D bras that they hadn't been able to squeeze into for many months without embarrassing overflow.
Of course, after two major weight gains and losses The Girls are riven with stretch marks and are swinging in loose skin like they're in grocery sacks, so they'll never regain their former glory without surgical intervention.
But just having two reasonable sized breasts - instead of these two enormous shelves jutting out in front ahead of me everywhere I go - will be divine. I could live peacefully with the extra tummy skin/paunch (that only a tummy-tuck would rectify, and which I could never afford) hanging out on the porch below if I had attractive decolletage upstairs again.
Then it's adios, plain white grandma-bra boulder-holders with four or five tow hooks and "comfort straps."
A few evenings ago, I tried to break into a jog while walking my Yorkie because he was wanting so badly to run, but without an industrial-strength sports bra to constrain the wildly flapping and flailing boobage, it became clear after a few yards that running at this size was absolutely ridiculous ... and potentially dangerous to innocent bystanders (who just might piss themselves laughing, then slip and bust a hip).
And little Wilson was looking over his shoulder at me with a mixture of exhilaration (Yea! We're running!) and abject terror (Don't let those things fly off and hit me!).
Mrs. Dog the Bounty Hunter may break out in a jog and go bouncin' and jouncin' after those bad guys; me and The Girls, we'll be strollin' for now.
Listening to... "The Self Esteem Movement" (George Carlin), "Big booty" (Willie Nelson)
© 2009 All Rights Reserved
That embarrassing double chin that was wobbling like a turkey's wattle has disappeared. Gone! I look so much younger. Less tired and saggy.
There seems to be a little less junk in the trunk too, although it's hard to crane my neck around that far to get a good look. The husband has made several comments to that effect too, and he is a self-proclaimed "ass man," so he devotes a fair amount of time to observing and ... well, let's leave it at that.
Funny how I always lose weight off my ass first, so my paunchy gut looks all the paunchier until the weight begins to drop off up in front too. Still got that saggin' apron of tummy fat and loose skin that I have to move out of the way in order to shave the tops of my legs, though. And still have those underarm flaps, too, that make me look like Batwoman. Must start hitting the triceps machines at the gym.
Can't wait to reduce The Girls from the 40s to the high 30s. I miss having sexy 38-ish cleavage. Yes, I'll admit, I always loved to show off The Girls when we were younger and of normal weight. I miss my beautiful Girls.
When I'm fat, I feel like The Girls are flabby, ridiculously huge and just unsexy. Yuck. Look like somebody's big mama-cow. There is such a thing as too much, Dolly dear.
Case in point: With a blond wig, fake nails and the right tacky Dominatrix-cum-island-ho wardrobe, The Girls and I could be stunt triplets for Dog the Bounty Hunter's wife and her big, bobbin' unholstered buzooms.
The Girls are clamoring to go shopping for some sexy new bras and low-cut tops when they reduce to a manageable size--that is, a size commonly carried by Victoria's and other underwear merchants. Yesterday The Girls were quite proud to wear one of our prettier 42D bras that they hadn't been able to squeeze into for many months without embarrassing overflow.
Of course, after two major weight gains and losses The Girls are riven with stretch marks and are swinging in loose skin like they're in grocery sacks, so they'll never regain their former glory without surgical intervention.
But just having two reasonable sized breasts - instead of these two enormous shelves jutting out in front ahead of me everywhere I go - will be divine. I could live peacefully with the extra tummy skin/paunch (that only a tummy-tuck would rectify, and which I could never afford) hanging out on the porch below if I had attractive decolletage upstairs again.
Then it's adios, plain white grandma-bra boulder-holders with four or five tow hooks and "comfort straps."
A few evenings ago, I tried to break into a jog while walking my Yorkie because he was wanting so badly to run, but without an industrial-strength sports bra to constrain the wildly flapping and flailing boobage, it became clear after a few yards that running at this size was absolutely ridiculous ... and potentially dangerous to innocent bystanders (who just might piss themselves laughing, then slip and bust a hip).
And little Wilson was looking over his shoulder at me with a mixture of exhilaration (Yea! We're running!) and abject terror (Don't let those things fly off and hit me!).
Mrs. Dog the Bounty Hunter may break out in a jog and go bouncin' and jouncin' after those bad guys; me and The Girls, we'll be strollin' for now.
Listening to... "The Self Esteem Movement" (George Carlin), "Big booty" (Willie Nelson)
© 2009 All Rights Reserved
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