Hello, I'm the Sugar Queen, and I am an addict

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

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