Yesterday, EJ attended the butterfly-themed birthday of one of her favorite friends, "Nutmeg." Aside from the five-year old birthday girl's two-year old sister, EJ was the youngest one there, and while we weren't sure if we should stay or go when we first got there, she made it immediately clear (by running into the fun and not looking back) that she would be just fine for a "drop-off" with the 4-5 year old set.
I have a feeling that the older ones were telling some knock-knock jokes at the event, because this morning, EJ and I had this exchange, out of the blue:
EJ: Mom, I'm telling you a joke, okay?
Me: Okay!
EJ: Knock, knock---now you say, "Who's there?"
Me: Who's there?
EJ: Piggy.
Me: Piggy, who? (At this point she squeals with delight, because she realizes that I "get it"---I must have learned this knock-knock business, too, and she doesn't have to explain it.)
EJ: JOKE JOKE! Knock, knock!
Me: Who's there?
EJ: Orange.
Me: Orange, who?
EJ: JOKE JOKE!!! Knock, knock!
Me: Who's there?
EJ: Banana.
Me: Banana, who?
EJ: JOKE JOKE!!!!! Knock, knock!
Me: Who's there?
EJ: People.
Me. People, who?
EJ: JOKE JOKE!!!!!
Me: I love your jokes, kiddo, but you better go get ready if you are going to go on an adventure with Daddy today.
EJ: Okay. (trailing out of the room) Knock, knock! Knock, Knock! JOKE, JOKE!!!
I really can't do this rapid-fire exchange justice by writing it down, and like so many all-too-priceless child development moments, I was not armed and ready with my Flip camera to catch it on video. I hadn't even had my morning coffee yet, for goodness sake, and I was sitting in my jammies staring at my capstone data wondering where the day would take me (for those keeping track, my capstone, aka thesis, is due May 22nd, and my defense is May 27th---gulp.) Someday soon, I'm sure, someone will invent a tiny camera we all just wear around our necks, armed and ready for moments like these.
While she was telling her jokes, her entire body was laughing, giggling, and bouncing with delight. She could barely spit out the words without breaking into total glee, with every syllable mixed with chuckles and smiles. I defy anyone to find anything funnier than a three-year old cracking themselves up, except, maybe, a three-year old cracking themselves up by cracking her parents up, too.
Mike then took EJ on a daddy-daughter date so I could get some work done, but on her return, I was treated to round two of knock-knock joke fun. By then, I had figured out that the "orange you glad I wasn't a banana" joke must have been her original template, so when she launched in again, I thought I might model the punchline for her, to see if it jogged her memory.
EJ: Mommy, knock, knock!
Me: Who's there?
EJ: Orange!
Me: Orange, who?
EJ: KNOCK KNOCK!
Me: EJ, let me try one. Knock, knock!
EJ: Who's there?
Me: Orange!
EJ: Orange, who?
Me: Orange you glad I didn't say banana?
EJ: Mommy, that is SO FUNNY! I'm going to do it! Knock, knock!
Me: Who's there?
EJ: Piggy!
Me: Piggy, who?
EJ: Piggy you glad I didn't say lemon? Knock, knock!
Me: Who's there?
EJ: Orange!
Me: Orange, who?
EJ: Orange you glad I didn't say anything? (Throwing her hands in the air and screaming with laughs.)
I should have seen this coming, of course. A few days ago, while my mom was visiting, we were on our way to music class, and the car in front of us stopped in the middle of a crowded road. A few moments passed, then it pulled forward, at which point, I followed suit. All of the sudden, though, the confused driver threw her car into reverse, and we had to stop/swerve to avoid getting hit, or hitting the parked cars on both sides of the narrow road. I said something not-so-nice---I didn't swear, thankfully, but still, I wasn't very generous with my words. Upon yelling, "Come on, XYZ lady!" (insert colorful adjective), EJ started to laugh. I quickly said, "I'm sorry, kiddo, I shouldn't have said that. It wasn't nice, and it wasn't funny."
Her reply: "Well, it was a little funny, Mom."
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Equal Opportunity Holiday Eater
EJ goes to nursery school at a temple, and as such, is getting a wonderful knowledge of Jewish holidays and customs, as well as a weekly Shabbat service with the rabbi, complete with stories, songs and snacks (a.k.a., the perfect Friday activity for any three-year old).
I couldn't be more thrilled about this, because as my Jewish friends know, I love Jewish culture. When we lived out in DC, we very happily attended holidays hosted by our friends, Tasha and Aaron, and for gentiles, we sang those prayers with gusto (I'm proud to say I can break into Dayenu with the best of them!) We also belonged to a prayer group at our church that had a yearly Passover Seder, which, next to our group's Mardi Gras party, was one of the highlights of the year. This meant that, for at least four years, Mike and I celebrated TWO Seders and ONE Easter every spring. If Passover was good enough for Jesus, why would we pass on prayer, brisket, good wine, and excellent company?
When we moved to Chicago in 2004, our Passover attendance abruptly ended, and I was really sad about it. I love the holiday. Last year, though, my friend from grad school, Carolyn, invited several of us to her home to celebrate, and it was as wonderful as I remembered. She's not in Chicago at the present time---interestingly enough, she is in DC, so all our Passover hosts are in one place at the moment---but with EJ bringing home drawings of the Seder plate, and asking questions like "when are we having our Seder?" I'm still feeling the spirit.
Today she composed this story at school, a little holiday post from EJ, with a shout-out to her favorite babysitter, Kate:
On Passover, I eat special food like apples, matzah brownies, carrots, Kate broccoli, and Kate comes! I like her, she's my best babysitter who makes me mac and cheese.
On Easter, I collect eggs from the Easter bunny. He hops. Hop hop hop.
By, EJ
"Kate broccoli," for those not in-the-know, is just regular ol'steamed broccoli. A few months ago, out of the blue, EJ decided she didn't like all green vegetables. It happened practically overnight. We would make her favorites, and she would barely touch them. If she did eat them, she would declare, "Hey, I like these!" but sadly, wouldn't touch them the next time they were served. All this changed one night, though, when I left some steamed broccoli for Kate to make while Mike and I went on date. Apparently, when broccoli is made by Kate, it is magically delicious, because she ate it all up, and asked for more "Kate broccoli" the next day. I grabbed on to this idea, and started regularly serving "Kate beans," and "Kate peas," too---whatever works! Mike almost sabotaged this newfound eating without realizing---one evening, just was we were about to serve dinner, EJ walked in as Mike was pouring steamed broccoli into a bowl. She asked, "Is that Kate broccoli, Daddy?" and because he didn't know the story (shame on me), he said, "No, Honey! Mommy just made this!" Crying and whining ensued, something like. "But...but...but I don't want to eat MOMMY BROCCOLI, I only want KATE BROCCOLI." At this point, I jumped in and yelled, "Oh, It's fresh Kate broccoli, EJ! Daddy just didn't know." Once again, all was right with the world.
As for her hopes for a Passover meal, I have a brisket cooking in the oven right now, and I can make some nice charoset in a flash. It's no Seder, but it will have to do. Mac and cheese isn't very Passover-friendly, but I suppose exceptions can be made for a Catholic three-year old.
As for the Easter eggs, EJ was lucky enough to go to our neighbor's house last Sunday for an early Easter egg hunt. Jill, our neighbor's daughter and EJ's friend, had her grandparents visiting for the weekend, so the bunny made a special trip so all the grown-ups could enjoy the fun. As much as I'd like to say that I have effectively talked to her about the religious importance of Easter, there is simply no competing with finding matchbox cars in pretty plastic eggs and playing with friends when it comes to memory-making. Afterward, we made deviled eggs with some of her dyed finds (most of which the kids had cracked during the hunt and needed to be eaten right away), and she declared, "I JUST LOVE THESE---PLEASE MAKE ME MORE!"
Now, if I can just work "Kate broccoli" into deviled eggs...I'm sure that's in my "veggie-hiding" mommy cookbook, somewhere.
I couldn't be more thrilled about this, because as my Jewish friends know, I love Jewish culture. When we lived out in DC, we very happily attended holidays hosted by our friends, Tasha and Aaron, and for gentiles, we sang those prayers with gusto (I'm proud to say I can break into Dayenu with the best of them!) We also belonged to a prayer group at our church that had a yearly Passover Seder, which, next to our group's Mardi Gras party, was one of the highlights of the year. This meant that, for at least four years, Mike and I celebrated TWO Seders and ONE Easter every spring. If Passover was good enough for Jesus, why would we pass on prayer, brisket, good wine, and excellent company?
When we moved to Chicago in 2004, our Passover attendance abruptly ended, and I was really sad about it. I love the holiday. Last year, though, my friend from grad school, Carolyn, invited several of us to her home to celebrate, and it was as wonderful as I remembered. She's not in Chicago at the present time---interestingly enough, she is in DC, so all our Passover hosts are in one place at the moment---but with EJ bringing home drawings of the Seder plate, and asking questions like "when are we having our Seder?" I'm still feeling the spirit.
Today she composed this story at school, a little holiday post from EJ, with a shout-out to her favorite babysitter, Kate:
On Passover, I eat special food like apples, matzah brownies, carrots, Kate broccoli, and Kate comes! I like her, she's my best babysitter who makes me mac and cheese.
On Easter, I collect eggs from the Easter bunny. He hops. Hop hop hop.
By, EJ
"Kate broccoli," for those not in-the-know, is just regular ol'steamed broccoli. A few months ago, out of the blue, EJ decided she didn't like all green vegetables. It happened practically overnight. We would make her favorites, and she would barely touch them. If she did eat them, she would declare, "Hey, I like these!" but sadly, wouldn't touch them the next time they were served. All this changed one night, though, when I left some steamed broccoli for Kate to make while Mike and I went on date. Apparently, when broccoli is made by Kate, it is magically delicious, because she ate it all up, and asked for more "Kate broccoli" the next day. I grabbed on to this idea, and started regularly serving "Kate beans," and "Kate peas," too---whatever works! Mike almost sabotaged this newfound eating without realizing---one evening, just was we were about to serve dinner, EJ walked in as Mike was pouring steamed broccoli into a bowl. She asked, "Is that Kate broccoli, Daddy?" and because he didn't know the story (shame on me), he said, "No, Honey! Mommy just made this!" Crying and whining ensued, something like. "But...but...but I don't want to eat MOMMY BROCCOLI, I only want KATE BROCCOLI." At this point, I jumped in and yelled, "Oh, It's fresh Kate broccoli, EJ! Daddy just didn't know." Once again, all was right with the world.
As for her hopes for a Passover meal, I have a brisket cooking in the oven right now, and I can make some nice charoset in a flash. It's no Seder, but it will have to do. Mac and cheese isn't very Passover-friendly, but I suppose exceptions can be made for a Catholic three-year old.
As for the Easter eggs, EJ was lucky enough to go to our neighbor's house last Sunday for an early Easter egg hunt. Jill, our neighbor's daughter and EJ's friend, had her grandparents visiting for the weekend, so the bunny made a special trip so all the grown-ups could enjoy the fun. As much as I'd like to say that I have effectively talked to her about the religious importance of Easter, there is simply no competing with finding matchbox cars in pretty plastic eggs and playing with friends when it comes to memory-making. Afterward, we made deviled eggs with some of her dyed finds (most of which the kids had cracked during the hunt and needed to be eaten right away), and she declared, "I JUST LOVE THESE---PLEASE MAKE ME MORE!"
Now, if I can just work "Kate broccoli" into deviled eggs...I'm sure that's in my "veggie-hiding" mommy cookbook, somewhere.
Monday, April 06, 2009
Hey, Sista, Go, Sista
Do you have that song in your head now? You can thank me later.
You know who else should be thanking me? My brothers. That's right---a recent study now suggests that individuals with sisters "are happier, more optimistic, less stressed, and better at coping with life's problems."
Uh, huh. Just as I suspected.
Feel free to call, email, or send cards my way, guys. YOU ARE WELCOME.
You know who else should be thanking me? My brothers. That's right---a recent study now suggests that individuals with sisters "are happier, more optimistic, less stressed, and better at coping with life's problems."
Uh, huh. Just as I suspected.
Feel free to call, email, or send cards my way, guys. YOU ARE WELCOME.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Handbasket Ready
I live in a cluttered house. A messy house. A "bursting at capacity with stuff that has no place to be put away because we just don't have a place, we are maxed out, at capacity, and ready for a giant purge of old things" house. According to Peter Walsh, professional organizer and current decluttering guru darling of Oprah, keeping a cluttered home and an overweight body often go hand-in-hand (oh, Oprah, what don't you know about me?). I'm guessing that also attempting to be a good wife, raise a three-year old, finish graduate school, work-part time, support a husband's grad school completion, and be a kind daughter/sister/niece/cousin/neighbor/friend could contribute to the high level of "scattery brain" that makes finding places for random things that have no place that much harder. That's just a guess, though.
This week was the topper. I have succumbed to the fact that I have toys and knick-knacks in every room in my house, including the bathroom, my bedroom, our office, etc. When I'm feeling particularly motivated, I try to at least arrange these pits of clutter into neat piles---sure they shouldn't be where they are, but at least they are neatly stacked. I've also become more and more accustomed to falling behind in laundry duty, and since our hamper is in our main bathroom, I know that when I'm tripping on boxer shorts on my way to wash my face, I have to drop everything and try to beat back the piles of dirty clothes.
Friends, if you are wondering why you haven't been invited for some impromptu playdates or dinners lately, I think the boxer shorts say it all.
Yes, this bothers me (especially feeling like I can't invite people over without notice), and no, it isn't always fun dealing with the clutter. Truthfully, though, in the short-term, it is survivable, and it will most certainly change in time. I simply cannot devote my extra time right now to boxing up old toys, clothes, etc., to make room for the stuff we actually need easily accessible, which means that the jumble of random stuff everywhere will continue for a bit (at least as long as we own our kid, who finds things that I have packed away routinely and brings them back into the mix.) When it gets overwhelming and I need a boast, I go through one small area, sort out stuff I don't need, post those things on Freecycle, then get that happy natural high when someone comes to my building, climbs the three flights of stairs to our door, and picks the stuff up, usually with a giant smile on his or her face.
This week, though, I made a discovery that stunned me. While roasting a chicken for dinner on Friday night, I reached up to a very high shelf inside one of our kitchen cabinets to retrieve a ramekin that I was planning to use to soften a few tablespoons of butter. It was a real stretch---at just over five foot, three inches, I can't access our top shelves very easily. I often say a little prayer as I reach for our tower of ramekins on this shelf, hoping they don't all topple over and shatter on the kitchen counter in front of me. The smart thing to do would be to pull out our kitchen step-stool to bring them down without peril, but because I'm just tall enough, I rarely make that effort. On Friday, though, I was in luck---there was only one ramekin left, which meant a counter full of shattered white porcelain was probably avoidable.
Oh, I avoided that. What I did not avoid, however, was the retrieval of a toddler-sized sock that had been stuffed into this ramekin. That's right, a sock. Somehow, a clean dish was stuffed with a children's sock, then placed on a high shelf. I have no idea how long it was there, but it could have been awhile, especially since this ramekin was at the bottom of the pile.
That was too much. When the laundry starts ending up with the dishes, we have reached full-tilt. The house is officially heading to hell in a handbasket, as the phrase goes. All aboard! Ramekins, cereal bowls, and tumblers will be available to pack all of your clothing---please enjoy your ride.
At least it will be warmer.
This week was the topper. I have succumbed to the fact that I have toys and knick-knacks in every room in my house, including the bathroom, my bedroom, our office, etc. When I'm feeling particularly motivated, I try to at least arrange these pits of clutter into neat piles---sure they shouldn't be where they are, but at least they are neatly stacked. I've also become more and more accustomed to falling behind in laundry duty, and since our hamper is in our main bathroom, I know that when I'm tripping on boxer shorts on my way to wash my face, I have to drop everything and try to beat back the piles of dirty clothes.
Friends, if you are wondering why you haven't been invited for some impromptu playdates or dinners lately, I think the boxer shorts say it all.
Yes, this bothers me (especially feeling like I can't invite people over without notice), and no, it isn't always fun dealing with the clutter. Truthfully, though, in the short-term, it is survivable, and it will most certainly change in time. I simply cannot devote my extra time right now to boxing up old toys, clothes, etc., to make room for the stuff we actually need easily accessible, which means that the jumble of random stuff everywhere will continue for a bit (at least as long as we own our kid, who finds things that I have packed away routinely and brings them back into the mix.) When it gets overwhelming and I need a boast, I go through one small area, sort out stuff I don't need, post those things on Freecycle, then get that happy natural high when someone comes to my building, climbs the three flights of stairs to our door, and picks the stuff up, usually with a giant smile on his or her face.
This week, though, I made a discovery that stunned me. While roasting a chicken for dinner on Friday night, I reached up to a very high shelf inside one of our kitchen cabinets to retrieve a ramekin that I was planning to use to soften a few tablespoons of butter. It was a real stretch---at just over five foot, three inches, I can't access our top shelves very easily. I often say a little prayer as I reach for our tower of ramekins on this shelf, hoping they don't all topple over and shatter on the kitchen counter in front of me. The smart thing to do would be to pull out our kitchen step-stool to bring them down without peril, but because I'm just tall enough, I rarely make that effort. On Friday, though, I was in luck---there was only one ramekin left, which meant a counter full of shattered white porcelain was probably avoidable.
Oh, I avoided that. What I did not avoid, however, was the retrieval of a toddler-sized sock that had been stuffed into this ramekin. That's right, a sock. Somehow, a clean dish was stuffed with a children's sock, then placed on a high shelf. I have no idea how long it was there, but it could have been awhile, especially since this ramekin was at the bottom of the pile.
That was too much. When the laundry starts ending up with the dishes, we have reached full-tilt. The house is officially heading to hell in a handbasket, as the phrase goes. All aboard! Ramekins, cereal bowls, and tumblers will be available to pack all of your clothing---please enjoy your ride.
At least it will be warmer.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Gratitude
When I hit "publish" on my last blog post, I took a big gulp. It was scary to tell the truth like that, especially in such a public way. I knew, though, that I was in a unique position to describe the obesity struggle, and that it was important for me to tell the truth. More critical though, at least in the short term, was that I needed to get that anger and sadness out. In the equation that weighs the fear I have of exposure versus the fear I have of keeping all of this in and not getting the help and support that I need, the latter won out.
And support is what I have gotten, in ways I could not even imagine. Your prayers, blog comments, emails, instant messages, texts, facebook notes, phone calls, and even a lunch date today have overwhelmed me. I have been brought to tears, I have laughed, and I have felt connected to innate human goodness in a way that I have not in a long time.
Some friends shared how hard their own struggle with obesity has been, and how my experience was not unique---they, too, have turned to the medical establishment, hat in hand, asking for help, and have not gotten the answers they were seeking. Others let me know about similar struggles---with eating disorders, chronic illnesses, and addictions. I was humbled as I read about their struggles, knowing that even though my own personal disease is easy to spot, I cannot forget that all around me, people have their own battles. Others let me know that it is this sort of struggle to end suffering---the kind of suffering that all of us must bear in some form or another but that manifests in different ways for each individual---that is what makes us uniquely human, and uniquely able to empathize and love each other. Friends that know of and share my faith reminded me that God is with me in my suffering, and that there is a plan and purpose for my life.
There were also those who told me what it feels like to be a family member or friend of someone struggling with obesity. While I know that I can't conquer this disease for anyone else but myself, knowing what the effects of an obese parent or an obese spouse or an obese friend can be only convicts me to stay in the fight longer, and to do whatever it takes to get my hope back. I was so grateful for their candor.
Then there were the strokes. I certainly hope that my post did not read as a solicitation for compliments, but I am not going to lie---it felt great to know that others recognize good character and talents in me. You are right, friends---I'm pretty hard on myself to begin with, and when my "encroaching fat thoughts" kick in, it can be even harder to see the good. No, I wasn't asking for those kind words, but I will save them and wrap myself up in them and write them out in my journal when I need a lift.
Finally, there was tactical help offered. Names of doctors. Ideas for residential treatment possibilities. Articles and books shared. Offers of phone and email support. This list goes on and on.
In my research on behavior change, one crucial factor for success comes up again and again---group support. This is the genius behind a program like Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), where addicts are able to provide each other with wisdom, guidance, accountability, and emotional support. Relapse, a part of any addictive disease, is more likely to be nipped in the bud with people around to catch the fall. As I said in my last post, I usually feel lonely in my disease, lonely with food addiction. That wasn't true today, though. I felt that support coming in ways I never imagined, and it is giving me the courage to look for more.
As my friend, Carrie, so eloquently stated in her comment to my post, "why is it when I've sent [a loved one] off to the doctor to talk about his weight problem, he gets the, 'well, eat less, exercise more' and a shrug? If he was a heroin addict, the doctor wouldn't have dismissed him with a 'well, take less drugs' shrug." I have thought about that a lot, and talked it over with a friend today at our lunch date. If I were a drug addict, and I turned a doctor and said, "I think I have a life-threatening drug addiction, and I am powerless to it," if he or she was worth the physician's fee, I would get a "you've made the first of twelve steps" message, and could leave the office with a variety of resources available to me (inpatient, outpatient, and clinical) to begin my journey to recovery. For goodness sake, loved ones stage interventions every day to help addicted individuals face this first step, and get to the professional help they need to be well.
Yesterday, I got angry and sad because, by all accounts, I had this conversation with my doctor, and the response I got was not what I needed. In fact, what I got was a piling on---a sense that, not only was I powerless to this disease, but that the medical establishment is, too.
What I didn't know then, but do know now, is that the response from the doctor would be far outweighed in importance to the incredibly kind and supportive response I received from loved ones, friends, and even casual readers of this blog. I say, with profound gratitude, that the gift I received from this experience far outweighs my frustration, and has helped me regroup and start looking for bariatric specialists (not surgeons, but specialists), holistic medicine programs, and any other resource I can get my hands on to pull myself out of this place. Better yet, I was reminded that I have a group of people surrounding me that know I need to climb out, and are willing to help me hold the rope ladder.
I have often joked, when asked what my ideal job would be, that I would make a great professional cocktail party guest, should that career open up. I like to meet and mingle, to bring groups of people together, and to tell funny stories that (hopefully) put people at ease. My humor is generally self-depricating, something that I think may be common among heavy people, and coupled with my bubbly personality (first described as such on elementary-school report cards), I think that I can make people feel good about themselves.
I'm proud of being that person, but it comes at a cost, too. If I am the entertainment---the smiling support, the funny friend, the lady that makes you feel great about yourself---what happens when I don't feel happy? When I tell the truth, and let people know how really terrible it feels inside this body, especially when I can't stop feeling hungry and can't do the things I know I need to do to heal myself?
What a relief to know that I can tell the truth. I'll still be a great cocktail guest, I promise---I like that lady, a lot---but don't be surprised if more updates on my fledgling recovery make their way to this blog. Telling the truth, even the terrible truth, feels much more satisfying than telling a good story.
Many thanks.
And support is what I have gotten, in ways I could not even imagine. Your prayers, blog comments, emails, instant messages, texts, facebook notes, phone calls, and even a lunch date today have overwhelmed me. I have been brought to tears, I have laughed, and I have felt connected to innate human goodness in a way that I have not in a long time.
Some friends shared how hard their own struggle with obesity has been, and how my experience was not unique---they, too, have turned to the medical establishment, hat in hand, asking for help, and have not gotten the answers they were seeking. Others let me know about similar struggles---with eating disorders, chronic illnesses, and addictions. I was humbled as I read about their struggles, knowing that even though my own personal disease is easy to spot, I cannot forget that all around me, people have their own battles. Others let me know that it is this sort of struggle to end suffering---the kind of suffering that all of us must bear in some form or another but that manifests in different ways for each individual---that is what makes us uniquely human, and uniquely able to empathize and love each other. Friends that know of and share my faith reminded me that God is with me in my suffering, and that there is a plan and purpose for my life.
There were also those who told me what it feels like to be a family member or friend of someone struggling with obesity. While I know that I can't conquer this disease for anyone else but myself, knowing what the effects of an obese parent or an obese spouse or an obese friend can be only convicts me to stay in the fight longer, and to do whatever it takes to get my hope back. I was so grateful for their candor.
Then there were the strokes. I certainly hope that my post did not read as a solicitation for compliments, but I am not going to lie---it felt great to know that others recognize good character and talents in me. You are right, friends---I'm pretty hard on myself to begin with, and when my "encroaching fat thoughts" kick in, it can be even harder to see the good. No, I wasn't asking for those kind words, but I will save them and wrap myself up in them and write them out in my journal when I need a lift.
Finally, there was tactical help offered. Names of doctors. Ideas for residential treatment possibilities. Articles and books shared. Offers of phone and email support. This list goes on and on.
In my research on behavior change, one crucial factor for success comes up again and again---group support. This is the genius behind a program like Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), where addicts are able to provide each other with wisdom, guidance, accountability, and emotional support. Relapse, a part of any addictive disease, is more likely to be nipped in the bud with people around to catch the fall. As I said in my last post, I usually feel lonely in my disease, lonely with food addiction. That wasn't true today, though. I felt that support coming in ways I never imagined, and it is giving me the courage to look for more.
As my friend, Carrie, so eloquently stated in her comment to my post, "why is it when I've sent [a loved one] off to the doctor to talk about his weight problem, he gets the, 'well, eat less, exercise more' and a shrug? If he was a heroin addict, the doctor wouldn't have dismissed him with a 'well, take less drugs' shrug." I have thought about that a lot, and talked it over with a friend today at our lunch date. If I were a drug addict, and I turned a doctor and said, "I think I have a life-threatening drug addiction, and I am powerless to it," if he or she was worth the physician's fee, I would get a "you've made the first of twelve steps" message, and could leave the office with a variety of resources available to me (inpatient, outpatient, and clinical) to begin my journey to recovery. For goodness sake, loved ones stage interventions every day to help addicted individuals face this first step, and get to the professional help they need to be well.
Yesterday, I got angry and sad because, by all accounts, I had this conversation with my doctor, and the response I got was not what I needed. In fact, what I got was a piling on---a sense that, not only was I powerless to this disease, but that the medical establishment is, too.
What I didn't know then, but do know now, is that the response from the doctor would be far outweighed in importance to the incredibly kind and supportive response I received from loved ones, friends, and even casual readers of this blog. I say, with profound gratitude, that the gift I received from this experience far outweighs my frustration, and has helped me regroup and start looking for bariatric specialists (not surgeons, but specialists), holistic medicine programs, and any other resource I can get my hands on to pull myself out of this place. Better yet, I was reminded that I have a group of people surrounding me that know I need to climb out, and are willing to help me hold the rope ladder.
I have often joked, when asked what my ideal job would be, that I would make a great professional cocktail party guest, should that career open up. I like to meet and mingle, to bring groups of people together, and to tell funny stories that (hopefully) put people at ease. My humor is generally self-depricating, something that I think may be common among heavy people, and coupled with my bubbly personality (first described as such on elementary-school report cards), I think that I can make people feel good about themselves.
I'm proud of being that person, but it comes at a cost, too. If I am the entertainment---the smiling support, the funny friend, the lady that makes you feel great about yourself---what happens when I don't feel happy? When I tell the truth, and let people know how really terrible it feels inside this body, especially when I can't stop feeling hungry and can't do the things I know I need to do to heal myself?
What a relief to know that I can tell the truth. I'll still be a great cocktail guest, I promise---I like that lady, a lot---but don't be surprised if more updates on my fledgling recovery make their way to this blog. Telling the truth, even the terrible truth, feels much more satisfying than telling a good story.
Many thanks.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
