Mom and me

I published this on October 12, 2007. My parents had come back to California after living in from Moss Point, Mississippi for only two years. They had to come back; my mom was extremely ill, and my dad was in denial about the extent of her illness. Somehow, my sister and daughter convinced both of them to come back out West so we could keep an eye on both of them. People in Moss Point were knocking on my parents' door and asking for money. Not borrow, or work for it. Just ask, or rather demand. Hurricane Katrina made desperation a permanent home for some folks. We had to get my parents out of there.

The problem was, Mom and Dad had sold the house our family had lived in since 1973, and they didn't have anywhere to live right away. So they moved in with me. At the time, I was living in a two bedroom, one bath duplex. It definitely wasn't big enough, but it was all we could do for them at the time. Of course, a lot of old, unresolved issues came up for me. I was struggling mightily with my food addiction, and I had re-gained 85 pounds. And, I didn't know how to deal with my parents without resorting to what I had always done--put a lot of food in my mouth to make me numb. It worked, of course. It always did. The problem was, the numbing effect always wore off, and I had to eat more and more to REMAIN numb.

This post is a recounting of one interaction that was indicative of the type of relationship I had with my mother. She's gone now, and although that makes me sad, I realize now that I had a part in the emotional roller coaster that was typical of our conversations. Mom was not "the bad cop" trying to manipulate my emotions all the time. She was just doing her, being who she was. And I was stuck in being a five year old kid who didn't know how to cope with her mother as an adult. So I kept eating. It's sad, really sad. Luckily, she got to see me losing weight and getting recovery before she died. Our communication did improve because I became a lot less fearful and quietly angry about the past. For that, I am humbled, grateful and relieved that God for granted that grace to my mother and me.

In part, we're afraid to face the fact that daughters with eating disorders are carrying their mother's disowned pain and anger. Mothers have a powerful effect on their daughters' lives because girls watch their moms' every move. No matter how much mother's try to cover up their pain, they still serve as models for womanhood, and their daughters have a keen and vigilant eye. Too often the mother-daughter wound is based on unconscious enmeshment, a blending of boundaries, a failure to see where you begin and your mother ends. This failure creates self-destructive behavior that is played out on the plate.
Preface to Women and Food Obsession: Fat and Furious by Judi Hollis, Ph.D.

I was getting ready to leave for work one morning when my mother lifted her head off her pillow and pushed herself up from the pull-out bed in my living room where she spends most of her time when she isn't in the hospital. She looked at me with her eyes shining with an inexplicable mixture of pride and pleasure that seemed incongruous with the fact that she is very ill and never going to get better. Like mother, like daughter. Always unbelievable contradictions.

"Angie, come here a moment, honey."

My stomach lurched because I knew she was going to tell me something that I didn't really want to hear, especially since I was trying to get out of the door to catch a bus. But I'm an obedient daughter. I went over to her bedside and held her hand. She grasped my hand with both of hers, looked up at me and cleared her throat.

"Did you know that I now weigh 122 pounds? I'm the same weight that I was back in high school!"

Whoa...is she kidding? I stared at her. My mother is pretty much a collection of bones with loose skin hanging off them. Her eyes have shrunk back into her head, and they have an out-of-focus look to them. The doctor's had to cut off her right leg because she has diabetes and developed an infection there. There's a stint in her heart, the latest in the long line of procedures she's had since her eight bypass surgeries and a debilitating stroke back in the early 90s. She cannot feed, bathe, or dress herself. And she is incontinent. Yet, she is thrilled that she back down to the weight that she carried while she was still a teenager. But at what cost to your health, Mom? I wanted to ask her that, but I couldn't. The mother-daughter enmeshment rules forbids that level of honesty, especially about weight. I was horrified, though. Does she actually believe that it's good to lose 150 pounds through chronic illness? I shuddered, told my mother to have a good day, and hurried off to work. Thank God for the Learning Resource Center.

Mothers suffer a great unhealed woundedness because the myths surrounding being a wife and mother promised them things that didn't come true. And then they've had to stand by and watch their hopes for their own daughters end in glaring disappointment.

My mother took me to see a doctor about my weight issues when were living in the Philippine Islands. She never said this out loud, but I believe she was embarrassed that I weighed 135 pounds, which would be fine if I was a 25 year old woman. But I was nine years old, and I stood five feet four inches at the time. I was upset that she would humiliate me by sending me to see a military doctor about my weight Not only that, I was suspicious of her motives. I had come to believe that my mother's actions concerning my body had more to do with her than me. Of course, I couldn't say that. I would have been slapped for "getting smart" with her.

The doctor, an Air Force captain, handed me a ditto sheet that had a copy of the weight loss diet that was given to overweight draftees during the Vietnam War. I felt a lump gather in my throat as I stared at it. One hard-boiled egg. One slice of dry toast. Eight ounces of grapefruit juice. Tea or coffee, no milk or sugar. Lunch was a tomato slice with a scoop of cottage cheese. Dinner was a broiled hamburger patty, three ounces, with carrot sticks. I would to lose weight on that diet, that was certain. I could almost hear Mom's brain calculating how she would make me stick to the diet. My plan, however, was to undermine my mother's well-meaning weight loss goals for me, and failing that, commit hari-kari.

"Don't worry, Doctor, I'll make sure she follows this diet," Mom assured the captain.

I went from despair to rage in a nanosecond. I'm not doing this. She can forget that. My mother followed me like a bloodhound whenever I walked into the kitchen. There was no escaping her. She was more upset by my weight gain than I was, and she wasn't the one being called "Aunt Jemima" at school.

We've been doing this dance nearly all of my life. Even now, she seems to be hoping to "inspire" me to lose more weight through her "example". When I was in high school, she told me that I would never get a boy interested in me unless I took off the pounds, and bought me a membership in Weight Watchers to "help me out". She helped me to be offended by her concern. I would walk out of the door, climb into my 1970 Ambassador and take off for Wendy's with my friends. What's a boyfriend compared to a double cheeseburger, large fries and a large chocolate "Thick and Frosty?

"You're starting to look good, Angie," she told me a few days ago. "Just keep up your diet, honey. Don't worry. You'll get there."

I winced and escaped into the safety of my bedroom before I could say something to my very sick mother that I would later regret. I turned on my computer and started playing Funkadelic. Best cure for the mommy blues. Don't get me wrong; I don't blame my mother for being concerned about my health, if that's what it really is. But it's never been that simple. I'm a reflection of HER, and as she has told me over and over again, I represent her whenever I'm out in public. If I'm fat, she's failed in her duty as a mother. It doesn't matter that I'm now nearly 50 years old. I'm still her daughter.

Unresolved issues in the mother-daughter relationship does not mean that your mother is bad, or that you are bad. It means that the innate dynamics of this relationship create profound tension around eating. The only way to address disordered eating is to fearlessly examine your relationship with your mother.

It ain't easy, Dr. Hollis. But I'm doing it. One day at a time.

Heart Attack Grill

I came across this article while "digging" around on digg.com . It was the "Quadruple Bypass Burgers" that caught my eye, and then it started...euphoric recall. It is the downfall of many an addict, but for a food addict, the memory of orgasmic meals of the past can bring on a longing that can be overwhelmingly masochist, yet so seductive. Where is the best burger in Sacramento? Jim Denny's, downtown on 12th Street...yes, I remember.... (Angela slaps herself.) O.K., I'm over it!

But then I saw what else they sell--cigarettes (They allow people to light up while others are trying to enjoy their meals?); French fries cooked in lard and little girlies in you-know-this-is-only-a-fantasy nurse suits? I hope they are trained in CPR because the patrons will need after the food and the cigarettes! Instant death by burger and fries!

I guess I really am recovering. This article has definitely become grossly disgusting to me. But it's interesting to realize that once upon a time, the food would have appealed to me. Now all I can do shudder. I'm only including one of the nursey-girly pictures. You'll have to dig through digg.com to see the rest.

The World’s Greatest Restaurant

Forget about places like The French Laundry and Jean Georges, Chandler, Arizona’s Heart Attack Grill may be the best eatery in the U.S.

Tired of all the attention being paid to nutritional information and trans fats nowadays? Then you need to head out to the Heart Attack Grill in Chandler, Arizona. This hospital-themed burger joint has a menu featuring French fries cooked in pure lard, cigarettes and Quadruple Bypass Burgers, which packs over two pounds of meat and 8,000 calories. If you can finish one of these gargantuan sandwiches, you get escorted back to your car in a wheelchair by one of the Grill’s sexy nurses. That’s right. In place of traditional waitresses, the restaurant employs hot women in naughty nurse outfits. Check out the Heart Attack Grill’s Website for more info and check out some pics below.

This is why I'm switching to decaf....

I'm not only a food addict, but a serious coffee addict, too. During the worst of my eating days, I drank three pots of either expresso or French roast A DAY! I still had problems staying awake. The reason--well, I was consuming a whole lot of flour products like bagels, croissants, French bread (in addition to the more healthy but equally addicting whole grain bread), pasta high fat cheese, butter, cream cheese (flour products paired with high fat products was heaven to me), candy, cakes, cookies, ice cream--get the picture?

My blood sugar was jettisoned to the stratosphere, then I crashed back down into the hell called Earth and reality. This usually took about a half hour to an hour after eating/binging. Then I was sleepy, of course. Hence, the enormous amounts of coffee. I was desperately trying to stay vertical. And it usually didn't work until I actually got into bed. THEN the caffeine took effect. It's a miserable way to live.I no longer eat any of that stuff, so there's no need to consume the coffee. Now it's just the withdrawal. Oh, the headaches and sleepiness are maddening! But now my blood sugar (it's a miracle I never developed diabetes) can behave nicely. I try to remember that whenever my head hits my computer keyboard.

read more | digg story

5 Things You Think Will Make You Happy (But Won't)

If 80s movies taught us anything, it's that at some point you're going to run into a mysterious relic that lets you switch bodies with other people.Would you use it? Would you choose to switch lives with, say, Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie or Dale DeBone? Most people would.

read more | digg story

The PC thing to say would be (of course) "No, I don't want any of those things. I want world peace and goodwill toward all men (and women). Money doesn't make you happy, it certainly doesn't buy you love; power corrupts; beauty is only skin deep; and geniuses are too weird to tolerate."

And if you really believe that, you are one of the ascended masters of the spiritual realm sent here to demonstrate to the rest of us superficial humans how to tread the narrow path to bliss. Come on now. Kill your denial.

I'm willing to admit that I have felt that money and beauty (more specifically, a beautiful body, muscular and curvy like Tina Turner back in the "What's Love Got to Do With It?" days), would make me extremely happy. And I wasted a lot of time in my life believing that. Well, I can use more money (can't everyone), but I would be considered very rich if I lived in Nigeria, or the Philippines, or Brazil. That's little solace when my light bill is now due, but it is a different way of viewing life on earth.

And about having a Tina Turner circa 1980s body--even Tina doesn't have that body anymore. That was over twenty years ago! Besides, I have gained and lost so much weight over the years that I have folds on top of folds of hanging skin. Just call me "Baggy Saggy Baby". And stretch marks? Five generations of 'em. Only extensive plastic and reconstructive surgery would give me that lean Tina look. And even if I got it, then what? According to the cracked.com article, I would still find no solace in life. I might as well enjoy my every-widening circle of friends, practice altruism, and remain faithful to the tenets of the Baha'i Faith because that is what will truly make me happy. I can live with that.

Getting Through the Tests

(Angela's note: This was published on September 27, 2007, almost one month to the day that I entered the program of recovery from food addiction that I'm involved in now. I had only a surface understanding of 12 step recovery, and even less of an understanding of the Baha'i Faith. What I have now is remarkably different, the least of which has been a 100 pound weight loss. I've lost a ton of weight that I've been carrying around in my head for years. I'm so grateful for that.)

Lack of power, that was our dilemma. We had to find a power by which we could live, and it had to be A POWER GREATER THAN OURSELVES. Obviously. But how and where were we to find this to find this Power?
From chapter 4 "We Agnostics", Alcoholics Anonymous, the "AA Big Book"

Thou hast written concerning the tests that have come upon thee. To the sincere ones, tests are as a gift from God, the Exalted, for a heroic person hasteneth, with the utmost joy and gladness, to the tests of a violent battlefield, but the coward is afraid and trembles and utters moaning and lamentation. Likewise, an expert student prepareth and memorizeth his lessons and exercises with the utmost effort, and in the day of examination he appeareth with infinite joy before the master. Likewise, the pure gold shineth radiantly in the fire of test. Consequently, it is made clear that for holy souls, trials are as the gift of God, the Exalted; but for weak souls they are an unexpected calamity. This test is just as thou hast written: it removeth the rust of egotism from the mirror of the heart until the Sun of Truth may shine therein. For, no veil is greater than egotism and no matter 372 how thin that covering may be, yet it will finally veil man entirely and prevent him from receiving a portion from the eternal bounty.

(Abdu'l-Baha, Baha'i World Faith - Abdu'l-Baha Section, p. 371)

The first requirement is that we be convinced that any life run on self-will can hardly be a success. On that basis we are almost always in collision with something or somebody, even though our motives are good. Most people try to live by self-propulsion. Each person is like an actor who wants to run the whole show; is forever trying to arrange the lights, the ballet, the scenery and the rest of the players in his own way. If his arrangements would only stay put, if only people would do as he wished, the show would be great. Everybody, including himself, would be pleased. Life would be wonderful. In trying to make these arrangements our actor may sometimes be quite virtuous. He may be kind, considerate, patient, generous; even modest and self-sacrificing. On the other hand, he may be mean, egotistical, selfish and dishonest. But, as with most humans, he is more likely to have varied traits.

What usually happens? The show doesn't come off very well. He begins to think life doesn't treat him right. He decides to exert himself more. He becomes, on the next occasion, still more demanding or gracious, as the case may be. Still the play does not suit him. Admitting he may be somewhat at fault, he is sure that other people are more to blame. He becomes angry, indignant, self-pitying. What is his basic trouble? Is he not really a self-seeker even when trying to be kind? Is he not a victim of the delusion that he can wrest satisfaction and happiness out of this world if he only manages well? Is it not evident to all the rest of the players that these are the things he wants? And do not his actions make each of them wish to retaliate, snatching all they can get out of the show? Is he not, even in his best moments, a producer of confusion rather than harmony?

Our actor is self-centered, ego-centric, as people like to call it nowadays. He is like the retired business man who lolls in the Florida sunshine in the winter complaining of the sad state of the nation; the minister who sighs over the sins of the twentieth century; politicians and reformers who are sure all would be Utopia if the rest of the world would only behave; the outlaw safe cracker who thinks society has wronged him; and the alcoholic (*everyone*) who has lost all and is locked up. Whatever our protestations, are not most of us concerned with ourselves, our resentments, or our self-pity?

Selfishness, self-centeredness! That, we think, is the root of our troubles. Driven by a hundred forms of fear, self-delusion, self-seeking, and self-pity, we step on the toes of our fellows and they retaliate. Sometimes they hurt us, seemingly without provocation, but we invariably find that at some time in the past we have made decisions based on self which later placed us in a position to be hurt.

So our troubles, we think, are basically of our own making. They arise out of ourselves, and the alcoholic is an extreme example of self-will run riot, though he usually doesn't think so. Above everything, we alcoholics (*and all of us, I think. *)must be rid of this selfishness. We must, or it kill us! God makes that possible. And there often seems no way of entirely getting rid of self without His aid. Many of us had moral and philosophical convictions galore, but we could not live up to them even though we would have liked to. Neither could we reduce our self-centeredness much by wishing or trying on our own power. We had to have God's help.

This is the how and the why of it. First of all, we had to quit playing God. It didn't work. Next, we decided that hereafter in this drama of life, God was going to be our Director. He is the Principal; we are His agents. He is the Father, and we are His children. Most Good ideas are simple, and this concept was the keystone of the new and triumphant arch through which we passed to freedom.

From Chapter 5, "How It Works", Alcoholics Anonymous, the AA "Big Book"

God alone ordereth all things and is all-powerful. Why then does He send trials to His servants?

The trials of man are of two kinds. (a) The consequences of his own actions. If a man eats too much, he ruins his digestion; if he takes poison he becomes ill or dies. If a person gambles he will lose his money; if he drinks too much he will lose his equilibrium. All these sufferings are caused by the man himself, it is quite clear therefore that certain sorrows are the result of our own deeds. (b) Other sufferings there are, which come upon the Faithful of God. Consider the great sorrows endured by Christ and by His apostles!

Those who suffer most, attain to the greatest perfection.

Those who declare a wish to suffer much for Christ's sake must prove their sincerity; those who proclaim their longing to make great sacrifices can only prove their truth by their deeds. Job proved the fidelity of his love for God by being faithful through his great adversity, as well as during the prosperity of his life. The apostles of Christ who steadfastly bore all their trials and sufferings -- did they not prove their faithfulness? Was not their endurance the best proof?

These griefs are now ended.

Caiaphas lived a comfortable and happy life while Peter's life was full of sorrow and trial; which of these two is the more enviable? Assuredly we should choose the present state of Peter, for he possesses immortal life whilst Caiaphas has won eternal shame. The trials of Peter tested his fidelity. Tests are benefits from God, for which we should thank Him. Grief and sorrow do not come to us by chance, they are sent to us by the Divine Mercy for our own perfecting.

While a man is happy he may forget his God; but when grief comes and sorrows overwhelm him, then will he remember his Father who is in Heaven, and who is able to deliver him from his humiliations.

Men who suffer not, attain no perfection. The plant most pruned by the gardeners is that one which, when the summer comes, will have the most beautiful blossoms and the most abundant fruit.

(Abdu'l-Baha, Paris Talks, p. 49)

'God is sufficient unto me; He verily is the All-sufficing!' 'In Him let the trusting trust.'

(Shoghi Effendi, The Dawn-Breakers, p. 631)

*...* My own editorial comments/additions. It's the only thing I could think of to add to this post.

Miracles

(Angela's note: It's so ironic to go back and read these posts! This was written on September 9, 2008, about six weeks before I walked into the recovery meeting that has transformed my life on a very fundamental level. I thought I knew what miracles were back then. I had no idea what God had in store for me. But I can see that clearly, God was guiding my actions, even more than I ever imagined. Nothing has been a coincidence. And all I have to do is show up and present in my life, without turning to flour, sugar and excess portions for my love, comfort and excitement in life. It's simple. But not easy to do. I can't do it. God has to do it for me, work through me to help me do what must be done to stay alive. I've proven over and over again that I am totally powerless when it comes to food, and my life has been totally unmanageable as a result. Oh, and I have a commitment to being as honest as possible these days. Let it suffice to say that I am abstinent from flour, sugar, excess portions AND relationships with the opposite sex, except with relatives, Baha'i men during meetings and activities, and my recovery fellows who happen to be men. God has healed that part of my life, and I didn't have to do much except work a program of recovery.)

...'God is sufficient unto me; He verily is the All-sufficing!' ....'In Him let the trusting trust.'

(Shoghi Effendi, The Dawn-Breakers, p. 631)

I intended to write a different blog today, but circumstances has created the need for me to do something different. I just have to say first of all, God is not just great, He is Infinitely Patient, Loving, Compassionate and Understanding. He has given me gifts that no pricey material items could ever match. Let me explain.

I have been abstinent for two weeks. Abstinence for me means I eat three moderate meals plus two healthy snacks a day, although I often forget about the snacks. I wake up asking for God to give me the strength I need to get through the day abstinent. If that isn't enough, I'm abstinent even though my parents are living with me. Two years ago, I couldn't stay in the same room with my parents for more than ten minutes before running out for ice cream. Or pizza. Or whatever I could get my hands on. I can remember days when abstinence was a teeth and fist clenching exercise, which inevitably led to a horrible binge. Today, in spite of everything that's going on with my life (elderly parents who are sick, becoming a grandmother, publishing a book, etc.) I'm amazed that I managed to keep away from my binge food for this long and remain relatively calm. But it isn't me. It's definitely God, because I can't do it. I've proved that too many times in the past. It is about trusting and relying on God for today.

I had a wonderful, very healing time this past weekend. Again, I trusted in God and took off for San Francisco to spend some time with a man who has been a good friend to me. Everything that happened made me realize that I had been living in fear of getting close to any member of the opposite sex since my divorce twenty years ago. I've been at half mast ever since, but in one crazy, adventurous weekend, I came back from the dead. Resurrection is miraculous.

When I came home, I pulled out my Virtues cards and shuffled them. When I was done, I reached into the deck and pulled out what I thought was one card, "Cooperation". It said, "Cooperation is working together for the good of all. It is the willingness to stand side by side and use different gifts each of us has to offer. We seek common good in service of a unified vision."

As a Baha'i, I know cooperation is essential for unity. But as Linda and Dan Popov pointed out during the weekend at Bosch, sometimes Baha'is forget that our Faith is also personal. We get the global vision of unity, but what about becoming a person who is unified from within, cooperates and trust God with all of the day to day tasks of living, and in turn has more energy, time and talent to offer in the service of mankind? I know that I need to depend on God for everything, and I need to listen without judgment so that I can do what's right, for myself and for others. When my Dad starts drinking, I depend on God to help me see him as person who is ill, not judge him for what he didn't do when I was younger. Same thing with my Mom. As the cooperation card also said, I need to "...look for ways to be helpful and ask for help when we need it. We do not isolate or harbor our loneliness."

Asking for help has always been extremely difficult for me. Isolation seemed so much safer. But that's in the past now. There was another card stuck to the cooperation card. It was "Courage".
It read, "Courage transforms fear into determination. It is embracing life fully, without holding back, doing what must be done even when it is difficult or risky. When we are tempted to give up, courage supports us to take the next step. It allows us to face adversity with confidence."

This past weekend, I was given the gift of embracing life fully. Now I'm going to need courage to support me while I take the next step, or next few steps. Yesterday, my mother began to wail inconsolably as I prepared to leave for work. I thought she was having some sort of anxiety attack. My father called 911, and the ambulance took her to the UC Davis Medical Center while my father and I followed in the car. There wasn't much to do when we got there because the doctors were running a battery of tests and evaluating her condition. I knew the process would take hours, so I went to work.

This morning, I was dressing for work when a call came in. It was the social worker from the Medical Center. Because of my father's alcoholism, I was granted conservatorship of my mother's medical and financial affairs by the courts four years ago. So it made sense that the social worker would call me.

"We need you to come to the hospital to discuss options for your mother."

I'm trusting God to give me the courage to do whatever needs to be done.

Back from Bosch part 1

(Angela's note: It's interesting to read these posts over a year later. The changes in my life have been wonderful, disconcerting, frightening, and humbling. And I credit my current participation in recovery and a over 100 pound weight loss since the day this post was written, to a beautiful young woman living in Australian who read this three part series of posts, and sent me that generous and loving email response. Her willingness to reach out and help a fellow sufferer of food addiction has transformed my life, and I can't thank her enough. One form of gratitude is to work the program to the very best of my ability each day, so I can be present for someone who needs to hear experience, strength and hope from someone who has really been through the dregs with food addiction. I can also share my story here, and that's what I'm choosing to do, just for today.

I've resisted the urge to edit these posts, even though I feel they desperately need them. But since they indicate the state of mind I was in at the time, I am leaving them as is.)

I've been avoiding the word "trust" in reference to my relationship to God for a long time now. To be more precise, I've mistrusted God more than I've mistrusted people. And I've trusted people very, very little. Now, I don't want to get into the twisted myriads of reasons why this has been. At this point, that particular discussion is irrelevant. All that matters is that I've opened the door to trusting God wider than a tiny crack, and already I've experienced more miracles in the past three days (or coincidences, for those of you who would rather believe that) than ever before. And believe me, I've seen and experienced a lot of what other people would call "pretty weird stuff", although to me it's just life as usual. I mean, doesn't everyone have doors that open and close by themselves, or lights turning on in a room before you enter it? That's so ordinary to me that I didn't think about it until someone happened to be around and made a comment about my bedroom light coming on by itself. It usually took a moment to understand why they were so excited.

Things like that have always happened in my family, which is probably why I'm so neutral to them. Looking at it from an objective perspective, one would assume that since I've grown up around "weird things" being an almost every day occurrence that I would readily accept the idea that there are mysteries in life that cannot be easily explained, and the Supreme Force behind those mysteries certainly must be more powerful and all knowing that anything I've encountered. Unfortunately, that hasn't been the case.

Why is this? A fair question, which I will try to answer as coherently as possible. In spite of all "weird stuff", I've had to face the very same real-world problems like any one else. And unlike any one else, I haven't fared very well. My struggles to overcome compulsive overeating has been a catalog of repeated failures. Then there's the debt-to-income issue, which is something most people in America have to deal with. It's comforting to know that I'm not alone, but at the same time, it's disconcerting to realize that my debt factor, due to student loans, is fairly high while my income is pretty much below the poverty line. At my age, that's down right scary, considering that I should have built up a tidy little nest egg of IRAs, 401Ks, mutual funds and bonds for my retirement by now. I maintain the minimum balance in my savings account each month, and that's about it.

Add to that relationship problems with opposite sex, on-going emotional issues that originate from growing up with a very stubborn alcoholic father and an equally stubborn co-dependent mother, and you can see how I came to the conclusion that while there is God, who has created the universe, that same God hasn't been much help in a very practical manner in my life. A more precise distillation of the situation would be, "I'm fat, and God hasn't helped me with that."

I've turned an important corner in debunking that belief this past weekend with Linda Kavelin Popov and Dan Popov this past weekend. The only way I can describe how this happened is to tell the story of my Labor Day weekend with the Popovs.

It began with my friend Mari calling me last Thursday to ask me if I wanted to attend the Popov session at Bosch. I gave her the same answer the last time she asked--no. I couldn't afford it. Then she told me that she would ask the Rancho Cordova Baha'is to grant a scholarship to attend. I was reluctant because I knew the community has limited amounts of available funds, and I didn't want to add to the problem. She assured me that there was money for the scholarship, and told me to call Bosch to see if there was any more rooms available.

When I called Bosch, I was told that the session was completely sold out. Even the summer cabins were filled. When I told Mari this, she told me to check back with them in the morning. I did, and apparently a few people changed their plans for the weekend. I went to Bosch with Mari and another friend, Dianne. In spite of the fact that the Bay Bridge leading to San Francisco was closed for the entire Labor Day weekend and the usual Bay Area traffic had to be diverted to some of the freeways we had to use, we had a relatively smooth ride way to Santa Cruz.

The workshop was facilitated by Linda Kavelin-Popov, who founded the Virtues Project (www.virtuesproject.com) and her husband, Dan Popov, who is child psychologist and an excellant storyteller. I wasn't quite sure what to expect from the workshop, except for one thing: I already knew what they were going to say. Arrogant. I know. But what I didn't know was how their words would affect me on a very profound emotional and spiritual level. My brain stores copious amounts of information, but very little of it seeps into my emotional center. That tender, vulnerable heart chakra is walled off to the public, surrounded by a nearly impenetrable fortress. I have read a lot of self-help and inspirational books, attended many 12 step programs and went through the clairvoyant training program at the Berkeley Psychic Institute. All of those ventures were helpful; they helped me scrape off the outermost layers of resistance to change. Without those experiences, I wouldn't have been so deeply affected by the events that transpired during the workshop.

The change began rather innocuously. After the first two sessions on Saturday, we had an hour break before dinner. I had been instructed to give my friend Mari an energy-clearing healing, so I took advantage of the free time to follow my instructions. When I finished, Mari and I were discussing the healing when somehow, the conversation switched to me. Then Mari, who is not only a UC Berkeley graduate, a well-respected high school math instructor and a loving mom to her children, but also an incredibly powerful Virtues Project facilitator (yes, Mari, I am validating you, and I don't care if it's embarrassing), began using a technique called spiritual companioning. It is a very potent means to cut through all the formidable emotional defenses that I have placed around me. One question led to another, until she asked, "what do you need to heal?" I listened for the answer, and when I heard it, I didn't like it. Have a very good cry. It should suffice to say that I rarely, if ever, cry. Every once and while, something might happen that makes me shed a thin trickle of tears, but not often. I shut down my tear ducts when I was very young. So I told Mari, no way. I'm not crying. It's not something that's easy to do, and I would be very upset if it did happen in front of all those good people at Bosch. Crying seems to make one vulnerable to others, and that's the very last thing I want to do. Especially during my holiday weekend up high in the gorgeous Santa Cruz mountains overlooking the awe-inspiring Pacific coast.

Back from Bosch part 2

Then Mari asked me another question. "What would help you cry so you can heal?" I was dumbstruck by that one. Then, while I was sitting on the couch with no idea how to answer that question, I heard a voice say: ask Dan Popov to tell you a story. Immediately, I went into resistance. Uh, uh. No way. No flippin' way am I going to ask Dan Popov to tell me a story! That is the most absurd, ridiculous thing I've ever heard! What does that have to do with getting me to cry so I'll heal? After several minutes of arguing with the Concourse On High, Mari figured I had received instructions and I was resisting them. So she asked me what I heard. And I told her. She said, "Ang, you KNOW you have to do this." That's when I began arguing with Mari. Luckily, she's used to it. Finally, she said, "We have to go find Dan." And she practically pushed me out of the door, despite my loud and persistent protests.

As we walked out of the lodge, I received a very clear picture that we would find Dan sitting at one of the little white tables on the balcony of the main lodge. Mari, who seems to know when I'm getting those kinds of pictures, asked me where he was. "I don't know," I grumbled (God doesn't like ugly or lying.) "Let's just walk up to the library." I figured I would duck into the library, claim I was too tired to continue looking, and bury myself in book. Then, as Providence would have it, the dinner bell rang. "Well," Mari said, "we could look for him after dinner." Saved by the bell, I thought as we headed for the main lodge.

When we got there, we could clearly see Dan through the window, sitting just the way I saw him in my vision. To my chagrin, Mari pointed out the obvious and asked me what I wanted to do. I may be stubborn, but I'm not stupid. It was time to fold. "All right, " I muttered. "Let's get this over with."

I stammered my way through asking Dan to tell me a story, after introducing myself and Mari. "What kind of story would you like hear?" He seemed quite amused by my obvious discomfort.
"I don't know." That was true. The instructions weren't that specific, although I suspected that the right story would come to him. "Whatever comes to mind," I told him. "All right," Dan said, taking off his sunglasses and settling back into his seat. "Have you ever heard my Leroy story?" I looked at Mari, who shrugged. I shook my head.

It turns out that the story was about the World's Most Obnoxious Three Year Old, Leroy. He was a very large toddler who caused havoc and destruction where ever he went. He beat up all other children, attacked and harmed adults, broke everything in sight and responded to all verbal admonishments with disobedience and contempt. In other words, he was a monster. After getting kicked out of several preschools Leroy's anguished parents brought him to Dan for counseling. It quickly became a nightmarish venture, and Dan began to despair Wednesday afternoons, the day Leroy came in to terrorize his office. Even worse, he was at a complete loss as to how to help the boy, and by extension, an unsuspecting world which would some day have to receive Leroy in its midst. In the meantime, the boy's frightened parents didn't know how to stop their child from torturing the family's cat or destroying all their possessions.

One day, while anguishing over the problem, Dan asked God for help. And it came: Find one GOOD to like about the boy, and focus on that. Obviously, this was no short order. Dan had to struggle to find something, anything to like about Leroy. Finally, he decided that the one thing that he has always admired in the world of being is perfect forms. Leroy was one of those forms--he was PERFECTLY obnoxious, hence, The World's Most Obnoxious Three Year Old. THAT was something he could admire, obnoxiousness at its utmost perfection.

When Leroy came in for next appointment, Dan greeted him with a lovingly hearty "Hello, LeRoy! I'm so glad to see you! Would you like to go down to the play room for a while? Leroy was so taken aback by that greeting that he recoiled. When he recovered, he attacked Dan. Dan held him and reminded him that there are only two rules in his office: you don't get to hurt yourself and you don't get hurt me. Leroy calmed down after a while, but as soon as Dan released him, he ran headlong into the wall. Dan got him just before he could smash his skull. For the rest of visit, Dan exhausted himself as he prevented Leroy from acting out his self-destructive outbursts.

The next week, Leroy came in, walked into the playroom and began quietly playing by himself. Dan was astonished. After observing him for awhile, he came over and crouched down next to him. "Leroy," he asked. "What's going on here? You're different. What's changed?" Leroy kept playing as he said, "It's safe here." Dan had no problems with him after that.

"I learned two lessons from that experience," Dan told Mari and I. "Rule number one: always look for one good thing to like about a person, and concentrate on that. Rule number two: people need boundaries so they can feel safe."

Back from Bosch part 3

I had absolutely no idea what to make of that story. I thanked Dan, then Mari and I went to dinner. I kept rewinding the story in my brain, trying to understand what I was supposed to learn from it. I couldn't see much of a connection between me and Leroy, but I had promised Mari that we would discuss it after dinner. When the time came, I regretted my promise. We sat down at one of the picnic benches near the bookstore, where flies and mosquitoes launched well-planned attacks on my arms and face. In disgust, I moved to the to a table on the bookstore balcony, and Mari followed me. That's where the real healing began.

She used the spiritual companioning technique help me open up, and to my horror, I heard myself talking about how I protected EVERYONE when I was five years old. Kids on the block used to run up to me and say, "Angie, Mikey keeps bothering us," and I would run over, give Mikey a quick and thorough beat-down and tell him to leave the other kids alone. The same scenario, with different players, would happen every week. I protected my parents from public humiliation of our family name by being the best responsible little daughter I could possibly be. It didn't always work, but I tried anyway. I protected my younger sister and brother the same way I protected the other kids on the block--I beat people up when they dared to lay a finger on either one of them. Then Mari asked me the devastating question: who protected Angela? I couldn't answer that, even though I kept hearing the words screaming in my head. No one. No one protected me. I felt alone, all the time, even when I was surrounded by people. I was only useful when I was playing the hero; the rest of the time I felt like out of place furniture. Then food helped me forget about that useless feeling, but only temporarily. It always came back.

Then, seemingly against my will, I recalled a long forgotten incident. I was nearly five years old, and still using training wheels on my bicycle. One day, my father took them off and told me to ride the bike. When I seemed reluctant, he said he would hold me to make sure I wouldn't fall. I got on the bike and started pedaling as fast as I could, and I could hear him gasping for breath, trying to keep up with me. Then it seemed like I was going even faster, and looked around for my father. He was standing several yards back, watching me. My bike veered into a rose bush, and I fell on my left side into the thorns. At first, I was stunned. I thought he was going to keep me from falling. Then I felt a burning, stinging sensation, and I looked down at my left arm. An amazingly straight row of thorns had lodged themselves into my forearm, and blood was trickling out of the wounds. My right knee had somehow banged into the ground, and layers of skin had been ripped away. I looked back again at my father and swallowed the tears. He was in the Air Force, and in the military, no one is allowed to cry. Besides, I was the hero. Heroes never cry. I picked the thorns out of my arm while blinking back the tears, and brushed off the dirt. Then I got back on my bike and rode home. During that entire time, I kept thinking, he said he would catch me if I fell.

So that was it. The first betrayal. I swore I would never depend on anyone ever again. And for most of my life, I didn't. It seems as silly to me now as it did when I told Mari the story. My rational mind kept saying, please, get over yourself! Millions of kids were treated so much worse. You weren't savagely beaten and/or starved, sold into slavery, called dehumanizing names or molested by a family member or a friend. So you fell off your little bike, got hurt, and your daddy didn't catch you. Big deal. It's nothing to whine and moan about.

The adult Angela agreed with those statements. The five year old Angela only knew that falling hurts, and she doesn't want to hurt again. Even more importantly, the five year old knew something that the adult Angela refused to fully acknowledge and told her adult self and Mari about it: her Dad was, and still is, a drunk. And both the five year old and the adult is ashamed of this.

The adult Angela sobbed convulsively for an hour in Mari's arms. And the adult Angela realized that God has never let her fall because He told her what she needed to do to heal, and created the circumstances to make that happen. All she had to do was ask, listen for the answer and follow the instructions. It's that simple.

The next morning, after taking a shower, she put a large bandage on the right knee. Ironically, she had tripped and banged it up the previous week. Just she did over forty years ago, she never took care of the wound, until that moment. The adult Angela is trying to make up for lost time. It's hard learning self-care and self-love at this age. But I'm doing it.

Post script: During the trust workshop, I also received instructions on how to start back on the road to recovery from overeating, once again. I should return to stage 1 of the post-gastric bypass surgery diet, which consists of low calorie, high protein shakes, soups and broth. I am to stay on that diet for three days, instead of one month like I did right after surgery. Then I am to resume stage 3 plan of moderate portions, high protein, no white sugar or refined carbohydrates food, one day at a time. I should also write my food plan down each morning, and call it in to a food sponsor so I could call myself into account each day. Of course, my obsessed mind immediately took off--if I can do three days on stage 1, I can seven. And if I can seven days, I can do two weeks. And if I can do two weeks, I can do a whole month and I would lose A LOT OF WEIGHT if I stay on stage 1 for a month...

Three days. THREE DAYS.

My arms are definitely too short to box with God.

Ya Baha'u' Abha'!

Oprah's Weight Gain

Food addiction. Plain and simple. It doesn't matter how much money you make, how much you exercise, how many fitness coaches and chefs you have...they aren't there when you put a little bit of this and a little bit of that in your mouth, then wonder why you gain five pounds in a week. The food addicted mind conveniently forgets all those little bits, and eats healthy in front of the world. How do I know? Been there, done that. I don't have Oprah's money, chefs or fitness coaches, but I've had plenty of dieting experience and programs, psycho and hypnotherapy, New-Age healing, the strongest anti-depressant medication prescribed for clinical depression (and one side effect is noticeably decreased appetite, which never took place), AND Roux-en-Y gastric bypass surgery in 2002. And I still gained weight. I can't openly talk about what HAS worked for me (but I can if you email me at the address listed in my profile), but I can say that I know what Oprah has been going through. And I hope she finds the solution I've found.

This is what happens when you can't sleep

This is a re-post from July 24, 2007 from my other blog. At that time, I was trying to kick the sugar habit pretty much by myself, although I was attending a 12 step program for compulsive overeating. I knew I was a food addict; my behavior was more in line with heroin or cocaine abuse than compulsive overeating. At the time, the meetings for compulsive overeating were a good place for me to vent my frustration, anger and resentments, and to stop eating for an hour and a half. But it didn't help me realize that flour, sugar and excess portion sets up an uncontrollable urge to eat more and more, even when I've stuffed myself so much that I threw up the food involuntarily.

But I would sit there in the rooms and fantasize about what whole grain flour product I would purchase at the natural food co-op as soon as the meeting was over. That was not working a recovery program of rigorous honesty. I'm the type of addict who needs to learn discipline and structure from an addict who has been through the hellish pit of food addiction and morbid obesity because if I'm left to make choices about what I put in my mouth, I will choose wrong each time. Even worse, I will straight up lie about my choices. That's what I was doing then--lying to myself and other people about the severity of my addiction.

I hadn't surrendered flour products and excess portions at the time I wrote this blog. That didn't happen until three months later, when a young lady from the other side of the planet emailed me about a program of recovery from food addict.When I became attending the meetings and working the program to the best of my ability, I REALLY learned what detox and recovery was all about. And it was ugly stuff. But that will come up when I re-post about my detox period.

I was thinking about that Gil Scott Heron song, and I decided to look it up and post the lyrics:

Home Is Where The Hatred Is

A junkie walking through the twilight
I'm on my way home
I left three days ago, but no one seems to know I'm gone
Home is where the hatred is
Home is filled with pain and it,
might not be such a bad idea if I never, never went home again

Stand as far away from me as you can and ask me why
Hang on to your rosary beads
close your eyes to watch me die
you keep saying, kick it, quit it, kick it, quit it
God, but did you ever try
to turn your sick soul inside out
so that the world, so that the world
can watch you die

home is where i live inside my white powder dreams
home was once an empty vacuum that's filled now with my silent screams
home is where the needle marks
try to heal my broken heart
and it might not be such a bad idea if i never, if i never went home again
home again
home again
home again
kick it, quit it
kick it, quit it
kick it, quit it
kick it, can't go home again

The year was 1972, and I was 14 years old when I heard that song for the first time. The version I heard on the radio was sung by Esther Phillips, who died not long afterwards. To be honest, I wasn't fond of Ms. Phillips voice. It sounded...well, it was kind of deep and raspy. But it was the lyrics that grabbed my attention. They resonated very deeply in me, and I found myself staring out of my bedroom window with tears dripping off my face. At the time, I had no idea why I felt like that. I kind of figured that the song was about loneliness and deep emotional pain. And junkies. I knew about junkies. I used to see kids nodding out at school all the time. It was the 70s, after all. Heroin and speed were the drugs of choice at Baker Junior High School. But what I didn't understand was what all that had to do with me. I wasn't a junkie. At that time, I had never done anything more than take a sip of my dad's scotch, and I spat that out immediately. Nasty stuff, that scotch.

Did I try the other stuff? Truthfully, no, not really. I acted like I was puffing on a joint when it was passed around. (I was not a Baha'i then, folks. But even if I was, I would still post about this. I believe in being honest about my life in the hope that someone might learn from my mistakes.) But I only did that so I could hang out and look cool. My friends knew I was faking it, though. They would snatch the joint away from me.

Now I know. That song was about addiction, and even though I wasn't aware of it, my subconscious was connecting with the feelings of hopelessness that comes out of being addicted to a substance, any substance. I had no concept of food addiction back then, in fact, at that time I was obsessed with becoming thin so boys would go crazy over me. I began doing the fad/total insanity diet thing. I remember eating nothing but saltine crackers and prunes for entire week. And yes, I lost an awful lot of weight that week. Is there any wonder why my body is messed up now?I

Confessions of a chocoholic: Once I told a co-worker that I LOVED me some Denzel Washington. (My favorite Denzel movie: Mississippi Marsala. Ask any Black woman.) Yet, if Mr. Washington approached me and he had two giant sized Snickers in his hands and told me, "Okay, Angela, it's me or the Snickers." My response would be "Are you giving both of those to me?" My co-worker stared at me. No understanding whatsoever. Then she told me that she will eat two corners off of a Snickers bar and she's good for the year. (Yes, she's one of those itty bitty things.) But she'd NEVER have enough Denzel. Hey, we all have our vices.

One thing has always been a certainty for me. Chocolate pack the pounds on the body, but it doesn't cheat on you with another woman. Other than being extremely high in fat and sugar and almost completely void of nutritional value, it's harmless. You know what you're getting: a sugar rush, a feeling of contentment and if you consume enough, sleep.

Which is what I'm NOT getting right now. Otherwise known as detox. Gil Scott Heron knew what he was talking about.

An addict's story

I am an addict. Most people would look at me and disagree with that statement. To them, an addict is one of those nasty, dirty criminals who would sell their children to the dealer for another line of coke, some more rocks to put in the crack pipe, or another syringe filled with whatever Willie-the-Dope-Man has on him. People look at me and see a overweight, middle-aged Black woman who needs mobility devices to walk, and they could possibly think, church lady. I look like thousands of overweight, middle-aged Black women with canes or walkers who stream out of the doors of the nearest Baptist/Penecostal/A.M.E. church every Sunday afternoon. I admit it; I do look like one of those women. But I'm still an addict of the most common, and frequently misunderstood kind. I'm a food addict. And I'm willing to bet that all those other overweight women waddling out of church every Sunday are food addicts, too. And they'd probably rather cut off their voluminous arms and legs and bleed out in the gutter before admitting that they are food addicts. I can relate to that. I didn't like making that admission, either.

Oh, no. I'm a good woman. That's a major preoccupation that overweight Black women often have. Others may call us self-righteous, but they're just jealous because we know God and they don't. We really are good, and we can prove it. You see those skanky little women on the corner, showing off everything the Good Lord gave her for any old dog out there in the street to sniff? We don't do that. We keep our legs closed because we're sanctified. Our bodies are God's temple, and we don't go sleeping around with every who-would've-thought-it like those Jezebels. We work, pay the bills, cook, clean and take care of our children. Those little slutty abominations figure it's o.k. to earn their way through life by opening their legs. They'll find out. When the doors of the pearly gates swing open and let all of us good women in, they're going to look seriously hurt because they'll be on the outside with their faces mashed up against the bars. And that's what they get for being so whorish. Only good women go to heaven.

That was my way of thinking, about twenty years ago. Before I was brought to my knees by a unrelentingly deceptive obsession with eating copious amounts of food that were high in fat and/or sugar, and low in nutritional value. My favorite pick-me-up-after a so-called bad day: A large bag of Fire-Hot Cheeto's, a pint of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream and a tall can of Arizona Iced Tea in Raspberry. I leave it to you nutrition stalwarts to add up the grams of carbs, fat and sugar, along with the calories. Yes, I knew it exceeded the daily allowance. And that wasn't counting breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Eating like that nearly killed me. Twice. Yet, that wasn't enough to get me to stop. Even the desperate pleas of my increasingly alarmed children didn't persuade me to give up the food. The poundage I acquired on my body was overburdening my muscle and skeletal system, causing extensive cartilage damage in my left hip and lower back As a result, I became disabled, no longer able to walk without a cane or walker. Years later, I was in a wheelchair because the cartilage in my left hip was gone, and nothing remained except bone grinding against bone. Still, I kept eating.

I can't tell you exactly how much I weighed during that time. I had stopped going to see my primary care physician because the nurses always seemed to be anxious to check my weight during appointments. I stepped on the scale one time, and the digital read-out stopped on 369 pounds. Naturally, I was horrified. So I did what any food addict would do after an intense emotional shock--I went home and ate. No wonder I gained even more weight after that. For all I know, I could have been 400 pounds at that time. All that I'm certain about is that my size 4x clothes that I had to order from the Lane Bryant catalog were too tight. Even then, I refused to accept reality and order anything in size 5x. In my mind, I just couldn't have been that big.

In 2001, I read a magazine article about Carnie Wilson's successful weight loss after gastric bypass surgery. I was jazzed. Finally, there was a way out of the madness. I called Kaiser Permanente the next day and set up an appointment with my primary care physician so she could refer me to the Bariatric Surgery Program. As it turned out, Kaiser requires all prospective bariatric surgery candidates to lose 10% of the wieght at the time of the orientation. Somehow, I had managed to lose a few and I weighed 341 pounds. Now, I have been doing the yo-yo diet dance ever since I was eight years old. In my rather warped sense of logic, I knew I could lose 10% of my weight. That's easy. It's staying on the diet for longer than a week without earning an arrest record that was difficult. I'm not kidding; I turn into something worse than Darth Vader when I have to eat three ounces of lean protein and a cup of salad greens decorated with tiny squirts of tasteless dressing. The lava pit of emotions that I'd suppressed by consuming too much food was suddenly ignited in a fiery explosion, blistering everything and everybody who dares to venture in my presence.

Obviously, that is an unacceptable way for a human being to behave in the civilized world. Inevitably, the diet was shelved for sanity's sake and remaining free of a criminal record. But for the sake of qualifying for gastric bypass surgery, I knew I could put up yet another diet. I've always been able to do anything on a temporary basis except remain silent in a room with my ex-husband. Besides, the people on the web sites dedicated to weight loss surgery said that they had lost all of their excess weight. and they didn't have to suffer through another diet. They ate tiny amounts of food and they were never hungry. Their descriptions of life after gastric bypass surgery seemed like heaven opening its gates to me here on earth. Here was my chance to be normal. I couldn't wait.

52. O SON OF MAN!
Should prosperity befall thee, rejoice not, and should abasement come upon thee, grieve not, for both shall pass away and be no more

(Baha'u'llah, The Arabic Hidden Words)


On July 11, 2002, the morning of my Roux-en-Y gastric bypass surgery, I weighed 311 pounds. And I managed to lose the weight without any volcanic eruptions or assault charges. I was ecstatic and looking forward to a filled with new possibilities and dreams that I could finally fulfill. Oh, and what dreams they were! I would be able to finally finish my Master's degree (couldn't handle getting around that huge campus anymore), go on pilgrimage to the Baha'i Holy sites in Haifa, Israel, travel around the world teaching the Baha'i Faith and learning more about life on this planet, walk long distances again, run, jump and swim without passing out, play softball, take Tae Kwon Do lessons and earn my black belt, learn to belly and/or ballroom dance, take a ride in one of the Thunderbirds' F-18 jets (o.k., I'll settle for an F-8), and maybe...just maybe...get to know a man by the content and quality of his inner character and do the marriage thing the right way. That's what I thought about as I watched the bariatric surgery team prepare for the operation and waited for the anesthesia to lull me into a state of blissful unconsciousness. My new life will begin as soon as I'm in the recovery room, I thought.

I should have known better.

The wonderful part of the story is that I went from 311 to 232 within six months. The bad part was that since 1995, I had developed some problems with my monthly cycle. I kept bleeding very, very heavily for two weeks, sometimes more. For at least three days every month, I was incapacitated because the excruciating pain made walking impossible. Even with these symptoms, I didn't seek medical attention. I simply did not want to be weighed. More than that, I didn't want to listen to yet another lecture about how my condition was probably caused by my obesity, and if I lost even 10% of my body weight, I would see a great reduction of pain. (That never happened, by the way. I lost a total of 137 pounds, and I was more pain after the weight loss than before.) I knew the drill well. So I had to grit my teeth through the pain and made the best of a terrible situation.

Morbid obesity may have been the cause of my osteoarthritis of the left hip and lower back, and it may have even caused the alarming hemorrhaging that was happening two weeks out of every month. But ignoring the conditions didn't make them go away, and refusing medical attention meant that the conditions progressed to a life-threatening situation. The bleeding and pain were indications of menorraghia (excessive shedding of the uterine lining) and fibroid tumors. http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/menorrhagia/DS00394/DSECTION=1

One month after a successful gastric bypass procedure, I had to be re-admitted to the hospital for two emergency transfusions. I was soaking three pads in twenty minutes, and my entire body felt like a rubber chicken. The end result was that I had become severely anemic. After coming home from the hospital, I couldn't do much of anything except sit on the living room couch and stare vacantly at the television. Even walking to the bathroom would exhaust me for hours. Watching hours of soap operas in a Vicadin- induced stupor was not how I had envisioned my post-bariatric surgery life. Even though I was losing a lot of weight, physically I felt worse than I did before surgery. This revelation led to feelings of anger, despair, and finally, depression. A dark, seemingly bottomless pit of depression.

I maintained my weight loss for a year hovering on or near the 232 pound mark. But since I was still suffering from osteoarthritis and menorraghia/fibroid tumors, I wasn't able to exercise as prescribed by the bariatric surgery program. I had trouble walking five feet without falling over, so even walking around the block wasn't happening. As depression blanketed every aspect of my life, I began to think about the comfort of food. I willfully fought against these thoughts, but their persistence began to wear down my resolve. One day, I was well enough to accompany my son Marc on a short trip to the grocery store. I secretly bought two bags of Hershey's kisses. By sunrise, I was sitting in my bedroom surrounded by piles of little foil wrappers. My relapse had begun.

55. O SON OF BEING!
Busy not thyself with this world, for with fire We test the gold, and with gold We test Our servants.

(Baha'u'llah, The Arabic Hidden Words)


So why am I sharing all of this very personal, potentially humiliating information with anyone who happens to casually surf this site? The reason is simple--I'm still recovering from this addiction, and I'm a writer. It helps me regain some clarity about issues that used to baffle me when I write about them. As for humiliation, that only works if the writer believes that she is nothing but pond scum. I'm over that. I have officially joined the human race in the past five years, and nothing can once again convince me that I'm beneath dignity. In other words, a person can be humiliated only if she agrees to it. I don't. Even though I have regained 70 pounds since weight loss surgery, I recently turned a corner in my recovery. Now, I observe my thoughts, feelings and behavior concerning food. And I make a daily practice of prayer and meditation. As a result, I have more awareness of how this addiction affects me, and I'm making much better choices. Not perfect, mind you. But much, much better.

It is estimated that 64% of all adults in this country are overweight. However, the term overweight, according the Center for Disease Control*, is divided into two categories: overweight(33%) and obese (31%). African and Native Americans have the highest rates of obesity, and as I did for many years, they are just as hesitant to get treatment for either obesity or any of the co-morbidity conditions such as diabetes, hypertension, osteoarthritis, heart disease or kidney failure. I am sharing my story to demonstrate what can happen if a morbidly obese person does not confront this very serious medical condition.

But there's also another issue that is rarely addressed by weight loss surgery programs or other methods of medical intervention for morbidly obese patients--food addiction. Most medical professions seem somewhat perplexed by the pervasiveness of addiction to food in morbidly obese patients. The patients often refuse to identify themselves as "food addicts" or "compulsive overeaters". In their minds, the problem is weight (and that is part of it), and the solution is either dieting to a "normal" weight or having weight loss surgery. A person can cut calories and a surgeon can bypass or band the stomach, but none of these methods address the source of the problem--the mind. This is the part that no amount of surgery can alter. The morbidly obese patient is responsible for guiding his/her mind away from food and into life.

For me, thoughts of God are stronger than thoughts of food. When I have my daily conscious communication with the Almighty, I am much more at peace with myself and the world. I don't need to stuff chocolates and caramels into my mouth in order to feel good. Having a few minutes of quiet meditation and prayer is much more conducive to letting go of destructive patterns of eating. That is the great lesson for me, and it's taken me 49 years to learn it. Anything is possible with God. I wholeheartedly believe that today.

*http://www.cdc.gov/od/oc/media/pressrel/r040121.htm