A Family in need of serious intervention

Philip Chawner, 53, and his 57-year-old wife Audrey weigh 24st. Their daughter Emma, 19, weighs 17st, while her older sister Samantha, 21, weighs 18st.

(Angela's note: A stone equals 1.40 pounds; two stones are 2.80 pounds, and so on. So Philip and Audrey apparently weigh 336 pounds each. Emma weighs 238 pounds, and Samantha weighs 294 pounds. That's 1,162 pounds all together. That's a whole lotta "chips" going down right there!)

Family who are 'too fat to work' say £22,000 worth of benefits is not enough

A family of four with a combined weight of 83 stone say they are "too fat to work" and need more than the £22,000 (31,955.17 in US dollars, whoa, the British pound is pounding the mess out of the dollar!)they currently receive in benefits.
The Chawners, haven't worked in 11 years, claim their weight is a hereditary condition and the money they receive is insufficient to live on.

Mr Chawner said: "What we get barely covers the bills and puts food on the table. It's not our fault we can't work. We deserve more."

The family claim to spend £50 ($72.6322 US) a week on food and consume 3,000 calories each a day. The recommended maximum intake is 2,000 for women and 2,500 for men.

"We have cereal for breakfast, bacon butties for lunch and microwave pies with mashed potato or chips for dinner," Mrs Chawner told Closer magazine.

"All that healthy food, like fruit and veg, is too expensive. We're fat because it's in our genes. Our whole family is overweight," she added.

Each week, Mr and Mrs Chawner, who have been married for 23 years, receive £177 in income support and incapacity benefit. Mrs Chawner is paid an extra £330-a-month disability allowance for epilepsy and asthma, both a result of being overweight.

Mr Chawner gets £71 a month after developing Type 2 diabetes because of his size. He was on a waiting list for a gastric band last year, but a heart condition made the operation unsuitable. Their daughter Samantha receives £84 in Jobseekers' Allowance each fortnight while Emma, who is training to be a hairdresser, gets £58 every two weeks under a hardship fund for low-income students.

Emma, said: "I'm a student and don't have time to exercise" she said "We all want to lose weight to stop the abuse we get in the street, but we don't know how."

I've never read a story that screamed "FOOD ADDICTS IN NEED OF INTERVENTION, TREATMENT AND RECOVERY!" more than this one. It makes me sad. Yes, I was once too obese to work. I had all kinds of medical issues related to my weight. And most, but not all, have cleared up since losing 200 pounds. My other medical problems are caused by permanent damage done to my body through morbid obesity, which in itself is caused by being addicted to eating.

About three months ago, I was diagnosed with something called diffuse arthritis, which is a not-so-common form of degenerative arthritis. Calcium has built up along both sides of my lower vertebrae, and bone spurs have developed on my spine. There's no cure, and surgery is too risky. I just have to live with it. But even living with pain for the rest of my life is not going to stop me from being a productive member of this society.

My intention is to recover from food addiction, get a weight that is healthy for me (don't know what that is yet, and I don't worry about it), and become an increasingly productive member of society. I do not expect the government to continuously pay me for being sick. Right now, I do have a lot of medical risks that do interfere with my ability to work. But I look at this as temporary. I can't and won't become dependent of disability for a living. I'm grateful that I have worked enough to pay into the system, thank you God, and that my basic needs are being met right now.

But the issue is food addiction, as I see it. Obviously, the parents have passed on their eating habits to their daughters. Is there an "Intervention" type show over on the BBC like there is on A&E channel here? Can anyone get this family into some kind of treatment program so they can have productive, fulfilling lives? It's obvious that they are suffering from a problem that is far beyond their ability to control. Addiction of any type is serious, especially when the substance is food. We all have to eat, and in the Western world, food is literally everywhere--on television, the Internet, magazines, billboards, neon signs. Don't believe it? If you are a boomer, finish this sentence: "You deserve a ___ ___." Or, "Have it___ ___." I don't know what the current fast food ads are like because I refuse to watch them. Yes, I'm not neutral to them yet. So I have to protect my recovery by keeping the T.V. off and clicking away from food ads on the Internet.

So when food is so prevalent that we can literally collect pennies to get a 99 cents fix at Mickey D.'s (short of McDonald's, for those of you outside of the U.S.), people have an open highway leading to food addiction. That addiction "ON" switch can be easily triggered in the brain, and it will run amok very, very quickly. Question: How many of you have ever bought bags of sweets from Dollar Tree or the 99 Cents store and felt elated because you got ALL that "good stuff" for cheap? If you are a food addict (and you don't have to be obese or even overweight to be one), you probably felt like you had found a leprechaun's gold pot at the end of the rainbow. That is, until you devoured all of the shopping bags of candy, cookies and other stuff by the end of the night and you have a splitting sugar hangover and horrendous upset stomach. But that's ok, right? It sure tasted good, didn't it? You can't WAIT to go back and buy some more! Addiction, my friend, addiction!

The Chawner family may just have a genetic predisposition for obesity. My family does too, at least the women do. But it's not hopeless, and just like the Chawners (if they ever come to believe it), I'm not helpless. There is recovery for food addiction and its outward symptom, morbid obesity. I pray that they find it, soon.

Minnie in Concert (Full Version)

This doesn't have anything to do with morbid obesity, food addiction or anything else that I usually talk about, but I just had to take a walk "Back Down Memory Lane", which was caused by a QTiptheAbstract's post on Twitter. Minnie, Minnie, Minnie...the only singer I ever cried for when I heard that she had passed. I'm ultra-sensitive right now, at least by my standards. But such an incredible talent! A purely heaven-sent voice!

Take him back?? Rianna's CRAZY!!!

I've been resisting writing about this Rianna/Chris Brown situation for many reasons, mainly because of where I am in my recovery from food addiction. I don't need a reason to eat; my food-addicted brain seizes upon every single nanosecond that I don't connect to God and use the tools of recovery to pound me with cravings. I'm not exaggerating; this is what life is like for me right now.

Food numbs me. I don't feel emotions very much when I'm stuffed with my favorite comfort foods, like fresh baked bread smothered with butter. What I get from food is a warm, soothing, euphoric sensation like being safely bundled up in a soft, thick quilt. Absolutely nothing bothers me. Unfortunately, that feeling is only temporary. And I usually find myself having to eat more in order to get that level of comfort going again. This desperate need for comfort has led me to eat so much that I have binged to the point of extreme physical pain, and/or passed on my couch. There's not much difference between what I do with food, and what an alcoholic or drug addict does with their substances of choice. Same behavior, different drugs.

What does this have to do with the Rianna/Chris Brown situation? For me, a lot. At one point in my life, I was just like Rianna, sans the fame. I was an abused woman. Food kept the film clips of that period of my life running on a screen in the back room of my mind.

I don't like to re-visit those memories. I won't say that I've buried them, but I don't live in them everyday. Ideally, I would very much like to forget that it ever happened. But it did. And as uncomfortable as it makes me feel right now, the Rianna/Chris Brown situation keeps reminding me that I have literally escaped with my life.

However, I am also a writer, and one who has always felt the need to pass along information that might be of some importance to the reader. I don't just write solely for "artistic expression" or an ego-centric need to see myself in print, although I won't deny that my massive ego gets involved a lot more than I care to admit. But I am (at least) aware that a writer has a responsibility to the reading public by providing needed information and thereby being of service to others. This is not altruism; it is recognizing what should be done (kind of like smelling a baby's dirty diaper and changing it, regardless of the voluminous amount of stinkiness) and fulfilling it to the best of one's ability. Despite my personal discomfort and unwillingness to explore feelings that have lay dormant for almost three decades, I strongly feel that I should live up to that responsibility. And remain abstinent while doing it, even though every thought in my brain is screaming, you pompous, self-gratifying bitch! What do you think you're doing? You can't tell people about that dark hellhole you used to live in! You just want sympathy, you big wuss! (sigh) I can do this. I can do this.


So, with your permission, I want you to take a journey back in time with me. The year is 1981, and the date is Independence Day, aka the Fourth of July. You, the reader, have become me, circa 1981. You are a twenty three year old African American woman, married to an unemployed artist/musician who is also bi-polar(untreated)and addicted to marijuana, cocaine, and serial relationships with women. You feel he is brilliant, talented, uniquely thoughtful and articulate, and you want the rest of the world to know about his prodigious artistic talents. But he doesn't necessarily want the same for himself, and sabotages every effort you make to bring out vast store of artistry within him. You don't understand this, and you keep trying.

There are many problems with this relationship. One, you have given birth to a gorgeous baby girl almost three months earlier, and your husband seems completely unaware of the responsibility involved in raising a child. He still behaves as if he were single--partying, doing drugs and sleeping with LOTS of other women. This causes an enormous amount of friction in the relationship. Your communication is fraught with accusations, anger and resentment. Your nerves are in state of constant upheaval, and you anxious about the future for you and your newborn girl. Should you leave him permanently? You are already back at home with your parents because your husband refuses to exert much effort toward finding a job and supporting you and the baby.

"I'm no punk for the white man," he tells you. "I can't have no punk-ass ordering me around like a slave. I'll go back to jail before I do that."

He often makes that threat because he knows it bothers you. You don't want him to be :just another black man incarcerated" statistic. He can do so MUCH BETTER than that, if he would only TRY!

The anger and resentment toward has been escalating prodigiously since your daughter's birth on May 15th. You keep trying to come up with solutions to the problem, which you earnestly pitch to your husband on a daily basis. He adamantly refuses your help with a vehemence that you cannot understand. Doesn't he know that you are only trying to get your little family back together by offering a plan to jump start his career in art and music so that he would be happy with his work AND provide a living for you, him and the baby? Why doesn't he understand this and cooperate? It's so maddeningly frustrating!

After two months of increasingly furious arguments, you declare a cease-fire for the Fourth of July. He says he wants you and the baby to accompany him to a barbecue with his family, which consists of his mother (who has been emotionally estranged from him since his birth), and his two sisters. You sense the volatility of the situation, but you consent to go anyway. They pick you up from your parents' house, which fills you with guilt because it also their 24th wedding anniversary. You choose your husband over your parents, who have been supporting you during this tumultuous period. On top of that, you can practically take a bite out of the cake-like animosity between your husband and his mother, which has been thinly frosted over with civility. This is not going to be a very good holiday. But you are going to make the best of it.

He asks to hold the baby because as he says, "doesn't get to see his little girl very much", implying that you and your parents prevent him from seeing his daughter. This sets your teeth on edge. You don't exert much effort to come see her, you say to yourself. You're too busy getting high and f***ing around with other women. But you say nothing, and pass your daughter to her father, who is sitting in the front seat next to his mother. She is driving, and taking everyone to her friend's house for food and fireworks. Other than the initial courteous greeting, she doesn't say much to you.

Soon, your husband begins the usual litany of complaints about your "Southern, country-ass, think-they-better-than-everyone-else parents" who make it difficult for him to "come see his baby". That's it. You've had enough of this nonsense.

"Maybe if you took care of business and got a decent job, you wouldn't have to deal with my parents' attitudes," you inform him.

(continued below)

Take him back?? Rianna's CRAZY!!! (pt. 2)

He whirls around, his caramel-colored face turning red and his nostrils flaring like a rabid mustang.

"What? A job ain't gonna change your siditty (slang for conceited) assed parents, especially your mama! Your mama ain't nothin' but a stuck-up, country-fried, siddity BITCH!"

He punctuates the last statement by roughly shoving his index finger into your sternum. You see nothing but red, and the entire world falls away, still and quiet, waiting to see what you will do. You snatch his finger away from your chest and bend it backwards. Then you take the can of soda you have been drinking, and smash it violently against the side of his face. There, you say to yourself as you watch the fizzling drops "Tahiti Punch" drip off his cheek, and his natal-spawned, mother-love-deprived primal rage building into a mushroom cloud. Take that, you piss-colored, low-life bastard! No one talks about my mama like that!

He roars in pain and indignity, and orders his mother to pull the car over. She mutely obeys. He hands your daughter to his mother, then turns around. Suddenly, you realize that you are no longer looking at your husband. You are staring in horror at grotesquely twisted face of a monster.

Time becomes meaningless as you watch in complete disbelief as his fist pounds into your face. You hear the smack of each blow, and it sounds like a thick steak being slapped against a kitchen counter top. This isn't happening. It can't be happening. You are a good person, a good woman. Why is doing this? Desperately, you try to return the punches, but he has leaned way over the car seat, and he has the higher ground, the advantage. You can do nothing but land a glancing hit, which doesn't seem to do anything but enrage the animal who has replaced your husband. The barrage of punches land steadily, methodically, and you become dully aware of blood flooding down your nose and out of your mouth. Your arms no longer longer have the strength to raise your hands anymore, and there is no response to the mental command, fight back. FIGHT BACK! But the pounding continues relentlessly.

The world drains away slowly. Your eyes have become tiny slits which offer nothing but hazy, out of focus vision. Somehow you are aware of screams and cries, presumably from your husbands' sisters and your daughter. But you're not sure. All you know is the fists have suddenly stopped tenderizing your face, and you are marinating in your own blood. You can't move. Time has stopped.

You cry out for your daughter, but the animal sound coming from your throat is unrecognizable. You are trying to say, give me my daughter! Give her to me! You want to take her and run away, get away from these primordial ooze-like creatures. They can't be human. Real human beings wouldn't allow such an atrocity to happen to another person. You have to get your daughter and run away from these mutated life forms.

You don't know where you are, and how you got there. All you know is that you are in an unfamiliar place, someone's bedroom. You have no idea what happened to the mutants who brought you to this place, and you don't know the people who have bandaged you and placed cold wash clothes on your face. All you want is to get your daughter and to go home.

During the weeks that follow, you attempt to make sense of what seems to be a totally illogical situation. Somehow, your parents found out where you were, and they came. They saw what was done to your face, and dissolved into tears. You've never seen your father cry before. It was terrible. They immediately called the police, and suddenly, the dozen people or more who apparently lived in the place where you were disappeared. After the police report was made, your parents took you to the emergency room. X-rays of your face were made. The technician called in the doctor of radiology to examine the pictures. The doctor was enraged.

"Who did this to you?" Righteous indignation caused him to sputter out his words as he pointed to breaks in your face that showed up on the x-rays. "Whoever did this to you needs to be put UNDER the jail!"

You are ashamed. How could you admit that you were dumb enough to marry a man who would punch you so hard that he came within centimeters close to shattering the right temporal bone, which would have killed you? He did manage, however, to break your zygomatic, or cheek bone. The entire right side of your face looked like a deflated balloon.

"You're lucky to be alive. We have to do surgery to repair your cheek. Someone will schedule the appointment."

He stormed out in disgust, leaving you alone in the exam with your below-dirt sense of self. One-celled organisms probably felt better about themselves than you did.

Little did you know right then that your self esteem would plunge even lower. Everyone seemed to know what you should do, yet you had no grasp of which path led to your way out of this mess.

"LEAVE HIM!"

Your family and friends made the decision seem so easy. But then what? Stay with your parents? That just didn't feel right. The aching despair that overwhelmed you every night was already unbearable. Stay with him? Well...he cried so much as he told you how horrible he felt about himself. He thought about suicide because everyone would be so much better off if he were dead. That was alarming. You couldn't have that on your conscience. After all...he was your baby's daddy! With a lot of marriage counseling, you could make it work! He would feel better about himself, get a job, and everything would work out JUST FINE! You just needed to be alone with him to talk it over, make the counseling appointments and get your little family back together.

So that's what you did. And you stayed for six more years, even though the promised counseling appointments never happened. He didn't beat you up anymore. Your father and brother went after him with loaded deer-hunting shotguns after the cheek bone incident, so he didn't try that again. But he stole all the household money for drugs and his extra-marital affairs. And he lied, lied, lied. Constant upset in your home, continuous drama. And it didn't end until the day he pulled out a huge Bowie knife and tried to stab you. You fought back with a closet pole. The police called it a draw, although they gave you a slight lead in the cards. He was the one who went away in the squad car. And you were the one who finally filed the papers.

I wrote this in response to all the questions that people seem to be talking about concerning Rianna's decision to get back together with Chris Brown. I am not condoning her choice, in fact, I suspect that nothing good will come from it. I have personal experience with this. But what I wanted to do is give the reader an inside view of what goes on in the mind of an abused woman. Of course she needs extensive help through counseling. And so did I. That is my point--the solution (LEAVE HIM!) always looks easy when viewed from the outside, but it's not so clear when you are right in the middle of it. All we can do is pray that Rianna finds her way to some form of recovery from this issue. I wouldn't want to read that her boyfriend has roughed up (or worse) that beautiful young lady again.

"I have a boyfriend who just got out of prison..."

(This is another re-post, written on 11/07/2007. I had been in recovery from food addiction for almost three weeks, and it was hellish. I was shaking uncontrollably, nauseous, vomiting, shivering with cold, clammy hands and feet, the inside of my mouth was blistered with cold sores and I was quite literally dazed and confused all the time. The severity of my withdrawal from flour and sugar was pretty nasty. I should have been in a treatment center, at least that's what a recovering meth addict told me. He went through that kind of withdrawal while detoxing in a hospital. Well, I was actually working at the time. But my mood and behavior was pretty monstrous. I wound up having to leave that job a few months later because I developed some pretty life-threatening complications as the result of all those years of piling highly refined, toxic sugar and flour into my body. Garbage in, garbage out. My body has been through a shredder. But I'll post more about that later.

Oh yeah, I make a reference to a "Dark Angel" character in this blog. She's basically my "evil twin" cartoon character that I occasionally bring out of the loathsome depths of my imagination. I wrote an earlier blog where I resurrected her, but I deleted it. It seems a bit silly now. But at that time, "Dark Angel" expressed what I was afraid to tell the world--that it sucked, and even worse, *I* sucked. I was in a whopper of a mood in those days. And it's entirely possible that I could go back into that soul-draining bottomless pit again. One day at a time, I don't want to go there again.)


No, I don't. I'm actually quoting my co-workers. It's a slow day, and we're hanging out talking about what to say to obnoxious guys. I never thought about saying "I have a boyfriend who just got out of prison," or "My husband was just dishonorably discharged from the Army for assaulting his commanding officer." I just roll my eyes and walk away. No words needed, as far as I'm concerned. I get that cold, nasty BWC (black woman crazy) attitude sometimes. It began in high school, and every once and a while, that sista-with-attitude behavior resurfaces. Inappropriate behavior for a Baha'i, and I'm glad I don't have many opportunities to show that side of my personality. I'm consciously trying to be a gentle, loving, considerate person these days, and it ain't easy to change old habits. Especially when the changing is taking place at the same time I'm living without sugar, flour and excess portions of food. The way I've been feeling lately, it wouldn't be a good idea to test my patience. There's nothing holding down my inner brat these days.



Other people have an "inner child". I have an inner brat, and she's been acting up lately. It's funny what happens when a person gets clean and sober off flour, sugar and excess portions. Yes, the program is working. That's the good part. In fact, that's the miraculous part because I have been abstinent in spite of the fact that: a) my parents are rapidly declining into dementia, and the process is very frightening; b) I'm having emotional reactions to life that I've never experienced before. c) I have no experience in how to deal with aforementioned emotional reactions to life since my only coping mechanism has been to eat some of my addictive foods.
d) I'm averaging one emotional meltdown a week in which I have a panic/anxiety attack or I become unbelievably afraid of people and/or leaving my house.

Apparently, this is normal for any food addict who is "coming down" off the addictive foods. It's not fun, but it's also instructive. This process has revealed to me how much I rely on food to make life manageable. This past summer, I got through my math class by chewing numerous pieces of sugar-free mints. It wasn't chocolate or Cinnabon's giant cinnamon rolls (oh God, deliver me from food fantasy), but that isn't the point. It's not "just" about calories. It's about engaging in addictive eating, which will eventually lead my addict brain to rationalize eating the chocolate or cinnamon roll. Other people do just fine with making sugarfree or low calorie substitutions. I have a friend who calls herself an emotional eater, and she is able to keep her weight under control by making those kinds of healthy substitutions. Not me. I turn into a sugarfree-eating junkie.

What I have isn't cured by going on a diet and making substitutions. I have to learn to rely on God instead of food to deal with life. When I'm anxious, scared, lonely, bored, tired, angry, impatient or just plain fed up with everything, I have to remember to leave the food alone and call on God for help. Unfortunately, asking God for help isn't my first choice very often. That's why I've decided to work a 12 step program that specifically helps food addicts like me. I need to be constantly reminded of how to deal with life on life's terms without stuffing myself. To paraphrase Earl, an addict and alcoholic who has a similar story to mine but with different substances, I can't be walking around unattended. Left to my own thoughts and machinations, I'll eat. And eat. And eat.

So this is what I do: I wake up at 5:30 am. (I'm not a morning person at all; it takes me at least a half hour to remember that I am a human being.) I say morning prayers, call my sponsor at 6:10 to tell her what I'm going to eat for the day (I don't get much of a choice; it's protein, vegetables and fruit in which the portions are strictly weighed and measured, and I have to write down my food the night before I call my sponsor); I have a half hour of "quiet time" in which I read the required meditation for the day and try the best I can to meditate without going back to sleep. I don't always accomplish this, however. After that, I rush to eat my yogurt with fruit (plain, with no sugar) and oatmeal (also no sugar), grab the food that I have packed the night before, then hurry to make the bus and train without succumbing to the panic that seems to overtake me every morning.

The rest of the day is work, prayer, phone calls, lunch, prayer, phone calls, work, prayers, dinner, go home, more phone calls or meetings, more prayers. Or very desperate pleading to God for His Divine Assistance and Intervention when chocolate or a loaf of French bread seems like a good idea. Oh, yeah. I attend three meetings a week plus make at least three phone calls every day to other members of my program besides my sponsor. By the time I get home at night, I'm exhausted. Luckily, I have a friend who helps me immensely by keeping me laughing. Without the laughter, I would probably snatch the car keys from my father and drive myself to the nearest mental health facility. That's not an exaggeration. I seriously considered making that trip this past Saturday. Even though I felt absolutely insane, I didn't eat. That's the good news.

No Dark Angel, Liz. :) I can feel her lurking around, waiting for the precise moment to strike. She made a slight comeback twice, but she's no match for God. I've had two instructive slips (and one of them let me know that I can't play around with eating sugar-laden food any more unless I want to be horribly sick), but I'm still with the program. Prayers for steadfastness are definitely welcome. I might give the Dark One some room on this blog, but that's it. She doesn't need to have much more than that from me. I've paid my dues to her with morbid obesity and two near-death experiences. That's quite enough.

Ya Baha'ul'Abha'!

God is sufficient unto me. He verily is the All-Sufficing. In Him, let the trusting trust.

Short and sweet

I read this story today on MSN about a woman who called 911 THREE times because her local McFat place ran out of chicken McNuggets. I just shook my head. When you do insane stuff like that, you know you have a serious food addiction. I never did that because I had a minuscule thread of dignity left in me. I couldn't get caught out on front street like that. Not when I could go to Smart&Final or Costco, buy one of those humongous bags of breaded chicken nuggets and bake them until they were all nice and toasty. Then I could eat without anyone seeing me devouring a whole pound of saturated fat and cholesterol-laden nuggets smothered in barbecue sauce. And I bought a pint of coleslaw just to have some veggies and make it "full meal deal", topped off with either cookies and milk or Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Hey, no need to bring the police into it when you can get your own food fix. Confessions of a food addict. It's a miracle that I topped out at 400 instead of 500 or 600 pounds. Thank God Almighty I don't have to live like that anymore.

I'm only one bite away from being as crazy about food as that woman. I don't take my recovery for granted. Food addiction KILLS people.

Woman has 911 meltdown over McNuggets
Fla. police say she called emergency number 3 times after store runs out

updated 6:19 p.m. PT, Tues., March. 3, 2009

FORT PIERCE, Fla. - Authorities say a Florida woman called 911 three times after McDonald's employees told her they were out of Chicken McNuggets.

A police report says 27-year-old Fort Pierce resident Latreasa L. Goodman told authorities she paid for a 10-piece last week but was later informed the restaurant had run out.

She says she was refused a refund and told all sales were final. A cashier told police she offered Goodman a larger portion of different food for the same price, but Goodman became irate.

"This is an emergency. If I would have known they didn't have McNuggets, I wouldn’t have given my money, and now she wants to give me a McDouble, but I don’t want one," Goodman told police, according to The Stuart News. "This is an emergency."

Police say Goodman was cited on a misuse of 911 charge. A current phone listing for Goodman couldn't be found.

A McDonald's spokesman says Goodman should have been given a refund, and she's being sent a gift card for a free meal.

Angela's post script: Latreasa didn't need a gift card. That's like giving a crack addict free rocks because you know she'll buy more. That woman needs help, not more of that garbage that is turning her body and brain into a gelatinous mess.