Put your left hip in, take your left hip out...

Pictures from left to right: Me at about 198 lbs on 8/24/09 (celebrating my grandson's birthday in William Land Park), and me at about 400 pounds circa 2000, and suffering at home.

Ain't no hokey pokey going on...it's hip surgery on October 1. Finally!!! I'm more excited about this than I was about gastric bypass over seven years ago! Maybe God, who, as I am beginning to discover is more connected to my "higher self" than I ever believed, knew that my tortuously food addicted mind would resist weight loss surgery. I sensed that while I was having my so-called "last meal" (what a joke) at an Indian restaurant with my family. Looking back, it seems so odd that I was much more excited about eating Chana Daal with rice and naan the night before surgery than the prospect of becoming "thin" for the first time in my adult life.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Indian food, "naan" is the bread that's served with entrees at most Indian restaurants. Without indulging in food porn,I have to admit that I would probably eat naan for hours without stopping if I wasn't in recovery. Considering what happens to a post-op gastric bypass patients after eating any kind of bread, I would seriously overdose on naan (or some other kind of bread that I'm tragically addicted to). Can you imagine THAT postmortem conversion in between the medical examiner and the assistants in the coroner's office?

Coroner's assistant 1: So, what killed that 400 pound woman we brought a couple of nights ago?

Medical examiner: Her records showed that she had gastric bypass surgery in 2002, and she kept stuffing her face. It was filled with some kind of bread that swelled up in her stomach, and stretched it beyond its capacity. It exploded under pressure and she hemorrhaged to death.

Coroner's assistant 2: I'll be damned. OD'ed on bread. At least it wasn't 4 pounds of steak like that guy who weighed 700 pounds!

Medical examiner: Yeah, don't remind me. I thought I'd smelled everything, but even I gagged when I opened him up!

Forgive my morbid digression. It's my way of reminding myself of the numerous reasons why I'm in recovery.

So, I'm scheduled for hip surgery on October 1, 2009 at Kaiser Permanente Hospital in Roseville, California. I'll be up and walking within a few hours after surgery, and released in 2-3 days. I'm betting on two days. I've had more than enough of hospitals in the past decade. But Kaiser has worked out the total hip replacement process to the degree that patients do not have to stay in convalescent care after surgery. They have a team of home visit nurses and physical therapists who come to the home and work with post-op hip patients. This was very good news to me;I get to sleep at night in my own bed and not bother with the staff and other patients making too much noise at night and waking me up! Sleep is a very precious commodity to me these days.

After three or four weeks of physical therapy at home, I'll be ready for...everything, LIFE! I can walk, in fact, I've been using my cane much less now that I weight 190 pounds (probably less, but I won't be able to weigh myself until the day before surgery). But there's a limit to how long and how fast I can walk. The pain is still extremely bad if I do too much. I'll still have pain in my severely messed up lower back, but at least I'll be able to balance myself and take some of the pressure of my right side and lower lumbar area. That means I'LL BE ABLE TO DANCE AGAIN! And finally do some Tae Kwon Do and maybe even some Jeet Kune Do! Watch out there, now! Ready or not, world, here I come, and THIS TIME, I'm not stopping for anything or anybody! I've been looking out at the world from my window and wishing I could be a part of it for too many years. In less than two weeks,I will be able to get out there and MOVE! Yes!!!

Most of all, I'm truly grateful. As the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous says, "If we are painstaking about this phase of our development, we will be amazed before we are half way through." I'm more than amazed. I'm humbled by the loving grace of God in the life of this low bottom, gutter-level food addict.

Is there any Remover of Difficulties save God? Say: Praise be God! He is God! All are His Servants, and all abide by His Bidding! A prayer by the Ba'b (The Baha'i Faith)

Michael Joe Jackson Memories

Photo courtesy of photobucket/iansaintlaurent
The great tragedy of mankind at this time is the failure of the vast majority of human beings to heed the Divine Call, and this is in large part occasioned by the failure of most of those who have believed to live up to the high standard that Bahá'u'lláh has set. This is the condition in which we must work in our service to mankind, turning a sin-covering eye to the faults of others, and striving in our own inmost selves to purify our lives in accordance with the divine Teachings.

(The Universal House of Justice, Messages 1963 to 1986, p. 498)



You already know. Michael "The King of Pop", aka "The Gloved One" died on June 25th, 2009. If you were like me, you didn't believe it when you heard it. I tossed off the story as another ugly rumor about the man. In fact, I dismissed the entire cardiac arrest report as implausible--from my point of view, only morbidly obese or the elderly/severely ill people die from cardiac arrest. Certainly not Michael Jackson! He didn't fit the profile. Well, I'm not a doctor. And as Dr. Sanjay Gupta said on CNN in regards to Michael, "...being thin isn't an indication of overall health". Huh. That's still difficult for me to wrap my brain around. I've spent so much of my life being morbidly obese and wanting to be thin that the concept of a thin person being unhealthy seems too remote to fathom.

I know there are still a lot of people making "Jacko" jokes, or they are "tired" (like my father) of the constant Michael Jackson coverage on T.V. (Note to Dad and others: turn the boob tube OFF!) However, I am trying to the best of my ability to live up to the tenets of my faith, the Baha'i Faith. It isn't easy. When people want to dissect someone's character and how he conducted his daily life, I get the urge to join in with the rabble of the crowd. More and more, however, I also hear a soft, kind voice urging me to refrain from doing this. It's a bit of a lonely place to be, only seeing and saying good things about other people.

Beyond many of the people I know in the Baha'i Faith and in my recovery program (and my own children,praise God),there aren't too many others attempting to see only the good in their fellow inhabitants of this planet. In fact, this point of view is considered, "naive", "unrealistic" or "Pollyanna". Right now, I can honestly say that I do see the "dark side" of others. It's just that I am CHOOSING to focus my attention on the positive characteristics of the people, and if there isn't much there, I try to refrain from comment. Admittedly, this is difficult, especially in regards to my ex-husband and former Vice President Dick Cheney. Oh, and Condaleeza Rice. (I have my reasons!) Obviously, I'm not perfect. But I'm trying.

This is all part of my personal recovery/transformation program. As I open up to see and hear the good in this world, the more I see the positive, loving aspects of myself, a human being living on this big, blue-green marble called Earth. And I'm beginning to love her inhabitants a lot more. This unanticipated benefit to developing "a sin-covering eye"--as I look for the good in people, I can more readily see the good that is within me. I never thought that was at all possible, at least until now. Two events had to happen--I got into recovery from food addiction, and I began deepening my knowledge and understanding of the Baha'i Faith. Ever since I began this leg of my journey through life, each day has been both a gift and a blessing, even in the seemingly "bad" times.

Now, you are saying, what does all this have to do with Michael Jackson? Get to the point! (So impatient, my friends!) Well, I've read a lot of mostly positive comments about Michael Jackson, but the negative ones are also beginning to gain momentum. I've voiced my own doubts about MJ over the past two decades--his bizarre behavior, his ever-changing appearance (he was once SO handsome!)--I've said it all, just like so many other people. Yes, Michael had problems. And so do I. I'm an addict, not a drug addict, but a hardcore, gutter level bottomed-out food addict. I can relate to the characteristics of ANY type of addict, whether they be alcohol, drugs, compulsive spending, workaholism, codependency/enabling, or whatever. The substances, activities and behaviors of each type of addict may be different, but the addict mind is all the same--give me more, more MORE!

I do suspect that Michael was one of us--an addict of some sort. I have no proof of that, of course. But from the comments I heard over the past few days from different people who knew him, it seems that he spent many years in a massive internal battle that he was trying to fight by himself. Ultimately, when an addict tries to conquer addiction on his own, the "beast" (addiction) usually wins the war. I hope that wasn't the case with Michael. Since I feel this way, however, I can't point the finger at him and crow about his outrageous behavior and public mistakes. I can see how I used to be like him, a lonely person in a self-imposed, hellish prison that was constructed as a "shield" against pain and the imagined cause of it--the outside world. All I can say is, "there by the grace of God go I", and pray that Michael works through his earthly sorrows in the afterlife so he can be closer to the Almighty Creator.

Right now, I have so many wonderful memories of the hours of pleasure Michael and his brothers have given me. It all began when my mother came home from shopping at the McChord Air Force Base commissary and base exchange. The year was 1969, and our family was living in a three-bedroom, one bath home in Tacoma, Washington. Among the bags and bags of groceries and household supplies she bought (my parents always stocked up whenever they shopped on-base) was a record album she picked up featuring five extremely good-looking brothers on the cover.

"Here," she said while handing the album to me and my sister Tam to inspect. "I thought you girls might like this."

We didn't just like it; we loved it. We wore that album, and many others that followed out so badly that record needle kept skipping across entire tracks. But the highlight for me came in 1973--the year the Jackson Five FINALLY came to the Pacific Northwest to do a show at the Seattle Coliseum (now re-named whatever-corporate-sponsor arena).

I shrieked like a banshee being pummeled by Godzilla when I first heard the announcement on the radio, which got the immediate attention of my family. They vigorously questioned my sanity, except my eight year old brother, Ricky. He was too busy laughing. I ignored them, and called my friend Patti to tell her. At least she understood me. She screamed louder than I did. (We were fourteen years old, people. Hormone overload and obsessional behavior is just part of a teen-aged girl's development. Remember that if you ever have the misfortune of hosting a slumber party for your daughter and her friends. Don't expect to sleep through the constant chatter, laughter and screams!)

Two months interceding between the day I heard the commercial for "J5" day and the concert date--sixty days of anxiety, pulsating excitement and daydreaming about Jermaine Jackson (HUGE crush on him)during my classes at Baker Junior High School. On the night before the big day, I slept even less I usually did on Christmas Eve. I was awake and getting dressed at the first of dawn.

"That's a damn shame," my mother remarked when she saw me starching and ironing the pantsuit I had bought for the occasion. "I can barely get you out of bed in the morning to go to school, but you'll wake up with the roosters to see that Jackson boy!"

I didn't care what she said. She just didn't understand (Cue DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince); I was going to see my idols, the Jackson Five. NOTHING was going to mess up that day for me, not even the inevitable hair-do ruining Seattle rain. (Which it almost did.)

I don't remember much else about preparing to leave for the drive to Seattle. It was probably the typical family chaos scene whenever we took a trip somewhere. More than likely, we were late picking up my friend Patti from her house, and when we finally got on Interstate 5 North, my father was probably speeding and complaining while my mother kept trying to navigate by telling him what he was doing wrong. In the meantime, Tam, Patti and I sat in the back seat of my parents' blue Chevy station wagon, nervously whispering about the upcoming show while Ricky (siting in the front seat with my parents) kept turning around and making faces at us.

Then it happened--a miracle, literally. The drizzling rain let up, and the sun began to peek out from behind the clouds as my father exited Interstate 5 to downtown Seattle, and stopped at a red light. While we were waiting for the light to turn green, Tam started making these weird, strangulated noises and pointing wildly at something to the right of me. Puzzled, I turned to look, and I saw THEM--the Jackson Five! They were in a long, black limousine, and by the intercession of God's Love (and great sense of humor), the sudden appearance of the sun illumined the interior of the car so we could get a good look at all of them: Jackie, Tito, Jermaine, Marlon, Michael and members of their entourage.

Pandemonium broke out in the back seat of my parents' blue station wagon. All three of us emitted stratosphere-shattering high-octave screams that must have sounded like a sonic boom to my parents and Ricky.

"What's wrong with y'all?" Dad roared, while Ricky was beside himself with laughter. Mom just stared at us, horrified. She was a southern-born, genteel Libra, and such behavior was unbecoming of any young lady as far as she was concerned, even more so for the two daughters she had raised. We should have known better. Well, maybe Tam should have. She's a Pisces. I was, and always will be, a tomboyish, rebellious Aries with an innate disdain for "Ms. Manners" and Emily Post.

"Dad!" I screamed. "Hurry up, step on the gas, we have to catch up to that car!"

"What? What car? What you are talkin' about?"

"Don't you see that limo...hurry up, they're getting away!"

"Who?!!"

"The Jackson Five!!!" Tam, Patti and I all screeched in unison, which prompted even more raucous hilarity from my incorrigibly mischievous brother ("They screamed in three part harmony!").

"Awww...y'all imagining things now! You got those Jackson boys on the brain!"

But I was desperate. All I could see was my ONE chance to see and talk to Jermaine, to tell him that he meant the whole universe to me, and...my father was preventing that from happening.

"Dad, please, c'mon, the light is green; hurry up, we can still catch up to them!"

But to my disappointment, he barely tapped on the accelerator, and the limo carrying my heart's desire disappeared into traffic.

"Ain't no way I'm gonna have an accident just so you girls can act a fool!"

I was pissed off at him for years about that.

We did, of course, see them about two hours later. My parents wanted to do the tourist thing and walk around downtown. They offered to buy the three of us hot dogs and sodas, but we refused (Ricky eagerly made his order). My stomach was roiling with nervous anticipation, and for once in my life, food was the furthest thing on my mind. One look at Patti and Tam told me that they felt the same way-- they just wanted to get to our seats in the Arena and wait for our beloved Jacksons to come out on stage. We told my parents and Ricky that we would meet them in the same spot after the concert.

Strangely enough, I can't remember much about the show. All I can recall is that my heart seemed like it was pumping a thousand beats per second, and I nearly lost my voice and my mind when the five brothers hit the stage. When Jermaine sang, "Daddy's Home", I bit down on my left hand to contain myself. The teeth marks were still visible the next day.

The lasting memory that both my sister and I have of that concert is not about Jermaine or Marlon (Tam's fave)--it's Michael. The closing song was "I Wanna Be Where You Are", and MJ belted it out--heart, mind, body and soul. He kept singing and dancing, even when he was backstage. It was electrifying,incredible. Pure magic. The three of us sat in our chairs after the show was over, too stunned to move. We didn't know it before, but we knew it then. We had just witnessed a genius sharing his God-given talent with us. What an awesome privilege!

All I can say is, thank you Michael. May God bless you throughout your continuing spiritual journey.

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."

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

Hello, it's me...

I used to imagine that I looked like the woman on the left, but what I really looked like was the woman on the right. Denial is an enormous part of food addiction.

And I've thought about this for a long, long time,(props to Todd Rungren and the Isley Brothers) which has been creating a blog that is dedicated to my addiction issues. Food is my most deadly and persistent addiction, but there are most definitely others, as I have discovered the hard way. I've heard in 12 step programs for years that "the fat on my body was only the outward symptom of a much deep problem". I heard it, but I had no idea what that meant in practical terms, and even more to the point, how that term applied directly to me. I just wanted to lose weight; I didn't care about any psychobabble BS. Life, however, taught me otherwise. Because of my resistance to change and defiance of anything that remotely appeared to be accepting help from others, it took twenty years and a weight gain up to approximately 400 pounds before I began to glimpse a slight understanding of my fat body being a symptom of a much deeper problem. I have a living problem; I don't do well with accepting "life on life's terms". Like any other self-centered addict, I want what I want when I want it. And I better get it right now or else I will soothe my rage/frustration/disappointment/anxiety with an apricot croissant, or fresh baked chocolate chip cookies and a glass of cold milk. Or a pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Or my Mom's homemade meat loaf and macaroni and cheese(this past tense, my Mom passed away on New Year's Eve 2008, and I'm missing her and her cooking). See what I mean? I used food to get through the ups and downs of life. And there are a lot of those in any given day. I created plenty of reasons to stuff myself with large quantities of food of the most dangerously fattening kind. And I didn't stop using food, even though my eating nearly cost me life on three different occasions.

I used to blog about these issues on my other blog, which is called "Yeah...and so, anyway..." (http://angelfly72.blogspot.com/), but I decided to dedicate that blog to my thoughts about my journey as a member of the Baha'i Faith. Here, I'm going to talk about the stuff that I am learning through my recovery from food addiction. There is definitely overlap because my religion and my recovery are a vital and inseparable part of my life. But I found that I needed to create two different blogs because the posts were too long. I guess I have a lot to write about!

Anyway, this is the beginning. I'll start out tomorrow with some of my addiction posts from the other blog, and eventually work into where I am now in recovery. As Stan Lee says, "Excelsior!"