Similarities between my addiction to food and drug addiction

David and Nic Sheff

Last week, I started reading David Sheff's book A Beautiful Boy, and his son Nic's book, We All Fall Down. I tried reading both of them at the same time, meaning, read a chapter of David's book, then a chapter of Nic's. But for some reason, I didn't want to read Nic's book. I told myself that the reason was that David's book was well researched and beautifully written. I come from the same generation, and I'm accustomed to reading the concise, descriptive style of writing the elder Sheff displays in his book. The more in-your-face, raw style of his son was jarring to me, or that's what I told myself. My first reactions to books and life situations aren't what they seem at the time. There's often something rumbling underneath the surface of my initial reaction. Usually, it's something I don't want to face.

I wish I could say that since David Sheff is from my generation and a journalist that I identified more with his story. I admire his writing and his dedication to setting the stage, providing the research that is necessary for understanding the most complex pressing social and health issue facing this country right now. And, for the sake of pride (which, as we all know, cometh before the fall), I would like to say that I belong to his group of esteemed journalists. But that would be a lie. My food addiction and extremely low self-esteem obliterated  every dream I ever had of working for a major newspaper or magazine when I was younger. And, he managed to earn a living doing what he obviously loves. That would be another no for me, for the reasons stated previously. And, if that isn't enough, he lives in Marin County (California) with his wife and two children, who are Nic's step-siblings. Yes, Marin County. I don't know if I would have lived there, but if I had pursued my journalism career to the best of my ability, I probably wouldn't have lived in the high crime, low income places as consistently as I had over the past 25+ years. And I probably wouldn't be broke now. However, I still would have been an addict, so my long term effectiveness in the career of my choice would have been questionable.

Even though I am 55 years old, have been married and divorced, raised three children as a single parent and now have a grandson, I realized that I had much more in common with twenty-something Nic than his father. The reason is simple:  even though David Sheff was going out of his mind with worry and doing everything he could to help his son, he doesn't appear to have the same kind of problems with addictions that his son and I have. He's human, that's for sure, and he made plenty of mistakes. But when he discovered that his son was most definitely an addict, he approached the problem in a way that most addicts wouldn't...he gathered up all the information that he possibly could, and he asked for help. Would an addict do that? Absolutely not. No matter what the particular substance or behavior any addict is into, we all share some pretty basic characteristics: denial and a lifelong membership in the I-can-take-care-of-this-myself-so-leave-me-alone club. To sum it up, addicts are people who desperately need help, but they won't get it until some catastrophe, life or mental health-threatening situation happens to them and they have to say, "All right; I give up. Help me."

And sometimes even that doesn't work. I can tell you all about that. I've been in relapse. And, I think, so can Nic Sheff. He has relapsed countless times. Here's a few quotes from his book that echo my thoughts and feelings about myself, addiction and recovery a little too much: 

Page 20, paragraph 8: "Writing my book--finishing it--getting it published--that's like the one thing I have to hold on to. I mean, really, since I was, like, six years old (age four for me, and I was frustrated because I didn't know how to write the alphabet yet), my dream has been to get a book published." Nic's treatment center counselor tells him to stop trying to write and talking about writing and publishing with other clients in treatment. I remember telling sponsors that writing was the only thing I do well, and it's only thing that keeps me sane during recovery. I had a lot to learn.

On top of page 139 is the ubiquitous "your addict is in control" speech. Unlike Nic, I never said anything whenever a sponsor or another recovery fellow ran that one down for me. But inside, I was fuming. I have to give Nic kudos, at least he voiced his discontent to his treatment counselor: "I can't talk about having doubts or anything? I mean, I'm telling you, I'm genuinely freaked about this whole thing. Should I just, like pretend I'm not feeling this stuff?" I always said, "Yeah, you're right." And I still did whatever I wanted to do anyway.

I also heard, "you are not unique, you just you think you are." That really pissed me off. I don't know if it's right, but at times like that, I automatically switch into "children should be seen, not heard" mode and clam up so tight that minutes of silence goes by. What I was thinking was, "Bitch, how do you know what I think? You don't know me!" I don't think saying that to a sponsor is appropriate, however. I guess those "I" ("I feel really angry right now.") statements is better than popping off with a smart-ass remark, which I never did because my mother drilled it into my brain to "be respectful" aka, shut-up-when-folks-who-know-more-than-you-do-are-talking. Hence, the silence. Actually, at the behest of some of my recovery fellows, I did try one of those "I" statement things about how I felt on a sponsor. Her response was, "So? Feelings come and go. They don't matter. What matters in recovery is taking the next right action."  All right? Recovery folks say "take the next right action" a LOT. But what does that MEAN, exactly? I need some definitions for these terms, something I can understand and hang onto. After all, I know I am a low-bottom, gutter level food ADDICT. But what I don't know is how to "do life" without flour, sugar, and excess portions of food.  The problem was, when I did ask, I didn't like the response: "Pray. Make phone calls. Read the Big Book. Write, not your kind of writing (as if "my kind of writing" had the cooties), but recovery writing." Well. That's not a whole helluva a lot of fun now, is it?

On page 177, first paragraph, Nic writes, "As much as I try to just be like everyone else, I always end up leaving feeling hollowed out, fucking gutted--like I need a drink--like I must be some entirely different species from the rest of humanity. I swear, sometimes I really do wonder if I'd be better suited as a hermit living off in a cabin somewhere--away from all people and pressures and judgements and responsibilities."

Yeah. Of course, I would rather have a deep dish pizza with garlic breadsticks or some fried chicken with greens and super-buttery cornbread (even though this kind of food would make me do the "vomitus projectus" thing because of my gastric bypass surgery), but other than being addicted to a different substance, I relate to Nic's sentiments about being better off living in a cabin somewhere 100%. In fact, whenever I read about people being locked in solitary confinement, I would think, what's so bad about that? At least no one would be bothering me. And being like everyone else? Yeah, I've always been hopelessly inept at that. I don't know how to do it, even with people in my recovery groups. I know it's me and my messed up thought patterns, but it's difficult for me to come up with something to say. Someone approaching me and saying, "How are you, Angela?" completely freaks me out. Do I tell them what I think they want to hear or the truth? Like Nic, I've always opted for what I thought people wanted to hear. Life seems so much safer that way.

And finally, this little gem from the second paragraph on page 326: "My whole life I've been looking for the easy way out. It's like I've been wearing those little plastic water wings, pretending that I could swim but never actually taking the time to learn how. So here I am, twenty-four years old, and I can't even swim. The water wings are gone, and I'm sinking--I'm going down and I'm gonna die if i can't get someone to teach me how to swim."

At fifty five years old, I feel exactly the same way. Sad. But Nic pulled himself out. And others have, too. I'm going to have to swallow my pride and ask for help. I have to let someone throw me a life preserver instead of sinking by myself. And also like Nic, I need a lot of help, not only from my food addiction 12 step program, but also from mental health professionals. For people like me with "grave emotional and mental disorders", there has to be more than one source of help: God (of course), my 12 step fellowship (who I will have to learn how to trust), psychiatrists and therapists. After all, it is MY recovery, no one else's. For the very first time ever, I recognize that I need to do this, and to stop being ashamed of the fact that I do need extra help. Thanks, Nic, for sharing your story and helping me see myself reflected in your words.

Food Addiction Speaks

I received this from a friend who is also a food addict. It's a humbling reminder of what I and so many other people are dealing with.  Recently, I have been experiencing the thoughts expressed in this article (I have no idea who wrote it, but whoever it was nailed the target). This is quite frightening because I can't afford to let up on my program, especially with my health issues and history of family addictions. It's no joke. Food addiction KILLS. 

www.foodaddicts.org

Hello... just in case you forgot me....

I am your disease.....

I Hate meetings....I Hate higher powers.   I Hate anyone who has a program.  To all  who come in contact with me, I wish you death and I wish you suffering.

Allow me to introduce myself, I am the disease of addiction,.  I am cunning, baffling and powerful

Thats Me.  I have killed millions and I am pleased.

 I love to catch you with the element of surprise.  I love pretending I am your friend and lover.

I have given you comfort haven't I?  Wasn't I there when your were lonely?

When you wanted to die, didn't you call on me?  I was there.  I love to make you hurt.  I love to make you cry.  Better yet, I love to make you so numb you can neither hurt nor cry.  When you can't feel anything at all.  This is true gratification.  And all that I ask from you is long term suffering.  I've been there for you always.  When things were going right in your life, you invited me.  You said you didn't deserve these good things, and I was the only one who would agree with you;.  Together we were able to destroy all the good things in your life.  People don't take me seriously.  They take strokes seriously, heart attacks, even diabetes, they take seriously.  Fools.  Without my help these things would not be possible.  I am such a hated disease, and yet I do not come uninvited.  You choose to have me.  So many have chosen me over reality and Peace. 

More than you hate me I hate all of you who have a 12 step program.  Your program, Your meetings, Your higher power.  All of these things weaken me, and I can't function in the manner I am accustomed to.  Now I must lie here quietly.  You don't see me but I a growing bigger than ever.  When you only exist, I may live.  When you live I may only exist.  But I am here....

Now until we meet again, If we meet again, I wish you death and suffering.

Drive-by spammin' web site sleazoids

First, the !@#$%ing drive-by spammers who took over this web site (and many others here on Blogger): a pox upon you and those of your ilk, unkind and barbarous sirs! Okay, that's lame, but I'm working on keeping the old Aries temper within reasonable boundaries these days. For the sake of my continued recovery from life-long food addiction, I can't afford to have lingering anger and resentments to fester and boil over. (Even though the drive by spam took place when my Internet connection was down and my health was on the downside; oh, those low down, dirty sleaze-suckin'!@#$oles taking advantage of a lady when she's down and out! No class!) Anyway, I have to try my best to refrain from such actions because they might lead me to consider Domino's newly revised pizza with the improved crust that once tasted like cardboard.

Now, you are probably asking yourself, Angela, how do you know what Domino's pizza crust used to taste like? Obviously, I ate it. Can't lie. Domino's was cheap and they delivered. When a food addict gets into the "phenomenon of craving" aka a serious need of a fix but has very little money, a cardboard crust seems better than nothing at all. Of course, that's in the opinion of a desperate addict in need of a fix, as pathetic as that seems to me right now. I used to say that I never ate anything I didn't like, but that's not true. I had that flour/high fat protein jones going on, and if I couldn't afford Zelda's (pizza heaven here in Sacramento, IMO)I was willing to pay for a knock off version of my drug. It's kind of like the drunk who's low on cash and buy cough syrup or vanilla extract to get a buzz. Disgusting, but hey, that's what addiction does. Warps the mind to do unreasonable things.

Hmmmm....now that I think about it, THAT'S what I should wish upon those website-crashin' Neanderthals! Yeah! May your nights be filled with a thousand cardboard crust pizzas with anchovies that tear up the roof of your mouths, and your mornings be filled with acid indigestion and clogged bowels! Heh. That'll learn ya!

I have more to post, but I have to get to bed. I have to have a tooth extracted tomorrow, Act 4 of Angela's Teeth Opera that started last June. Hopefully, the finale will be an exhilarating success, and I walk away with a minimum of the AlvinandtheChipmunks look in effect. Catch y'all later in the week.

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.

Recurring hernia rupture, toothaches, life

I have three types of hernias--umbilical, incisional and epigastrica. The first two have ruptured. I'm hoping the third won't.


Things that a post op gastric bypass patient SHOULD NEVER DO: a) Eat any flour products of any kind. You WILL stretch your pouch. And if you have a lap band, ask yourself how many times do have to have that thing tightened; b) eat more than the recommended amounts of food that your surgeon and primary care physician advises for you. This is for the same reason listed in a); c)In fact, you should do everything your doctors tell you to do as if your butt's on fire and you're about to turn to cinders if you don't follow instructions; d) DO NOT, EVER IN THIS LIFE OR ANY OTHER, EAT GOMASIO AFTER ANY FORM OF WEIGHT LOSS SURGERY!

Why am I saying this? Well, first of all, many people don't know what gomasio is. Here's a formal definition from About.com's Macrobiotic Cooking section: Gomasio is sesame salt. It is made of toasted sesame seeds and sea salt, and is rich in calcium and iron. Sounds good and healthy, right? Something that a recovering food addict should have as a healthier alternative to salt, right? Yep. It is healthier, unless you have had Roux-en-Y gastric bypass surgery, which means that little pouch your surgeon made out of your stomach cannot process sesame seeds. In fact, sesame seeds tears very nasty holes in that little pouch, which is what happened to me last week. The funny thing is, the same thing happened to me around this time last year, too. It was for a different reason, but once you have an abdominal wall hernia, it's REALLY easy to have one of those holes open up in another spot. And that's what happened to me, which is what I realized as I lay in my hospital bed.

First of all, I had been breaking my abstinence, which means quite simply that I had been eating things that were NOT part of my food plan, AND I was eating amounts of food that were larger than what I had committed to my sponsor. So let's add up all the elements here--eating bread (a definite no-no for someone who's had weight loss surgery), pasta, cheese, cookies, trail mix, cashews, almonds, crackers, bagels, peanut butter, peanut butter-filled preztels, croissants...if I could have possibly lived on bread alone, I would have. Bread and cheese. That's all I wanted, all day long. I'm sure eating that stuff opened the hernia even more than the gomasio.

Here's Wikipedia's explanation of a hernia:

By far the most common hernias develop in the abdomen, when a weakness in the abdominal wall evolves into a localized hole, or "defect", through which adipose tissue, or abdominal organs covered with peritoneum, may protrude. Another common hernia involves the spinal discs and causes sciatica.

Hernias may or may not present either with pain at the site, a visible or palpable lump, or in some cases by more vague symptoms resulting from pressure on an organ which has become "stuck" in the hernia, sometimes leading to organ dysfunction. Fatty tissue usually enters a hernia first, but it may be followed by or accompanied by an organ.

Most of the time, hernias develop when pressure in the compartment of the residing organ is increased, and the boundary is weak or weakened.

* Weakening of containing membranes or muscles is usually congenital (which explains part of the tendency of hernias to run in families), and increases with age (for example, degeneration of the annulus fibrosus of the intervertebral disc), but it may be on the basis of other illnesses, such as Ehlers-Danlos syndrome or Marfan syndrome, stretching of muscles during pregnancy, losing weight in obese people, etc., or because of scars from previous surgery. (Angela's note: I had the last two conditions.)

Thank God I stayed away from doing a lot of sweets. I did some, but that dumping thing that happens to post op gastric bypass patients puts a damper on a "good" time. The splitting headaches, cold sweats, shaking, feeling faint--no thanks. Sweets, as weird as it seems considering my eating history, were things that I ate in moderation. (Hey, I said it's weird!) So,I did not go buck wild with the sweet stuff. Why not, you ask? Sensible question, considering that I was already messing myself up my weakened abdominal wall with all that pouch-swelling bread; why not go all the way? Why not spend a day at the Cheesecake Factory, or at Freeport Bakery, where they make some of Sacramento's most sumptuous pies, cookies, cakes and tarts? I have no logical answer for that one, except that in the deep recesses of my food addicted-brain, I acknowledged that what I was doing wasn't very wise, and that I was already risking another hernia rupture. The very nasty complications from eating too much sugar would have put me in my final resting place. I narrowly avoided it this time. God must have a plan for me, but I know I can't keep doing this to myself.

Now, here's the low down and dirty deal--I have been obese since age 9, morbidly obese since age 25. I'm now 51. All those years of dieting and gaining weight over and over again has stretched my abdominal wall to breaking point, or as my surgeon told me, "it has been severely compromised." I created the first hernia the night I had binged beyond human capacity, which I described here in an earlier blog.


So that umbilical cord hernia was sewn up; I went home and within months, forgot about it. Forgot that once the abdominal wall, that precious muscle tissue that keeps essential organs like the intestines, the colon, the bladder, becomes toilet paper thin after years of abusing food, there is a high risk of having another weak spot will break open. When that happens, those precious organs are displaced and sometimes burble out of that little hole in the wall. That event is known in medical circles as organ incarceration, or as I wrote in last years blog, "jailed guts". Last year, it was part of my large intestine that tried to escape through the hernia opening. This year it was a section of my colon. That was not good. Not good at all.

My surgeon, the calm, cool and collected Dr. Mortensen, informed me during our pre-op talk (actually, she did a lot more talking than I did because I was just a whisper away from shrieking in pain) that they would do some exploratory procedures first with two laproscopic cameras. If I wasn't hurting so badly, I would have geeked out and said, "Cool! Go for it!" Even now, I really think the idea of having tiny cameras inside of me taking pictures of my innards is pretty awesome.(Yes, I know I'm weird.)

"If we go in and find infection(in or around your colon), we may have to surgically remove part of it," she told me.

I didn't react to that at the time because the morphine was just beginning to kick in. But what I didn't realize was I could have been wheeled out of the operating room equipped with a brand-spanking new colostomy bag attached to me. Now, that right there is not cool. Exposing the world to the product of my elimination system is a very unflattering look, even for a fashion dud like me.

Luckily, that didn't happen. I was fitted with a synthetic mesh to keep the hernia from opening again, sewed and stapled up. I do have a drain attached at the incision site, though. That will be removed this Thursday at my follow-up appointment with the calm, cool and collected Dr. Mortensen. I have a third hernia, located much higher than the other two. It hasn't opened up yet, but the good doctor is obviously concerned that it might. We will talk about this when we meet again.

A week prior to this surgical event, I had a massive toothache. Turned out to be a very deep gum infection. I'm in need of a root canal, scheduled for May 4, 2009. And the wreckage of my addictive eating past just keeps piling up.

My problem is that I have underestimated the power of the dark side. Being a food addict means that if I'm not 100% diligent about working my recovery program, I will die way before I'm supposed to. Slow suicide, plain and simple. And I'm not ready to go, not like that. So I'm abstinent, today. And I have been since the surgery. Have I learned my lesson? I can't say. Look at what's happened to me in the course of a year. If nothing else, I've learned it doesn't matter that I very much dislike the way my food in this program tastes. I just have to endure it for one meal at a time so I can live one more day, and pray at night that I can wake up in the morning and do what I need to do to remain alive another day. That's what it is for me right now. And I refuse to think about it any other way. I'm not happy, joyous and free yet. But I'm alive, and still able to raise a little hell while I'm in this realm of existence. For today, that's enough.

Breaking real bad...

Flour products and fat. That's what kills abstinence for me. Forget cake, ice cream, cookies...I'll eat 'em, but I CRAVE bread and cheese. In almost any form.

Detox sucks butt. Seriously. I got into a really, really bad space that more than likely began months ago: "So what if the protein isn't EXACTLY 4.0 ounces? It's not like I'm going to gain any weight if it's 4.05!" "Dammit, I don't feel like making outreach calls right now. I wanna read my book (or watch a movie)! I'll make six calls tomorrow!" "I'm too tired to read the Big Book! I've read it about 100 times already!"

Not EVEN a slippery slope. Try fast-moving mudslide down the mountain that ends with a big dirty mess at the bottom. That's what breaking my abstinence has been like for me. And denial? Angela bright and cheery: "No, I'm o.k.! Everything's fine!" I slid down that muddy mountain hand in hand with Ms. Major Denial. I'm puddling deep in the Valley in the Shadow of Death. That's what breaking my abstinence means to me right now.

There is a rather worrisome snag in doing this life-saving program--I hate the food, meaning, the food I have to eat for recovery. It's healthy, nutritious and all that, but it's not very tasty. ESPECIALLY breakfast--plain yogurt, plain oatmeal (and I do mean PLAIN, as in no milk, butter, natural or artificial sugar)and a serving of fruit. Of course, I only like the fruit. The rest is tortuously disgusting. But apparently, a low bottom, gutter level food addict like me has to learn to eat for nutrition only. Taste has nothing to do with it. If it tastes good, I'll want to eat more. And more. And more. So I grimly tolerate the stuff. I used to put artificial sweetener on the yogurt and oatmeal, but I can't do that anymore. It just leads me back to my addictive eating. So right now, I loathe breakfast. And it used to be my favorite meal of the day.

This is where I am right now. I have to be honest because pretending to be Ms. Mary Sunshine about the food just got me into lying about what I was really eating, and a seriously dangerous break in abstinence. With that in mind, I end this post by saying this to get out what I am truly feeling right now:

IT SUCKS!!! IT SUCKS;IT SUCKS; IT SUCKS!!!!!

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.

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.

My story

I wanted to re-post this blog with an update. As of last Friday, my weight was 178 pounds, down from an all-time high of 400 back in 2000. As noted in this re-post, I have no official record of that weight, but come on--I am five feet, seven inches, and I BUSTED OUT of a size 54 waist (that means my waist was more than 54 inches round) jeans! And a correction to the re-post: I reviewed my medical records again, and my highest weight on record was NOT 358 lbs, but 365! Denial. Amazing, isn't it?

I've had the much anticipated complete replacement of left hip, which has gone extremely well. It's still healing, but it's amazing how the pain I had in my lower back and left hip has lessened. But am I ready to take Jeet Kune Do and salsa classes yet? Nope. A lifetime of morbid obesity is the "gift" that just keeps on giving.

I have experienced the monumental re-surfacing of health issues that took the backstage position to the more life-threatening and painful events, namely, fibroid tumors/menorhaggia/chronic anemia and severe osteoarthritis of the left hip. Now that those very serious issues (along with morbid obesity), have been dismissed, these other problems have taken center stage. They are: a) the deterioration of my abdominal wall which is causing ongoing hernia problems that threaten to rupture as two others have done; b) a two inch split in the tendon that runs along the left side of my right foot and through the ankle; c)osteoarthritis of both knees.

Undoubtably, losing over 200 pounds has made a difference in both the treatment and recovery from my previous health problems. And it is making a difference in my current treatment, which includes a soon-to-be scheduled abdominal wall reinforcement surgery (one of the surgeons who did an emergency hernia repair on me in 2008 will be sewing some kind of material onto my abdominal wall so it will stop tearing) and I will be wearing a brace with arch support on my right foot that will hopefully allow the tendon to heal itself. I hope it does because if that doesn't work, I will have to have another surgery to repair. That would suck, royally. Oh, and my primary care physician gave me cortisone shots in my knees. That has helped, but it's not a cure. I'm doing some natural healing methods (herbs, glucosamine sulfate, MSM homeopathic arnica tablets and healing visualization) to deal with the arthritis in my knees. I haven't completely worn out the cartilidge in them like I did with my left hip, so I have some tissue to work with.

What causes an abdominal wall to be weak? Here's what did it for me: years of gaining and losing massive amounts of weight since age 6, being chronically morbidly obese for almost 30 years, getting pregnant and giving birth three times, and having several surgeries performed in the abdominal area: tubal ligation, gastric bypass, uterine ablation with D/C, hysterectomy,and two emergency hernia repairs. As for the busted tendon, flat feet, morbid obesity and putting extra pressure on my right foot to avoid causing more pain to my arthritis-weakened left hip.

All I can say is if you are morbidly obese, get help!





I realize that there might be people who come across this blog and wonder why I write so much about recovery from food addiction. Well, the answer I have to that question is to share my story with those who have never read it. And to those who know my story, this is why I continue to write about this stuff. I can't afford to forget what I was like before. My life depends on me remembering what I was like, and to be grateful for where I am today.


My name is Angela, and I'm a food addict. My highest weight on record was 358 pounds, but I know I was bigger than that. I busted the zipper on a pair of size 54 waist jeans, the only ones I could find in a big woman's specialty shop that would somewhat fit me. Those jeans are still in my closet because I never want to forget how far down the road I was with this disease. I'm grateful to be alive. Food addiction has nearly killed me three times already, and I've come to realize that life is not guaranteed, just because someone has managed to escape death by the skin of her teeth.

My first near death came around 1988. I was going through a divorce, my soon-to-be-ex was in jail for various drug charges and having an on-going relationship with a 14 year old girl, I had to move back to my parents' house with my three children (all under age 5 at the time) and all I could do was eat. Not just eat, but big-time binge. I was putting down heaping platters of food. It was the night after Christmas, and I had been eating leftovers for the traditional family holiday feast, one huge platter of food every hour. I lost track of how much food I ate, and even though a soft voice in my head kept pleading with me to stop, I couldn't. Not even my younger brother Ricky, who I loved dearly, could keep me away from the refrigerator. And he played football. At that point, I probably would have tackled him to get to the dressing and gravy, or the sweet potato pie with whipped cream.

Finally, I passed out at some point on the living room couch, just like a wino. Around three o'clock in the morning, I woke up heaving. I knew I was going to throw up, and that it was going to be really bad if I didn't get off the couch. I was really dizzy and hung over from all the sugar and flour, and I had trouble figuring out how to move my body off the couch. Then I got a picture of Jimi Hendrix overdosing and choking on his own vomit, and I heard a voice yelling, "Angela, get up! GET UP! You'll die if stay here!" I rolled off the couch and crawled to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet. While I was throwing up (and I was doing so very violently, so much that I kept hitting my head on the porcelain), I was thinking, "God please, make it stop, just make it stop! I'll get help! I won't eat like that ever again!" I'm not sure how long I was in there, but when I finally stopped vomiting and cleaned up the mess, the sun was bright and shining through the living room curtains.

It's funny how addicts call on God when they are in trouble, but never when they are putting food in their mouths. I know I didn't.

Over the years, I've also realized that I could have had a massive heart attack and died after all that vomiting. My electrolyte balance must have been way off, but I was too sick to realize that I was probably very dehydrated. I saw everything in blurry pairs; my entire body was weak and rubbery, and my head felt like it had a sledgehammer pounding away inside of it. The only thing I could do was crawl back to the couch and pass out again.

Not long after that, I went to my first Overeaters Anonymous meeting. And I somewhat made good on my promise to God. I have never, ever binged like again, and for that I am grateful. But it would take me years before I became willing to stop eating sugar, flour and portions of food that my body doesn't need. I needed to have a much more disciplined program to do that because I have absolutely no concept of moderate portions, and once I take that first bite of sugar or flour, I start fiending for more, just like a crackhead going after that next rock. I can't stop.

In the meantime, I ate, and ate. Instead huge platters of food like I did that one day, I would just graze all day long. The pounds kept coming on. I developed osteoarthritis in my lower back and left hip. In fact, the cartilage in my left hip bones wore off completely, and for several painful years, I had bone grinding against bone. Now my left hip is deformed, and on the x-rays they appear to be twisted almost like a pretzel. The only thing that can be done is to have a total hip replacement. Even my doctor was amazed when she saw X-rays. "You have to do something about your weight," she told me. "Your symptoms will improve considerably even if you lost only ten percent of your body weight." (That's somewhat true; my symptoms have improved a bit. I need either a cane or a walker today to get around these days, instead of being totally wheelchair bound.)

I had trouble with that part. I would lose thirty or forty pounds, and gain back fifty. It kept going back and forth like that for years. In the meantime, I developed massive fibroid tumors in my uterus, and in 1996, I began hemorrhaging every month instead of having a normal menstrual cycle. It was so bad that I couldn't go anywhere for two or three days. I kept bleeding through like a waterfall, no made what I did. I used so many super-plus products that it's a wonder I never developed toxic shock. Finally, the dam finally broke on August 11, 2002, exactly one month after gastric bypass surgery. I had been bleeding for almost four months, and on that morning, even the super plus products couldn't hold it. I was gushing blood all over the place. I was rushed to ER, and when I came to, I was surrounded by a host of doctors in white lab coats talking softly to each other. A bunch of tubes and bags of stuff were hooked into the IV on my left hand (they had trouble finding my veins,I later learned), along with all kinds of instruments and beeping monitors. I remember thinking, God, please don't tell me I've died and gone to hell with a bunch of white men. Then I looked over at my blood pressure monitor, and it said 64 over 40. I wondered if that was bad, then everything went black again.

Why didn't I go to the doctor BEFORE all that happened? Simple. I didn't want to hear the sermon anymore: "If you would lose weight, your symptoms would improve...." I began to be very derisive in my attitude toward the medical community. Damn doctors, I would tell myself.

"They probably think that the reason I catch a cold is because I'm fat. And if that's the case, skinny people shouldn't ever have colds!"

That was the logic I used to keep me from seeing a gynecologist. And it nearly cost me my life, for the second time.

I believe my latest brush with death is related to the first one. All that binging and vomiting must have torn my abdominal cavity. There's no way to prove that at this point, however. But I sense that it's the truth. Gaining and losing weight over and over for twenty years probably put even more stress on the tear. My gastric bypass surgeon did tell me he repaired a small hernia during the bypass operation, but that conversation didn't even register with me until after I came home from emergency umbilical cord hernia repair surgery two weeks ago.

In the almost six intervening years between gastric bypass and today, I've had numerous vomiting episodes, mostly because I would eat stuff that I shouldn't have been eating in the first place. More ripping and tearing of that hernia. Finally, the hole was big enough for my intestines to begin falling out. Again, I made it to the hospital just in time.

Is the third time "a charm", as the old saying goes? I hope so; I'm not ready to die yet. For today, I'm abstinent, and that is by the grace of God. I'm anywhere from 100 to 120 pounds down from my highest weight on record, and within twenty pounds of my lowest post-gastric bypass weight. This time, I want get past that 200 pound threshold. I haven't been under 200 since junior high school. But it's a one day at a time thing, and not only that, it's a one day at time walking with my Higher Power (who I call God) every moment of the day, and using the tools of the program so the addiction won't take hold of my brain and lead me back into the food.

That's my story.