My brother's birthday

Today, my brother Ricky would have been 46 years old. But he never made it past his 24th birthday. The truth is, I can't tell you the exact date he died. I think it was early December, either 1987 or 1988. It must be intentional, this memory lapse. Why would I want to remember the most horrific day of my life-- the day my baby brother, my ONLY brother, left all who loved him?

So I'm not going to remember anything about his death today. I'm going to remember how he LIVED.

Richard Sydney Shortt II was born May 18, 1964 at Sutter Memorial Hospital located at 5151 F Street in Sacramento. Six years earlier on March 27th, I was born--same hospital, same room, and according to our mother, same bed. I'm not so sure about the bed part, but hey, I was too young to remember the first event and not allowed entry into the maternity ward for the second one. Mom came to the window of her room and proudly showed my sister Tam* and I the swaddled bundle that we were supposed to believe was our brother. We weren't buying it.

"That's a doll." Tam.

"And it's red. It's a red doll." Me.

I can't remember what Dad said in response, but it seems to me that he wasn't very happy.

Like any family, we can recall all kinds of memories--how Ricky used to spit out his pacifier when we peered into his crib. He had pinpoint accuracy. I was always hit in the forehead, and when Tam looked in, he nailed her on the nose every time. Then he would chortle gleefully. We swore that he was doing it on purpose, but Mom said it was just our imaginations. He was only four months old, after all. We weren't wrong. Ricky turned out to be a prodigy in terms of finding ways to harass his older sisters on a daily basis. His Older Sister Guerrilla War Campaign began before he was weaned off Similac.

Exhibit 1: Carefully placing his Hot Wheels, Tonka trucks and Lego toys right outside our bedroom door before Tam and I woke up in the morning. Purpose: To torture our bare feet as we headed for the bathroom in the morning.

Exhibit 2: Lobbing pieces of cantaloupe (I'm allergic to them) at me during breakfast. Laughing when they stuck to my forehead.

Exhibit 3: Turning both the bass and the volume of the stereo on full blast while I was taking an after school nap on the couch in the den. I was in high school! Teachers, hormones and constant crushes on boys seriously wore me out every afternoon. Straight cruelty!

Exhibit 4: I had a boyfriend named Sam when I was 16. I wasn't all that crazy about him, but he drove a shiny blue Mazda, and I never had a boyfriend before. Ricky decided that if Sam wanted to be my boyfriend, he was giving his consent to the same treatment I received. Poor guy never understood what had happened to him. Ricky and his little buddies from the neighborhood would run around his shiny blue Mazda, kicking in the hubcaps, jumping on the hood, and yelling "Sam, Sam the garbage can man!" This happened as soon as he parked his car in front of our house. I would be in my bedroom reading, and I suddenly heard Sam yelling, "Angie! You better do something about your brother!" Damn shame to see an 18 year old man near tears.

As mortifying as the experiences were at the time, I would pay off the United States' debt to China if I could have my brother Ricky with me today, sitting around laughing at these and many other memories. I do, however, believe that there is life after this one, and that my little brother is in the Realm Beyond, smiling because he knows how much I love and miss him.

I just wish I could tell him in person.

*Tam wasn't born at Sutter Memorial, but at Keesler Air Force Base hospital in Biloxi, Mississippi--these things happened when your father was a member of the United States Air Force. Ricky and I used to tease her by singing "Mississippi Mama, never lost a fight!" Don't tell her I said that. She still gets pissed off about it.

An Open Letter from a Food Addict

With much love and sincere thanks to Al-Anon Family Groups, for pioneering the way to keep substance abusers and food addicts accountable for their actions.

I am a food addict. I do need your help, but not in the ways you have tried in the past. The best way you can help me is to leave me to my own devices. Believe me; I have a lot of them.

Don't lecture, blame or scold me. I know exactly what I’m doing to myself, even though I eat as if I will never get another meal. I berate and demonize myself almost every moment of the day about my obsession with eating large quantities of highly refined, processed sugar/flour/high fat food.

Don’t show me the latest magazine diet or clip out articles about obesity risks and weight loss treatments from the newspaper. I will thank you politely on some days, become surly and distant on others. But I won’t do anything more than glance at the clippings before tossing them in the garbage. Please don’t take it personally.

Do not buy me diet books; I’ve bought enough of them over the years. Do not get angry if you’ve noticed that I haven’t opened those books. I am sick. You wouldn't be angry with me for having cancer or diabetes. Food addiction is a disease, too.

Don't throw away my “secret” stashes of food when you find them; it's just a waste because I can always find ways of getting more.

Don’t hide the bathroom scale from me; I will find it. Or if I hide the scale, don’t put it out in the open again. I know this doesn’t make any sense, but there is nothing rational about food addiction.

Don't let me provoke your anger. If you attack me verbally or physically, you will only confirm my bad opinion abut myself. I hate myself enough already.

Don't let your love and anxiety for me lead you into doing what I ought to do for myself. Don’t bring me food, cook my meals, help me get dressed, or call my boss when I feel too depressed to get out of bed and ready for work. If you assume my responsibilities, you make my failure to assume them permanent. My sense of guilt will be increased, and you will feel resentful.

Don't accept my promises and solemn pledges to lose weight. I'll promise anything to get off the hook. But the nature of my illness prevents me from keeping my promises, even though I mean them at the time.

Don't make empty threats, as in you will send me to one of those fat camps or reality shows to force me to lose weight. I know you’re not going to do that, and the fact that you would even say that to me just compounds my shame. But if you do decide to do those things or anything else, stick to your decision. Do not let me talk you ought of it.

Don't believe everything I tell you; it may be a lie. I’m not going to Weight Watcher’s or start the latest magazine diet on Monday, and even if I do, I will only half-heartedly follow those programs. I will tell you that another family member or a friend ate all the entire box of cookies, the gallon of ice cream or the whole bucket of fried chicken. What I tell you about my eating may even sound plausible, completely rational. But my word can’t be trusted when it comes to food. Denial of reality is a symptom of my illness, and I am in so much denial that I don’t always see how much more weight I’ve put on. It’s unfair of me to require you to be in denial about my food issues the way I am. Moreover, I'm likely to lose respect for those I can fool too easily.

Don't let me take advantage of you or exploit you in any way. Love cannot exist for long without the dimension of justice. It doesn’t matter how much I yell, scream, cry or make you feel guilty. Don’t give into my overt or passive/aggressive machinations.

Don't cover up for me or try in any way to spare me the consequences of my addictive eating. Don't lie for me, pay my bills, or meet my obligations. It may avert or reduce the very crisis that would prompt me to seek help. I can continue to deny that I have a a serious problem with food as long as you provide an automatic escape for the consequences of my eating.

Above all, do learn all you can about food addiction and your role in relation to me. Go to Food Addicts in Recovery Anonymous (FA) meetings when you can. Attend Al-Anon meetings regularly and adapt whatever they say about alcoholism and the alcoholic to food addiction and the food addict. Read the literature and keep in touch with Al-Anon members. They're the people who can help you see the whole situation clearly.

I love you.

Your Food Addict

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.

Angela in OA

PHOTO: I'm at Bosch Baha'i School with the Rancho Cordova Baha'i community, about six months before I entered food addiction recovery. I may have weighed more than 306 pounds, from the way I look in this picture.

I can’t recall the exact month or day that this happened, but I know the season and the year—it was late winter, 1987 that I entered the rooms of Overeater’s Anonymous and stayed for a while. (For those of who are familiar with the traditions of 12 step programs, please be assured that I am not breaking my anonymity by revealing this because I am no longer a member of OA.) I had attempted to attend the meeting a few years before, but I wasn’t ready.

The entire experience seemed completely surreal to me, from the circle in which people sitting to the way they said “My name is Janice (or Susan or Betty) and I’m a compulsive overeater.” Why did they do that? And why the rest of the group keep saying “Hi, Janice (or Susan or Betty)” in response? Then there was what felt to me to be an interminable silence following the short testimony given by Janice (or Susan or Betty), which was quite uncomfortable to me. The silence lasted until another person raised her hand, and I felt like I could breathe again. I was hoping they didn’t want me to say anything because I had no clue what was going on. Besides, nothing I heard seemed to relate to the reasons I came to OA in the first place, which were: a) I wanted to lose weight and, for the first time in my adult life, live in a normal sized body; b) stop my then-husband from sleeping with other women by losing weight, since he told me that was the reason why he did it.

An aside pertaining to the letter “b” in the previous paragraph: I know this is a hot topic with many women, and I promise it will be the subject of another blog when I get enough serenity in my recovery to stop referring to my ex-husband as a “piss-colored bastard” and many other “choice” monikers that I have retained for him over the past 20 years.

Every single word coming out of the mouths of those OA members were incomprehensible abstractions to me. When it was over, I decided to ask a few of them some burning questions: “What is abstinence? Does it mean you just stop eating completely?” (The thought of that kind of abstaining from my best friend and lover, was terrifying to me.) The ladies smiled graciously and told me that the OA program suggested that they eat three moderate meals a day with nothing in between, avoiding white flour and sugar. Since I was well over 350 pounds at the time this made no sense to me. Did that mean that I could eat as four huge slabs of thick crust pizza for lunch and a plate filled with macaroni and cheese for dinner, as long as those items were made whole grain wheat? Yes, they responded. OA does not endorse any food plan, and what you eat is between you and your Higher Power. I liked that concept because it seemed to me that I would get to continue eating the foods I loved and still lose weight. If that program could do that for me, I was all for it. Eating whatever I wanted, even though it was supposed to be in moderation, seemed heavenly to me.

But the skeptic in me wasn’t convinced, so I asked them, “Is that how you all lost weight?” Again, they smiled. “Yes, that is part of it, but the program also promise release from the pain.” Inwardly, I scowled. What pain? What are you chicks TALKING about? But that’s not what I said out loud. “So what you are telling me is that if I eat three moderate meals a day with nothing in between, I will lose weight.” “You will, if you keep coming back. It works.” Well, none of them were particularly large; in fact, one lady looked down right skinny to me. Even more importantly, she told me lost eighty pounds by doing the three-moderate-meals-a-day-with-nothing-in-between deal, and kept it off for five years. That impressed me somewhat. I had reservations about whether I could do the same because I had a lot more than eighty pounds to lose. But for the first time in my life, I had some hope about what to do about the most difficult issue in my life, which was my weight. An idea was planted in my mind about recovery from OBESITY (versus compulsive overeating or food addiction), which was that I could lose the weight and eat whatever I wanted as long as it was limited to three moderate meals a day.

After all, as OA explained to me, my food plan was between me and my Higher Power, who is certainly powerful enough to change my body chemistry so that I would experience miraculous weight loss on that food plan. I was going to slide into home base, free and easy. Since I didn’t hear any objections from the heavenly realm, I proceeded to define moderation as a large dinner platter or bowl heaping with whole grain pastas and/or breads and cereal products with sauces, protein and fats. And I could have dessert, as long as it was made with whole grain flours and natural sweeteners, like honey, raw sugar, agave nectar, brown rice syrup or molasses.

Wow, where was Overeater’s Anonymous when I was suffering through that contemptible Armed Forces Diet! I would have been saved from all that agony! OA was, indeed, a miraculous program. The prospect of being able to lose weight without going through the horrible deprivation, mood swings and stomach growls, not to mention being able to eat food that actually tasted good, was extremely appealing to me.

“I lost weight WITHOUT dieting!” I heard some of the ladies in OA enthusiastically proclaim that, year after year. I believed them; they were living proof. But there was something very faulty about the way I translated those words while applying them to working my program. So I ate my three large feasts a day with nothing in between, avoided all refined white flour and sugar, went to Overeater’s Anonymous meetings faithfully each week, and waited for the miracle to happen.

To my dismay, I gained more weight. My body became overwhelmed with the very serious health consequences of carrying over 200 pounds of excess weight. After while, I could no longer work because walking for more than two feet at a time caused daggers of pain to sear through my lower back and left hip. I became wheelchair bound and mostly dependent of my family to get me around town for shopping and medical appointments. I came to realize that the three meals-a-day-without-anything-in-between and eating unrefined sugar and flour was not working for me. But what else could I do? I had tried everything, Weight Watchers, hypnotherapy, protein diets, liquid fasts, Nutri-System….you name it; I’ve done it. I even had Roux-en-Y gastric bypass surgery in 2002. That did work for a little while. But I began re-gaining the weight after I was one year out of the surgery. At that point, I became severely clinically depressed and placed on very strong anti-depressants under the care of a psychiatrist.

Another aside: My unofficial pre-gastric bypass weight is 400 lbs, which I can't statistically verify. At the time, I refused to get on a scale, and most bathroom scales didn't register weights over 300 lbs anyway. However, I was massive enough to bust the zipper on a pair of size 54 waist jeans, which I paid big dollars for from Irene's Sport Shop on Arden Way, Sacramento. Irene's is a specialty clothing store for large women that carries up to a size 8x. I wore a size 5x, and I was still attending OA meetings during this time. When I entered Kaiser Permanente's gastric bypass program a year later, I had lost about 30 lbs through CEA-HOW, which was another 12 step for people with food issues. In order to qualify for gastric bypass surgery, I had to lose another 10% of my body weight, so I went a strict vegan diet and lost 30 pounds. I weighed 331 pounds on the morning of my surgery, which July 11, 2002. My lowest post-operative weight was 235. I entered my current recovery program in October, 2007 weighing 306 pounds. I now weigh 183 pounds.

It has been one hell of a journey, but I’m no longer on that road spiraling downward. I'm now working a 12 Step program that addresses my particular brand of total insanity around food. I thank Overeater’s Anonymous for introducing me to the 12 Steps, but I am too far gone to work a loosely structured program like that. It works for some who don’t have the completely bizarre mental twists that seem to justify destructive eating behaviors, like filling up a dinner platter to an overflowing capacity and considering that mountain of food a “moderate” meal. And I thought I would lose weight by eating that way! Only an insane person would hold onto such delusional thoughts.

There are a lot of people like me who live every day of their lives in the same kind of delusions. They are FOOD ADDICTS.

Hi, my name is Angela, and I am a low-bottom, gutter level food addict.

Had my new hip put in...

The old one is out, and I'm feeling better every day! I'm just filled with joy and gratitude because a)I feel that God has granted me so many chances to make things right in my life, and even though I can't fathom why He would be so patient with me, I am awed by His endless bounty of love. I mean, how many people wake up in recovery room from a major operation feeling totally HAPPY! It's insane, but just feel this energy bubbling out of me that feels better than chocolate, or any relationship I've ever had with the opposite sex (actually, the latter part isn't very difficult to best).

b)I've never felt so loved and supported by people that I've never would have met while I was eating addictively, and these folks, along with all of my family members have become an integral part of my life right now. I was feeling the love and prayers in that hospital! It's real, people, I swear it is!

c) I'm also humbled by the fact that my life now has purpose, and even though I've always known that, I didn't feel I could fulfill it because of my morbid obesity. Who wants the big fat woman around taking up more than her share of space in the world? It doesn't matter that these thoughts were an insanely unjust condemnation of my basic humanity, but that's how I felt and thought about myself. Not anymore. No, not anymore!

Well, it's getting late, and I need to fulfill my end of the bargain by getting to bed on time. Life doesn't wait for those who stay in bed mourning about events or people that, in summation, don't make a damn bit of difference. My job is to heal my addicted mind, body and soul so I can carry out what God has ordained for my life. No, I have no idea what that actually means in terms of precise details. But I know what God has given me for tools to work it out. The rest is just putting the pieces together, a little bit at a time. And enjoying the journey.

Side note, and one that isn't nearly as important: I weighed in at 189.4 two days before surgery. And I weigh less than that now. So how big was I, actually? I don't have any pictures of myself at my very highest(serious camera ducking); I think the one I shared in my previous blog shows me a bit under 400 lbs. So I searched the internet for pictures that come somewhat close. That's what you see up above. I apologize for crass ghetto-izing, but that was my best guestimate of how big I was. Trust me--I never dressed like that. I was wearing tent dresses and muu-muus at age 28. Putting it all out there like girlfriend was never part of my daily thought process. And it isn't in my thoughts now. I choose to honor my body and spirit these days.

It's all love, baby, all love!

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)

Food Porn on Twitter...

Way too many contradictions for me--A follower on Twitter posted the following bio:
"Get weight off fast with the appetizer diet cookie!" There is NO way!!! One bite of that flour/sugar combination (even if it is "organic" and/or natural or artificial)and off I go to the food addict "crack house", which for me is any grocery store or restaurant. Appetizer? It would be my breakfast, lunch, dinner AND snacks for days (in addition to a bunch of flour/high-fat protein items)!

A number of "Tweeters" LOVE to talk about food. No, that's an understatement. There are THOUSANDS of Twitter-lovin' foodies who dream in luscious epicurean tongue-stimulating panaromas, wake up in the throes of horn-a-plenty climax, then wax orgasmal about the experience in 140 characters or less. I call it food porn 101, although they're actually teaching graduate level courses. The title for top gastro-pornographer? @CBCebulski, art editor for Marvel comics. The rest of the @Marvel staff comes in at a pretty close second place, especially @AgentM, whose blog is titled "Agent M Loves Tacos"!

Not a great place for a recovering food addict to be sometimes. But there's always other things to talk about that don't trigger my food addictive brain. But those can become troublesome, too. I'm discovering that I'm transferring my addiction from food to Twitter. (SIGH) It never ends.

On August 1, 2009...

...I weighed in at 192.8 pounds. Down from an all time high of 400 lbs. I now wear a size 16 top, and a size 18 bottom. I haven't been this size since the summer before junior high school. By the time school started in September, I was already busting out of all those nice school clothes my mother bought me from J.C. Penney's. She was most unhappy with me. Looking back, I can see why. What a difference 39 years makes. At the time, I was smoldering with unexpressed rage about Mom going on and on about how much money she spent on school clothes, and I couldn't wear hardly any of them. I felt like crap.

I don't feel like crap anymore, but I'm not jumping up and down with glee, either. In fact, I'm just reflecting; I'm not sure of what this means. I don't even know how to feel right now.

More about this later, when I can put words into feelings....

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.

What it was like...

First,let me show you something:


Now here's the scientific explanation from the article Scientists Find a Link Between Dopamine and Obesity :
The lower PET scan images, labeled FDG, show glucose metabolism in the brains of obese and control (comparison) subjects. There are no differences. The upper PET scans show where the radiotracer C-11 raclopride binds to dopamine receptors. These images show that obese subjects have fewer dopamine receptors than control subjects.

Brookhaven scientists have done extensive research showing that dopamine plays an important role in drug addiction. Among other things, they've found that addictive drugs increase the level of dopamine in the brain, and that addicts have fewer dopamine receptors than normal subjects.

"Since eating, like the use of addictive drugs, is a highly reinforcing behavior, inducing feelings of gratification and pleasure, we suspected that obese people might have abnormalities in brain dopamine activity as well," says psychiatrist Nora Volkow, who was also involved in the study.

Okay, so in plain language--bottom left PET scan shows the glucose metabolism of a "normie", the normal sized person who can pass by a Cinnabon shop or pizza place in the mall and never think about buying something unless he or she is hungry. And even then, they might forgo those heavenly smells in favor of something reasonable and healthy, let's say, a nice big salad. Yeah, they do that. That's why they're normies, and I'm not. It takes constant prayer and a lot of cell phone calls to other food addicts to get me past Lucifer Morningstar's playground, aka the food court. And I walk very fast.

The bottom right picture shows the glucose metabolism of an obese person, who is more than likely a food addict like me. The scientists say there's little difference in the glucose processing in the brains of the normie and the obese person. They look different to me, but they're the experts. Maybe it's just that everyone's brain looks different on a PET scan, or to coin an old phrase, "as individual as our fingerprints". Glucose, for those who might not recognize the word, is the word for the sugar that's in all of our bodies. There's little difference between the two, the scientists say. Huh. Maybe they should have scanned MY brain.

The top PET scans show where the party gets started. The normie (top left picture) has more open pleasure receptors, which are places in their brains where dopamine (the natural high stuff)is given a VIP pass to get in. Running, playing checkers, skipping rocks, smelling roses, hot-tubbing--all of these activities get into a normal person's "party-over-here" pleasure-seeking receivers.

No such luck with the obese person (top right picture). The bouncer squashes most of the dopamine's action at the front door. Stop right there, buddy. Unless the dopamine is carrying a bag filled with a triple cheeseburger with giant-sized chili cheese fries, an extra large mocha chocolate chip milk shake and a huge slab of Oreo-crust cheesecake, the Big "D" ain't gettin' past the velvet rope. The obese person's pleasure seeking brain, ONLY recognizes Dr. Feelgood when he has Ms. Nasty hanging on his arm looking like a syrupy-sweet concoction oozing with fat.

Angela's aside: No, I do not eat like that now. Not even close! [See note below.]In fact, at 400 lbs I couldn't eat all that. Not at one time, at least. I had to wait at least two hours before I could finish it. It would be gone by 10 pm, though.

This is only a small part of an obese food addiction process. There's so much more to it, and I don't have the energy to delve into all that right now. But I can imagine all those scientists and researchers at the U.S. Department of Energy's Brookhaven National Laboratory are trying to come up with the right combination of chemicals to make those dopamine receptors open up and be free. Good people, those scientists and researchers. It's just too bad that food addiction is so much more complex than brain chemistry. Some of those scientific types even think that anti-depressants could get those receptors working. Poor souls. They just don't know the power of the dark side.

More about this later. It's a very long story.

Note: On a daily basis, I eat carefully measured amounts of protein, vegetables and fruit. The only additions to this is one ounce of oatmeal in the morning, 64 or more ounces of water to drink throughout the day, and decaf coffee or tea after breakfast. No artificial sweeteners, either.