At roughly 0625 hours, on 5 January, 2010, I began an abortive attempt at blogging a "better way to live."
I admitted my disease, my powerlessness. I may even have broached that an "-ism" isn't necessarily defined as the addiction to the actual substance, but the mechanics of the things that happen when the drug-of-choice enters your system.
In case you've forgotten, let me remind you. I am an addict. And addicts do what they have always done: feed their addictions. Whether I'm clean or not is inconsequential. What matters is how I live my life. Yes, I'm in recovery. But I'll always have the disease.
So, I haven't 'used' since 1980. And? So what?
I haven't had a drink since 1990. Yeah? Big deal.
I've changed addictions. And, best beloved, there are several. The computer. The phone. Silly home projects into which I've poured my time and efforts...only to half-or partially-complete them. GOOD projects that I over-devote time and effort to, to the chagrin and annoyance of my family.
My current, and most consistently-present "drug" is eating. I eat like I used to drink. Happy? Eat. Sad? Eat. Pissed? Eat. Can't sleep? Eat. Just finished eating? Hell, why put those leftovers away? EAT 'em.
Mostly everyone has seen "WTF" online. Yeah, I bet I know what YOU think it stands for. For ME, it's "WHERE'S THE FOOD???"
And so, I now weigh 254 pounds. I am the most overweight I've ever been in my life. When I was 19, and just leaving Fort Dix, New Jersey (C-7-3 Basic Training Brigade, BOO-yah!) I was a lean, mean, 135-pound trainee. That means I weigh 119 pounds more than I did when I was 19. Like, TWO people walking around in one pair of bib overalls.
A lot has changed, since my last entry (and, to be honest, I'm not going to look back and see when that was.) I retired. Unwillingly. Too many surgeries, too much arthritis, and nobody wants the preexisting conditions with which I arrive. So: short-term disability turned into long-term disability, then that turned into social security disability because, for some reason, my cartilage is disappearing like the dew on this morning's grass. Pssssst! Gone. That condition doesn't keep me from doing a lot of fun things. Just work things. Traditional work things. So, I do a little work, I have a little fun, and get through the day. I get stuff done. But not enough.
Time to work the steps. Time to LIVE the steps. And the bible. And the radical acceptance and situational awareness my VA counselor has been teaching us these last years.
So, what's changed? Besides my body shape, BMI, weight? I'm diagnosed with psoriatic arthritis. I self-inject Methotrexate once a week. Our little boy is growing up, and he's more of a handful to chase and entertain. We're still vegan. "Pasta is the other white meat." "Bread is the OTHER, other white meat." HUGE portions are the norm (and the bane of my health!) Sugar...oh, gratuitously added sugar! What the hell am I DOING to myself?
And, now: baby steps. I've not added any sugar to my coffee for three or four days. I'm taking ONE cup of coffee per day, with green or herbal teas (AND NO SUGAR) for the rest of the day, with no caffeine after midday. I'm eating slowly. Conscientiously. Maintaining portion awareness. I SIT after I eat; I don't automatically leap up for seconds...and discover I don't necessarily want seconds. If I do, veggies are plentiful in this house. The cheap, Dollar General cookies are tasty, and "just LITTLE cookies," but THREE are a serving, not seventeen. I can't seem to limit them, so...I don't buy them. I make a CONSCIENTIOUS EFFORT to stay the hell out of the icebox after dinner's over, the dishes washed, and the extras all put away.
Now, It's only been a couple of days since my VA doctor looked at me with that "LOOK" on her face. That look that says "Despite everything I've told you, despite everything you SAY you know, you're heavier now than the last time we had this little pow-wow." I know, I KNOW! I get short of breath, bending over to tie my shoes. I get winded, coming up the stairs. It's hard for me to get into rides at Kings Island. Some of the safety equipment SQUISHES me to bits. I'm heading toward "Sorry, you can't safely ride this attraction if the harness doesn't fit."
Screw that crap.
This morning, after a couple days of moderation, I weigh 251.6 pounds (-2.4#!) I'm using the MyFitnessPal app by Under Armour to log my caloric intake, and as soon as I get a Garmin tracker, I'll be linking that to the account. One day at a time, I'm going to be a living example of the stewardship of body God intended for us all. It helps that I have a SUPER accountability partner. She's also my diet tech (registered) and best friend, too. As another friend put it, "It's a sack race: we're in it together."
Hi; my name is Steve, and I'm powerless over my addiction to food. Today, it's been 72 hours since I took my life back, 72 hours since I took the fork out of my carotid artery, and decided to QUIT committing "suicide by the mouthful." Again. I need to immerse myself in purpose, in work, in the service of the loving God Who relieved me of the obsession to use, to drink, and I trust will relieve me of the obsession to overeat.
Showing posts with label hyperlipidemia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hyperlipidemia. Show all posts
28 September 2018
05 January 2010
Eat-iology of the Disease
Hi. My name is Steve, and I have an addictive nature. Thankfully, I'm in recovery from alcoholism. But food? Oh, man, I'm HOOKED. Bad. I'm 53 and overweight, with high blood pressure, hyperlipidemia, arthritis, hypothyroidism, insomnia, restless leg syndrome and sleep apnea.
In short, I'm a sleepy fat guy that walks funny and twitches. Perfect as a walk-on character in "Family Guy," but not as the life partner of a hot babe that's twelve years my junior, with a PLAN. Healthy lifestyle plan, that is. Her blog is "Lite of Dawn," and is pretty good. And, it's WORKING for her. The blog, AND her plan. My plan? Well...let's just look at the title of this blog.
Graze Anatomy. That's me. I'm not an emotional eater. I only eat when I'm happy. Or, sad. Or, bored. Or when the day ends in 'y.' I eat like I drank. Just because.
Good day? Celebrate. Bad day? Bury it. Angry day? Stuff it. Flatline day? Graze.
I graze. I can walk into a room, and SEE the food. HEAR the food. The grocery store is like a pornography shop to me. The Food Network? Same thing, only more EXOTIC. I don't have to be hungry. It's Pavlovian. I've become instantly responsive to the presence of food, and I can't rest until the last leftover has been eaten, the last crumb of cookie or cake has been consumed.
Speaking of rest, and hours of sleep, as they're known in the medical world, that's when the urge is the most INSAAAAAAANE. How's THIS: I take half of the prescribed dosage of my restless leg syndrome medication at roughly 8:30pm, so I can sit still through the nightly TV routine. Somewhere around 10pm, we head off to bed. Or, in my case, the computer, where I play, sleeplessly, for hours, until my poor little Sugar rolls over for the ten ZILLIONTH time, finally asking if she can turn off the lights. After twelve years of being online, I STILL can't type without looking at the keyboard, so I have to throw the CPU on scan, and turn off the monitor. I take the OTHER half of my ropinirole, my zolpidem tartrate and the rest of my pharmacopoeia, and roll into bed. I strap on my CPAP...and then lie there.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting for sleep.
Not good. First thing that goes out the window (almost literally) is the CPAP. For the first few months, it worked well. Now, it makes me feel like I'm gasping for air. I can't even get through the 'ramp-up' stage, where it goes from a moderate amount of pressure to fully-prescribed pressure. Then, I turn over...and over and over. Poor Rascal and Mister Mittens. They're two of our five cats that sleep on the bed, when it's not a tornado of sheets and feet. They try valiantly to avoid being kicked off the bed, climbing over to Dawn's side, jumping on a dresser...nothing saves them from the wrath of my restlessness until I get out of bed, grab two pillows and my old robe, and scuff off to the family room couch. Where I toss and turn some more.
Then, it happens. I hear it. I FEEL it: the icebox calling me, whispering to me, like Poe's telltale heart..."I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!"
I go upstairs, open said icebox...delicately poking as a surgeon on an exploratory mission. Soon, I'm not just tasting this or that by the spoonful, but gorging. Empty that container of cottage cheese...add some honey, a few walnuts; whoa, there's a bratwurst or two that no one will miss. Oooooh! LOOK! Potato chips on the counter! And so on.
A variation of this is to quietly get dressed in my painting clothes, get out the roller pan and roller, stir up some paint and roll a couple of walls. We're remodeling the kitchen, dining room and bathroom, and this puts my insomnia to good use. But, all the while, I have tea and cookies, or something like the cold, leftover pork roast from New Year's day dinner, in slices on a plate. Roll...nibble. Stir...nibble. When I'm embarrassed, overfull and very ashamed, I go back to the couch and finally, almost tearfully, some mornings, I find sleep.
Like I said, I graze. I have a graze anatomy. I even look like a Holstein: All gut, no butt.
It's time to stop laughing at it, as my life-partner says, and start DOING something about it. Last night, I was as sleepless as ever, but didn't paint. But, I didn't graze, either. Well...not much. I had half a cup of white beans and tomatoes...two glasses of milk and one teaspoon of honey. I watched TV. I slept three or four times, had one SUPER nightmare...but I didn't whack that pork roast, or the cookies in the garage icebox.
In AA, we have steps. One involves recognition of our powerlessness over the substance of choice. Another involves believing that a higher power (personally, my higher power is God) will restore us to sanity. Another involves our turning our will and our lives over to this higher power, and another strongly suggests prayer and meditation as an avenue to maintaining said sanity. Here goes:
Father God, I am POWERLESS over my eating habits, and it's gonna kill me someday: Suicide on the installment plan. I know you have my heart in Your hands, and will NOT let me fail, if I trust You. Give me this day my daily bread, I pray, and ask You to help me be satisfied with that portion. I pray your assistance, in the form of encouragement by my wife and friends, to make a plan and stick with it, set a goal and meet it, make a mistake and learn from it. By the power of your Son's death and resurrection, I pray. Amen.
In short, I'm a sleepy fat guy that walks funny and twitches. Perfect as a walk-on character in "Family Guy," but not as the life partner of a hot babe that's twelve years my junior, with a PLAN. Healthy lifestyle plan, that is. Her blog is "Lite of Dawn," and is pretty good. And, it's WORKING for her. The blog, AND her plan. My plan? Well...let's just look at the title of this blog.
Graze Anatomy. That's me. I'm not an emotional eater. I only eat when I'm happy. Or, sad. Or, bored. Or when the day ends in 'y.' I eat like I drank. Just because.
Good day? Celebrate. Bad day? Bury it. Angry day? Stuff it. Flatline day? Graze.
I graze. I can walk into a room, and SEE the food. HEAR the food. The grocery store is like a pornography shop to me. The Food Network? Same thing, only more EXOTIC. I don't have to be hungry. It's Pavlovian. I've become instantly responsive to the presence of food, and I can't rest until the last leftover has been eaten, the last crumb of cookie or cake has been consumed.
Speaking of rest, and hours of sleep, as they're known in the medical world, that's when the urge is the most INSAAAAAAANE. How's THIS: I take half of the prescribed dosage of my restless leg syndrome medication at roughly 8:30pm, so I can sit still through the nightly TV routine. Somewhere around 10pm, we head off to bed. Or, in my case, the computer, where I play, sleeplessly, for hours, until my poor little Sugar rolls over for the ten ZILLIONTH time, finally asking if she can turn off the lights. After twelve years of being online, I STILL can't type without looking at the keyboard, so I have to throw the CPU on scan, and turn off the monitor. I take the OTHER half of my ropinirole, my zolpidem tartrate and the rest of my pharmacopoeia, and roll into bed. I strap on my CPAP...and then lie there.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting for sleep.
Not good. First thing that goes out the window (almost literally) is the CPAP. For the first few months, it worked well. Now, it makes me feel like I'm gasping for air. I can't even get through the 'ramp-up' stage, where it goes from a moderate amount of pressure to fully-prescribed pressure. Then, I turn over...and over and over. Poor Rascal and Mister Mittens. They're two of our five cats that sleep on the bed, when it's not a tornado of sheets and feet. They try valiantly to avoid being kicked off the bed, climbing over to Dawn's side, jumping on a dresser...nothing saves them from the wrath of my restlessness until I get out of bed, grab two pillows and my old robe, and scuff off to the family room couch. Where I toss and turn some more.
Then, it happens. I hear it. I FEEL it: the icebox calling me, whispering to me, like Poe's telltale heart..."I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!"
I go upstairs, open said icebox...delicately poking as a surgeon on an exploratory mission. Soon, I'm not just tasting this or that by the spoonful, but gorging. Empty that container of cottage cheese...add some honey, a few walnuts; whoa, there's a bratwurst or two that no one will miss. Oooooh! LOOK! Potato chips on the counter! And so on.
A variation of this is to quietly get dressed in my painting clothes, get out the roller pan and roller, stir up some paint and roll a couple of walls. We're remodeling the kitchen, dining room and bathroom, and this puts my insomnia to good use. But, all the while, I have tea and cookies, or something like the cold, leftover pork roast from New Year's day dinner, in slices on a plate. Roll...nibble. Stir...nibble. When I'm embarrassed, overfull and very ashamed, I go back to the couch and finally, almost tearfully, some mornings, I find sleep.
Like I said, I graze. I have a graze anatomy. I even look like a Holstein: All gut, no butt.
It's time to stop laughing at it, as my life-partner says, and start DOING something about it. Last night, I was as sleepless as ever, but didn't paint. But, I didn't graze, either. Well...not much. I had half a cup of white beans and tomatoes...two glasses of milk and one teaspoon of honey. I watched TV. I slept three or four times, had one SUPER nightmare...but I didn't whack that pork roast, or the cookies in the garage icebox.
In AA, we have steps. One involves recognition of our powerlessness over the substance of choice. Another involves believing that a higher power (personally, my higher power is God) will restore us to sanity. Another involves our turning our will and our lives over to this higher power, and another strongly suggests prayer and meditation as an avenue to maintaining said sanity. Here goes:
Father God, I am POWERLESS over my eating habits, and it's gonna kill me someday: Suicide on the installment plan. I know you have my heart in Your hands, and will NOT let me fail, if I trust You. Give me this day my daily bread, I pray, and ask You to help me be satisfied with that portion. I pray your assistance, in the form of encouragement by my wife and friends, to make a plan and stick with it, set a goal and meet it, make a mistake and learn from it. By the power of your Son's death and resurrection, I pray. Amen.
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