Answers, for My Sake More than Yours, I Think...

I.

Are you angry because the author [David Kessler] glosses over the reasons people overeat, or because he doesn't offer much in the way of solutions?

Good reading, Susan. I was really furious and perhaps wasn't clear about this.

He all but calls sugar and fat addictive substances but stops at approaching them the way most clinicians would approach alcoholism. He stops short despite having spoken of people who feel out of control or obsessed by food, and writing widely about how sugar and fat stimulate the reward/pleasure/addiction/fear/pain regulator in the brain.

The reasons people overeat are as many as there are minutes in overeaters' lives. Tonight I would go out for Little Debbies because I was lethargic and tired today and didn't do any writing. (This post is supposed to save my ass.) Tomorrow morning I might go out for pancakes because I'm really tired of walking dogs and, hey, I need a little motivation.

In a way, I don't think the reasons people overeat matter. Everybody has to sort that out for themselves. But finding the reasons is not a eureka! moment. If I zone out on donuts in a land where no one can hurt me, all the reasons in the world aren't going to overcome that reward groove I've got going in my brain.

What I'm angry about is that he successfully describes sugar, fat and salt as an addiction but deliberately doesn't use the word or the techniques of the addiction model. He could have at least investigated it.

There was a lot of fascinating material in the book but I don't think anyone is going to lose weight because they read it. I do not feel that way about other books. People lose weight because of reading Atkins or Geneen Roth because they either give an inspiration of how to do it or why to do it.

II.
The God Thing

I'm a doubter by nature, although when I walk into a Catholic Church I immediately believe the wildest fairy tales. When I did my Third Step this time, I decided I would create a god who is at my beck and call. I won't ask him for anything. I demand it.

There is a dusk bird singing loudly in the gardens beyond my window. Daisy has loved me through the emotionally toughest years of my life. I will have very cold stewed apples for dinner. That's my personal, capsule-sized proof that God exists.

I want to yack every time I hear someone say "Goddess, grant me the serenity..." or refers to HP for "higher power". But there are some tangible things that are bigger than me, one of them being my desire to eat sugar, fat and salt. Electricity, my favorite thing (where would ice cream be without it?) is bigger than me. The Rooms and their success stories and support are bigger than me. Inspiration is bigger than me. My sponsor's 20 years of abstinence and affection for me is bigger than me.

So personally I don't have a problem thinking that there are powers beyond my own. And I don't have a problem squooshing them together and inventing a god that suits me.

Some Rooms are really, really Jesus-obsessed. I've been warned that the South is not a good place to go into recovery if you kind of think Jesus was prissy. Some are so new age that my blood sugar rises at the thought of them. Some have a good balance where the god thing isn't too heavy.

But I definitely get it that the God Thing can get in the way. I happen to take it for real, but not very seriously and not very zealously.

If it's what's stopping you from dropping into the Rooms, you can write sarcastic emails to me.

III.
Eaties and Foodies

Everybody seems to see themself in that post. There are moments that I'm a foodie, but when I am, I often want more.

Right now I'm ruminating on how abstinence makes me a foodie more often than I am when I'm not abstinent. I love what I'm eating when I'm abstinent, partly because I'm actually hungry and food is gratifying under that condition.

Goodnight, all. Dream of good things tonight!

If It Looks Like a Duck...

I. Am. So. Angry.

I've stopped in the middle of revising the eleventh chapter (don't get excited: I didn't dig into heavy revising until the fourth or fifth chapter & have lots of places marked to return to) to read a hot new book, David A. Kessler's The End of Overeating. The first half of the book focuses on the power of sugar-fat-salt in our diets and on the food industry which exploits those qualities. Good stuff, albeit in need of editing -- you'll have a lot of "Didn't I just read that?" moments along the way.

The last half explores how to get off the sugar-fat-salt "hypereating" that the U.S. has evolved into in the last 30 years.

Within the first 30 pages, Kessler presents a couple of colleagues with unwrapped fast food candy and bakery products. In discussing the affects of their sight and smell, one of his friends says "'...I cannot control my desire to eat them. I'm obsessing. I feel totally out of control.'" (p. 25) Throughout the book, people liken eating calorie dense food to the experience of a compulsive gambler who walks into a casino. He ends the book by talking about the aversion therapies used by those who treat smokers and compulsive shoplifters, and five pages from the end of the book he writes, "We can lead long and healthy lives without consuming alcohol, tobacco, or other drugs of abuse, so treatment for those addictions can be built around the principle of abstinence. But since we can't survive without eating, we need other strategies for changing our perception of foods..."

Did I mention I was angry? Actually, I'm shaking with anger.

He states early on that he's not talking about "compulsive overeaters" or "bingers" or bulimics, and yet he blandly passes by his colleague's sense of powerlessness and his friend's gambling simile. I really, really need to ask Dr. Kessler: If it quacks like a duck (or fizzes like a rootbeer float), isn't it possible that it's..."an acquatic bird of the family anatidae"???

I talk about 12 step programs for eating disorders all the time in this blog so if you're really adverse to the idea of them, first remind yourself that I have never recommended that anyone go to one. You are the only one who can decide to do that and the day you decide is going to be one of the ugliest days of your life. There aren't many people I'd wish that on.

Next, I advise you to stop reading this now.

Having established, in mind-numbingly over-technical, new-fangled language that made me go back to reread in the same way that a slice of pizza drives me to more pizza even when I hate myself for it (i.e., "incentive salience" = desire-driven, or "hyperpalatable," which means extra tasty and confounds my and Blogger's spell check) that industrial food stimulates serotonin production (also not in Blogger's spell check) and blocks dopamine receptors, he suggests a largely self-monitored cognitive cure.

To whit, did you know that a pint of Ben & Jerry's is a dangerous thing to bring home at night? Maybe you shouldn't eat ice cream. Maybe a diet of moderate portions high in protein, whole grains and vegetative stuff is what you should be eating instead of Big Macs...

By dressing up all the stuff that many of us have been writing about, talking about, doing stepwork over and reading about in swan's down, he's still turned out a duck.

Although fascinating in many parts, especially so to those who haven't dug around to find the heretofore obscurer studies on sugar addiction. At least he's brought half of it out into the clear light of National Public Radio.

The other half is that if neural pathways change over time because of the disproportion of mood-changing neurotransmitters affected by what I eat makes it hard for my brain's pleasure centers to get going from anything except sugars and fats...then I've got an addiction that works exactly like cocaine or heroine or speedballing or booze. And like them, it's degenerating because I need increasingly more to keep my buzz on. (Or off, in the case of serotonin.) In the end, after having taken my life, it will simply extinguish my life.

And I don't see him suggesting self-rehab for that.

Nota Bene: I told my sponsor about this post and she, too, was outraged. She called Kessler a quack...

OK, maybe it's just funny in the moment after a long day of trying to fit serotonin, dopamine & endorphins into as little space as possible...

The Martha Beck book looks interesting & yes, I, too, am glad whenever an expose of the food industry comes out. He does some fascinating work with industry consultants.

And Then, Suddenly, It's About the Weight

Day 40 here but it doesn't feel like it. My experience of my 12-step program is a toss-up between the food, the abstinence & the weight loss. It's supposed to be about the abstinence & most of this God-granted spell has been. Then, Monday, a friend took a picture of me.

& don't you DARE say "What a great smile". I look like a no-neck Stay-Puff Woman. All the days and all the pounds were suddenly for naught as I looked at the wattle hanging off that stranger's face.

Whomp! I'm in how-long-till-I-can-fit land, close allies with how-much-will-I-weigh-when-I-see-so-and-so. It goes from, "Gee, I've lost at least 18 pounds" to "I have just under a hundred pounds to lose." Another ally: "I can do without my fruit and grain at breakfast."

I had a slip last night, which was preventable. I had corned beef in the crock pot and it smelled wonderful. I was also waiting for Go-Geek-Go to come and do things to my computer. I waited. I waited. My stomach growled. He should be here any time. I waited. I felt weak with hunger. Daisy cottoned on to my nervousness and began barking every time the building's front door opened. I waited. At 7.30 he called. He'd taken the wrong street name down & was somewhere on 6th Street in Park Slope. We decided to get together this weekend & I was left bored, with no work done, cabbage that had to be added to the crock, and I was starving By the time I ate, I was on the verge of being out of control. I ate too much. and woke up this morning in that remorse we all know too well.

I had missed part of breakfast yesterday because I was late for the dogs. When I weighed my corned beef for lunch just now, I realized I may not have eaten as much as I thought I did. I did my usual four or five miles yesterday. It's not that big a deal.

But it is. It is because that's not how one eats on my food plan. I could have had a cup of yogurt and a fruit to tide me over until the work was done and I could have dinner. But I didn't. I blurred lines yesterday and I don't like it.

That was AFTER I uploaded the photos my friend took of me. Coincidence? I'm not sure.

I had a good reminder of what I am this morning, however. If you remember, I compare my compulsion to my tender feet: they just are, and either I tend to them or I walk around in pain.

Yesterday, my feet were killing me. To avoid stepping on the balls of my feet, I contorted myself until my lower back and a ham string were also out of whack. I'd shaved my feet less than a week ago so I was pretending it wasn't the callouses on my corns. Like, what's the big deal? My callouses had thickened more quickly than usual and I was in pain. Still, all day, denial.

I hobbled behind Daisy at 7.30 this morning, wincing from my hamstring and my feet. "This is STUPID," I thought. I desperately needed some groceries but they became less a priority than running a tub of hot water, soaking my feet, putting in a brand new razor blade and shaving the callouses. 98% of the problem was solved.

Just as having had an approved snack last night would have almost certainly prevented too much dinner.

I had an email from a colleague this afternoon about how she can't lose weight at this time. I've been reporting my weight losses to her because she's part of the AFG publication team. I wrote back that she would when she was ready & that I'd done this when I was ready.

I also wanted her not to use my current success against herself. I've felt this when friends wre losing weight and I was gaining. And I wanted her to know that for the big pay-offs of my food plan, it's hard work. It's shopping and preparing. It's communicating with my sponsor. It's writing. It's meetings. It's step work and praying. I'm only a C 12-stepper but this is a program that demands work that is inconvenient and hard to fit in. I don't recommend it unless someone can put it at the very center of their lives.

So, danger averted. I didn't binge. I would not look better if I'd weighed my meat last night. Everything takes time. I've done well by dogs so far today & God's in his heaven. No scale for a couple of days. I want to enjoy my jammies that now fit and fit comfortably, and the jeans I wouldn't have dared put on a month ago. I want this day to be Enough and Just Right.

We Plan, God Laughs

I didn't realize until this morning how much shame I could confess here.

The Bat Cave has very poor lighting. I have a large flashlight that I use at least once a day to read labels or find shoes. Lately it's been in steady use as I've worked on getting my new television & DVD/VCR hooked up & comfortably running. So I blame this on poor lighting.

Oh, & on me, of course.

I blew up during last fall's depression & Christmas madness at my parents' house, so much so that I was literally off my scale, which ends at 250. Last week I was finally at 250. I breathed a sigh of relief. I couldn't tell my sponsor how much I'd lost -- 10 pounds? fifteen or twenty? -- but I had succeeded, at least, in "fitting" my scale.

It was an achievement.

This has been a hard week. I'm cold all the time. Taking Daisy out means fitting her little booties on which is just this side of aggravating. I'm not just walking dogs, I'm climbing through the snow they love to explore. My computer needs a physical & a knee replacement. There's garbage everywhere because of human laziness & because we haven't had the Sanitation trucks for two pick-up days. The dogs are darting after food & after those first pristine hours of heavy snow, the world is pretty ugly.

I haven't gotten any writing done. The time I had for it yesterday I spent looking for a gentle, English-speaking geek who could help me out.

I haven't gotten any writing done. Some kind of deadline for the revised Angry Fat Girls is looming but we haven't settled on one yet. In the meantime, I have a sort of forward to write for it & I haven't gotten any writing done.

I mad. Pissed off. Angry. Resentful. Peevish. Sullen. At myself, the weather, time, obligations, human frailty.

(In the larger picture, the line above is a miracle. I'm feeling these feelings. I have names for them. I've experienced them a lot in the last ten days or so and I've ridden them out. A month ago I would have been feeling them and simultaneously thinking about when & what I could eat to make them shrink. They feel very big to me simply because I don't have the shame & chemical dousing of eating to reduce them. I'm rather proud of my brattiness.)

In that state this morning I thought I'd give myself some good news. Today is Day 19 & my food has been very clean & I'm always walking so I knew that something would have happened since last Thursday.

It had. I'd misread my scale. It ends at 260 rather than 250. I've either gained eight pounds from the number in my calendar last week or lost two pounds if I hadn't been such a dumbass as to not know how her own damn scale works.

I wanted to write about the Indian vegetables I crocked this week, or about how, as the Big Book says, "God is doing for [me] what [I] cannot do for [myself]". Instead, I guess I've just done a small treatment of Step 1: my life has become unmanageable.

& I feel like a fool. A very fat fool.

Steps

My sponsor has sentenced me to hard labor as I struggle to get off the sugar train.

I have to do a meeting a day (in our cyber age, one can "do" a meeting rather than "go to" a meeting because they're online or on the telephone as well as in church basements) for 30 days.

I have to call one other compulsive eater each day.

I have to read one page of Alcoholics Anonymous each day.

I have to email my sponsor what I'm going to eat each day.

I have to email her a daily inventory each night.

And I have to start over in my step work, which has always been one of my weak points in the Rooms.

The first step of the twelve steps for compulsive eating and food addiction, based on AA's twelve steps, is "We admitted we were powerless over food -- and that our lives had become unmanageable."

The usual approach to working on this pretty grim step is to do a food history. I've done that -- I've published it, for God's sake. She suggested I move on the second step, "We came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity," but I observed that the second part of the Step One, "our lives had become unmanageable," is often overlooked.

Taken with the point of Step Two -- the restoration of sanity -- that phrase is particularly important. These Steps are not so much about food as they are about the mental and spiritual balance I lose every time I lapse.

This has to sound cliche, but as I write these statements I understand the direction they can take me in better than I have before.

I want to talk about the last couple of weeks and the weeks coming up.

Daisy and I boarded at two Italian greyhounds' house for ten nights. The first weekend, I was also "boarding" another dog -- that is, hanging out with him as much as possible, tucking him in at night, getting him out first thing in the morning. That weekend I also had another set of IGs to go in and feed, clean up after and love.

I literally needed to be at least three places at once all weekend long. Following that weekend, I agreed to several nights of 9 p.m. walks. I was back-and-forth between the Bat Cave and the IGs. My yogurt was in one apartment, my salad makings in another, nightgown there, clean underwear here. It didn't take long for me to start eating between meals, eating Bad Stuff, and then eating Really Bad Stuff. I had no internet connection at the IGs and couldn't always make the times for online meetings. My bowels cramped from stress; I was exhausted. I didn't get to any live meetings for a week either. I'm now six meeting short of my 30 in 30 days. (In 12 Step parlance, we call such a marathon a "30 in 30" or "60 in 60" or, God help me, a "90 in 90".)

This is the first day I woke up in my own bed since June 15th.

On Thursday, three mornings from now, I start staying at Mad Mally's house -- he's a big crazy black Lab & he has two cats, one of whom I'll need to inject saline into each day. Daisy and I will stay there until July 3rd, when I leave very very early to visit my parents in Arizona for a week.

Yum: a week with my parents in Arizona in July!

Lately, Step One could be reversed -- "My life is unmanageable and I'm using food to get some power". Of course this power is mostly illusionary, although it did quell some of my rebelliousness about being away from home, living in chaos and resentment and self-induced boredom. I can't quite say that eating was unproductive. Rather it was one of what someone recently called "defective habits," a phrase I like a lot.

My life is unmanageable in an infinite number of ways. Play with a dog and I get puncture wounds and a hug sore bruise on my right thumb. Change a light bulb and cut my big toe on the step ladder (talk about ironies). Spend 16 hours a day at another apartment and mine turns into one big dust bunny.

Worse, by sitting in front of TV with pop corn, I didn't pay as much attention, qualitatively, as I could have to the dogs. By debating ice cream as an option all day, my attention was yet further divided.

I wanted OUT of the prison of obligations, even when I wasn't actually in it. Granted, it's hard to work on a novel when one only has an hour at a time to do it, but I played a few too many computer games when I was home and not enough note-taking or cleaning or other tasks that could be done in a short space of time. I'm one of the people who gets to watch TV because it's the Weather Channel or nothing at home, but I was deep into Bridezilla and, oh-my-God, Tori and Dean Inn Love. I wasn't watching the news or something topical that requires time to get the gist of it. I was sucked into what can be digested as fast as cotton candy.

And my reading went unread. Phone calls were not made. Letters were not written. I used food and junk TV to escape not only my resentment, but the alternative ways of spending my time. I chose unmanageability over sanity and usefulness.

My life feels particularly unmanageable in the areas of my career (no word from my editor, no decision made about rounding up letters of recommendation at an online site, my usual reluctance to work on my book), finances (I'm trying to get taxes and my credit debt under control; I want to get medical insurance), my home (winter clothes still waiting for the arrival of storage bags, desks waiting for me to figure out how to organize, a bathroom gray with grit -- although I did one layer of cleaning my oven this morning ;)), stress (it simply comes AT me; I feel like Tippi Hedron in The Birds) -- and my desperation to escape reality.

I need to thin further about how food increases this unmanageable life of mine. I'll keep you posted if you want to read more...