A Shot in the Arm?

Nope. A shot in the belly.

I did it. I asked for help. I’ve been teetering on the edge of food crazies for months now, sometimes falling over the edge, sometimes standing at the precipice, willing myself not to plummet to the depths, barely holding myself back.

I’ve been eating things that I know aren’t good for me. I’ve dipped back into my lust for all things sugar. And I’ve been relatively quiet about it. Partly because I want to give myself space to explore what it’s about, and partly because I’m feeling shame. I’m working my recovery program. Kind of. I attend a meeting every day; I talk to my sponsor. I do service in the meetings. I’m mostly honest. I pick and choose what I’m willing to do and what I’m not, and that’s okay. Kind of. I continue to look for loopholes, and I still have very little idea what it means to hand my struggle with food over to my higher power, to Grace. It’s hard for me to ask for help. I am, for the most part, still doing things MY way. I do know, however, that program IS working for me on many levels. I’m writing, something I thought would remain in the fantasy section of my brain, of my heart. I possess relative peace of mind. I know I’ve made progress.

I think an ingredient of the sugar lust has something to do with experiencing success. But I’d be lying if I told you that’s all it is.

I mentioned this idea to a friend, and she responded, “Oh yeah, success stress.” That rang a bell for me. The last months have been amazing, but I’m also experiencing emotional discomfort, because suddenly, I’m doing so well, better than I ever have. I’m not used to having what I always wanted. I’m much more accustomed to hurting myself and sabotaging my dreams.

These days, I’m writing my heart out and earning my living in a new business I love. I’m productive and I’m happy and excited about all that I’m doing. But underneath the excitement, there’s fear. Fear that I’ll run out of stories, fear that someone will expose me for the fraud I sometimes feel like. Fear that all the joy, the creativity, will evaporate, and I’ll be left alone with nothing.

Fear that I’ll be loved and admired. Yeah, that too. Maybe that one most of all. I’m more vulnerable these days. Vulnerable, but with better boundaries.

So, I’ve been doing what I do when I don’t want to be seen. I eat. I eat to put a comfortable layer between me and the rest of my world. Come close, but not too close. Yes. That’s good. You stand over there, and I’ll wave to you from my window, or from my Zoom room. You can’t see all of me from my Zoom room. It’s safer than sitting with you in real life, across a table, or out taking a walk together, so you can see me huff and puff because I never exercise. The other day, I realized that I’d left my house to go out into the greater world only twice in the last couple of weeks. Once to visit my therapist, and once to have dinner with my best friend. I have my groceries delivered. That way I can order whatever I want and not face the imagined judgements from the cashier and other customers in the check-out line. I used to rotate convenience stores when I bought ice cream, my need for a new ½ gallon so frequent that I was embarrassed to go back to the same shop. Just like an alcoholic rotates liquor stores.

I delude myself as I eat cookies and M&Ms. I try to convince myself that it’s okay to be in a bigger body, even though my bigger body makes me sad so much of the time. I tell myself I can keep these habits for now, because I’m not ready to let them go, that one day I will be ready, but that day isn’t today. I tell myself that maybe I don’t have to change. That somehow, I’ll be fine, even though what I do isn’t good for my health or my emotional well-being. I struggle to understand what that really means for me.

Here’s the truth. The truth is I don’t like being a fat person. I don’t. I’m ungainly, I’m embarrassed, I’m dissociated from my body. I have trouble doing things that other people, thinner people can do without thinking twice about it. Something as simple as being able to cross my legs, my right leg over my left or my left over my right. I enjoyed being able to do that once upon a time. I took it for granted. But I can’t do that simple movement anymore. I cringe when I walk into a waiting room, or a restaurant and see chairs with arms on them. They’re uncomfortable for me, a woman with consequential hips. I don’t look in the mirror, the full-length one. I don’t like being unclothed when I shower. And most of the time, I hate having my picture taken.

I’m not living a full life.

In December, I bought myself the sweetest little blue Mini Cooper. Little being the operative word. I was surprised to discover that I had to figure out the most graceful way to slide in behind the wheel. I’ve had a Mini before. I guess I must be bigger now. I’ve figured out getting in, but getting out is harder. I’m valiant as I extract myself with a squirm and a wiggle, hoping no one sees me as I do. I try to play it cool. But it doesn’t feel so cool.

I spend a lot of time pushing away feelings of shame, and instead of doing something good for me, I reach for something to momentarily soothe or distance myself from my difficult feelings. I reach for something sweet. And then I reach once more.

I thought I could make peace with my physical self being what it is. I can’t. I waited 62 years to start writing. Recovery has helped me do it. I’m a writer, and with my late start, I feel I’ve got catching up to do. I don’t want to waste a minute more being untrue to myself. This part is painful. This part is hard. It’s scary. I don’t want to hasten my end because of my unwillingness to heal all the way. Because of the depression and lack of self-love I’ve experienced in my life, I’ve spent too many years wanting to die, whether it was consciously felt or just demonstrated by my choices.

It's hard to admit this struggle. I’m sharing my process with you, in almost real time, weighing how much I want to share, and how much I want to keep to myself. They say in program that we’re only as sick as our secrets. I still have too many secrets.

When I started writing here last year, my purpose was to do service for others by sharing my stories. To give people hope. So, I guess being honest is the best way to go. I know there are others just like me. I want you to know you’re not alone.

I’m not looking for anyone to feel sorry for me and I mean it.

I’ve been considering the weight-loss medicines for months. I’ve been vehemently against them; judgy and harsh. More judgy about the people who use them for a 5-, 10-, or 15-pound weight loss, and think nothing of dropping a couple thousand dollars a month because they can. I’m angry at the prohibitive cost. I’m angry at the pharmaceutical industry for the institutional greed motivated by profits over people. My insurance doesn’t cover this. So, I’m going out-of-pocket to save my own life. Does that sound hyperbolic? At this point, I don’t think so.

When I discussed the idea with my nurse practitioner, she encouraged me to go for it, to try. We talked about what might be the biggest benefit of this medication for me. The quieting of my food noise. I think of food constantly. The thoughts are always there. What can I eat, and when? What can I eat next? I’m rarely hungry. I’m told that the food noise that plagues so many gets turned down, turned off, sometimes completely. I need that help. I need that tool. I can’t imagine what it might be like to not think about eating.

One of the things I’ve learned is that my eating isn’t just about emotional soothing. I truly believe that my brain chemistry is off, whether it’s a genetic predisposition or a result of what I’ve done to myself for too many years. It doesn’t matter that much what the origin is.

Trying these meds might be the best thing I can do. The smartest investment in myself right now. I don’t have 5 or 10 pounds to lose. Multiply that amount by a factor of 10. That’s where I’m at. 50-100 pounds. But all I can do is lose it an ounce at a time.

When I walked into the recovery rooms, I was told that this process is a long game, quite like building an audience on Substack. It takes time. I didn’t get fat overnight. It took years. And I’ve been fat for ages.

I had my first appointment last week at a local clinic that dispenses compounded semaglutide and tirzepatide. It’s less expensive than the name brands. I’m trying this, and I’ll see what happens. What I do know is that my commitment to myself, my health, my survival, and my thriving has to be full-on. There’s no such thing as half a commitment, just as there’s no such thing as “trying.” You do it, or you don’t. It’s tough love time. But as tough as it is, the “love” in tough love is the driving force. I’m learning how to love myself.

The practitioners I met at the clinic last week were all women. They were kind and supportive and they understood. They understood because they’ve lived it, too.

My thinking is so skewed sometimes. Here’s an example: When I decided to give the medication a go, I didn’t realize that I’d have to give up the treats, the sugar, the comfort foods that lack nutrition. Magical thinking. I’m good at it. I actually asked the nurse if I’d have to stop eating sugar. Her answer was wonderful. She said sugar is a part of our lives. Balance is the key. That’s completely in line with my recovery program.

I gave myself my first injection. I feel excited, hopeful, and yes, a little scared. They ran blood tests and I got the sobering results two days later.

For the first time ever, I tested in the pre-diabetic range. And some other things were off as well. In the past, my blood work has always been good, well except for my cholesterol. I’ve aced glucose tolerance tests over and over, surprising every doctor I’ve ever seen. That’s been a weird point of pride for me. But now, it’s time to take this seriously.

Seems I got to that clinic just in time. Was it my inner wisdom? The work of Grace? Or maybe, I’m tired of being partway here. And when I say here, I mean life.

A year ago, I would have laughed at the thought of trying these meds. But I’ve learned something important. It’s okay to change my mind. It’s okay to ask for help. To try something new and be open to possibility where none existed before.

I’m pretty sure I’m doing the next right thing. Time will tell.

It’s my birthday on Saturday, and I love celebrating, so….

I’m having a sale! You can become a paid subscriber, support my work. The meds are pricey! Now through Monday, March 10th, I’m offering 50% off the cost of an annual subscription. That’s only $25 for a whole year!

I hate getting gifts on my birthday, but I love cash! Donate to my birthday fund.

AND….I’ll be teaching a 5 Week Zoom Master Class in May all about the ins and outs of publishing on Substack: So, You Want to Write on Substack But You Don’t Know Where to Start? Find out more or register now!