There’s a song by the formative Hoosier band husband&wife that begins, “I meant to take you to the bank, but I got fat instead.” As a fit teenager, I thought that was such a funny line. As a chunky mid-30s fella, it hits a little closer to home, many of my ambitions fallen to the wayside in support of just staying alive.
You see, I know why I’m fat; it’s no surprise to me. Honestly, it’d be weird if I weren’t fat. These reasons aren’t excuses, but rather are contextualizations for why I find myself in this predicament. It helps me to better understand myself, and thus be more sympathetic and compassionate to myself as I begin to attempt to manage what I’m realizing is a binge eating disorder.
As a child, no one modeled for me good eating habits. My parents were certainly meat and potato people, with many of our meals coming from either the freezer or a drive-thru. I watched my parents gain weight throughout my childhood, as well as most of the folks in my community. I was not encouraged to eat healthy food like vegetables, subsisting mostly on cottage cheese and chicken nuggets until high school. I’m not blaming anyone, but these were just the examples I was given.
In high school, my exit from sports, alongside my poor eating habits, brought on some chubbiness. That’s when I discovered grilled chicken, salads, and low-fat yogurt. I started watching what I ate, lifting weights, and playing tennis and basketball. In early college, I was in the best shape of my life, something like a six-pack rippling on my belly. I felt great, but it also led to me becoming mighty judgmental towards folks with weight issues. Sometimes I feel like getting fat is part of my karma.
My first shoulder dislocation, which effectively ended my weightlifting and pickup basketball regimens, came around the same time I started drinking beer. The belly lost its definition. And then, I moved to Austin, land of daily drink specials and incredible food. Unsurprisingly, my mental health went haywire during this time, depression and mania both pushing good eating habits and regular exercise to the wayside.
I’ve tried several times over the last several years to start lifting again and really dedicate myself to disc golf, walking, and yoga, but the ups and downs of my mental state really make it tricky to be consistent and stay on routine. Also, I’m on a fair amount of anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers that both crush my metabolism and cause insatiability. Again, I am not making excuses, but rather trying to paint a picture of my predicament.
But the real problem, taking me from chubby to fat, came after my ex-wife left, when the binge eating began. I was coping with my grief, isolation, and mental instability with a lot of weed, so despite a day of exercising and eating well, I’d get high late at night, drive into town, and order a large meal complete with soda and French fries. For about a year, this pattern occurred 4-5 nights a week, in secrecy, ashamed of both my depression and my binging.
Luckily, I have adopted much better weed habits and cut the fast food habit, but I still struggle with the binge-eating, finding myself stalking around the kitchen in the middle of the night, coming to eating a block of cheese or a bag of chips. I eat pretty well during the day—smoothies, nuts, veggie stir-fry—but as Beloved B goes to bed and the night winds down, I feel myself pulled back to that grief-stricken, lonely insatiable state.
As I’ve learned to manage the other parts of my dysfunction, this binge-eating feels like the next frontier in getting well. I know it’s going to take specialized therapy, support groups, and major lifestyle changes, much like dealing with my bipolar did. But I’m still basking in the comfort of shedding so many of my demons, making my amends, and managing my mental illness symptoms. But it’s coming, the time to face my belly.
Love you! Can’t wait to see you soon.