I felt I needed to take a good hard look at myself and why I was in the situation I was in. I need to do a good solid Hannibal Lector self-analysis and discover why it was I wore cheap shoes and I heard the lambs cry. A lot of work with a few therapists helped, they put me on the right path and gave me knowledge. This ego adventure went all sorts of places but most of my enlightenments came about where I do most of my best thinking; in the shower. I have created cartoon characters there, came up with project ideas there and discovered my unhealthy relationship with food there. I was very much alone in life, working a job I hated selling auto parts to really stupid people*. I thought I was unable to maintain a relationship and many a woman would tell me just that. One even told me I was great in bed (she is right) but I was a “sucky boyfriend”. We were and still are, better as friends. Food was my bestie. Food was my love. The warm greasy embrace of a double bacon cheeseburger made everything all-right.
“Food was, in my fat mind, a path back to the Happy Times.”
At any time I had a lousy day…..and there were a lot, I would come home grinding my teeth to find solace in a bag of fries. People driving like jerks?; Pie. Break-up? A sack of tacos will fix that. Once, after leaving my doctor’s office with the knowledge that I most likely had cancer**, I didn’t go to a bar, I went to a buffet. Food was my self-medication and I now knew why. Food was, in my fat mind, a path back to the Happy Times. The Happy Times were a partially mythical era where everyone was having fun-filled times eating lasagna or cheese stuffed shells at my grandmother’s house, or having burgers and chicken thoroughly dried on the grill by my grandfather. It was eating multiple pieces of pie on Christmas and Thanksgiving, that so-completely American holiday meant for just me. It was eating a left-over buffet watching “Wonderful World of Disney” on Sunday nights with the family. It was eating food with my dad, maybe a fried egg sandwich, a grilled cheese or simply a bowl of Wachusett Potato chips that we scooped into the misused salad bowl from the big box directly purchased from the nearby factory. No matter what the situation it was, in my mind, a Happy Time. There was no fighting, no arguing, dad was sharing time AND food with me, without yelling or criticism. Dually nutritious. Clearly, this is where the Happy Times must come from.
But it wasn’t. The food was not happy time. Happy Time wasn’t even a happy time. That may be what I remembered of it. I may have picked out the best times, we all do. We want to remember the best of people especially those who are not with us anymore or those whose age makes it so they won’t have those times with us that they once did. We want the past to be all Snoopy and Norman Rockwell. We want to read the cartoon “Family Circus” with a tinge of memory and nostalgia.
“So far I have lost 145 pounds and with the help and advice of a nutritionist I intend to keep it off.”
But we also have to know where the happy comes from. It does not come from drinking or any drug or fetish (it might, I haven’t tried any yet) or therapist and certainly not at the bottom of a sack of burgers. A three way with Ben and Jerry won’t make your exe jealous.
I found the help I needed. Bariatric surgery turned out to be the answer to a question I didn’t know yet. A great doctor suggested Blossom Bariatrics and I took his advice. So far I have lost 145 pounds and with the help and advice of a nutritionist I intend to keep it off.
The Happy Times are now. They come from within. They come from finding what you have to give, to create or to produce. They come from the art, music, acting and writing you need to do. They come from the undeniable love for life and the ones you love in life. They come from kids, moms, dads, husbands and wives and BFs, GFs, BFFs, FBIs and UFOs. They come from you.
*This is an actual testimonial, however, individual results may vary