My Obesity: Coming Out of the Closet
[caption id="attachment_15" align="alignleft" width="213" caption="If I only knew how fleeting..."]
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The guy displaying himself on the beach had quite a journey before this photo, a story which cannot be told in less than 80,000 words. This wasn't the best beach bod he ever had, but it would prove to be the last, at least for a very long time.
I hate when people talk about themselves in third person, so I'm going to stop...right now. I also want you guys to know that I'm not writing this for "awk-ho-lawds," or sympathy or to sell you guys supplements that don't work. I have no ulterior motives, I'm just tired of hiding myself behind photoshop and "MySpace Angles." I want, for the first time in years, to show my true face.
Meandering through hell on a trip that had taken most of my life, arriving in my 34th year relatively unscathed was a blessing. Addiction destroyed me, robbing me of everything. In recovery, I parted ways with alcohol, cocaine, crystal meth, marijuana, pills, and my Glock 9mm handgun. That thing was beautiful; never give one to someone who hasn't slept in 41 days...and that one is a funny story (nobody got hurt). It's a miracle I never shot Fuckhead #1. People outside of recovery don't understand statements like this, those inside recovery laugh, as many of them have done just as crazy (if not crazier) things.
When I first cleaned up, I discovered my dealer had been cutting my crystal meth with heroin as I threw up blood alongside the other junkies in detox. I also went through DT's from alcohol. Crystal allowed me to drink gallons of bourbon. The thing that sucked about detox besides the excruciating process, was the fact that they wouldn't even give us regular coffee. But we could smoke as many cigarettes as we wanted. I don't know about the other junkies, but I wasn't there for coffee addiction, and from what I heard, coffee wasn't going to lead me to a relapse. A cool aside, Marylin Monroe's insane mother had been in the same place, Metropolitan State Hospital. I do have to offer a shout out to Cider House Detox, they were good to me and the food was excellent. After a week, they said, "we've done all we can for you," and I shoved off on my merry way.
[caption id="attachment_16" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="My rehab"]
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September 20, 1995, one week sober, I arrived at this building, the blond white boy from Redondo Beach, deposited amidst 96 black crack addicts, most from South Central, some from Skid Row, many just released from prison. Even in my drugging, I'd never been to a neighborhood this bad, and I was terrified. The lovely building in the photo is the Royal Palms, a recovery home. In the photo, it appears to be a pretty old hotel. On the inside, water dripped into the dining room on the first floor from a bathroom on the fourth. You could see all the way up through huge cracks thanks to the Northridge quake the year before. Huge rats inhabited the building, so if you wanted to keep any treats in your room, you had to hang them from the fire sprinklers so the vermin wouldn't get them. We had a drive-by on the front walk while I was there, and amazingly I was the only one who instinctively hit the floor. All the guys from the ghetto ran to the window to investigate while there was still gunfire. The block was a drug enforcement zone with a crack dealer across the street. The designation basically implied martial law for anyone who entered.
Every morning we cleaned, but of course you can't polish a turd. Afterwards, we'd go for "morning walk." I guess beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but let me ask you this; have you ever seen a $2 hooker? I hadn't either. She's got a long, filthy t-shirt slit up the back (to be bent over with ease), no teeth, addicted to crack, and most likely AIDS. I wondered how the guys in the house could get it up for these poor creatures.
Soul food was the rule, good, fattening soul food. Which is exactly like Texan food, the stuff grandmother gave me. And I ate it. A lot. I had the same ritual every day. I'd stuff my face with as much food as possible, and then park myself on steps from a building that used to be next door. And I'd cry. I'd usually cry for an hour, pouring through my photos of everything I'd lost. I attended AA meetings nightly, and I knew all the ones with food. The Arlington Group on Wilshire had the best spread, and the most celebrities. No, I'm not telling who. Maybe I can tell the ones who outed themselves...nah, better not. Anyway, after 90 days, I left the house. They wanted me to stay for 3-9 more months and I said "no way." Seeing 4 dead bodies in 3 weeks or so helped make my decision. Later, I found out I'd been in the middle of a gang war. Truthfully, I probably wasn't ready to leave, but I'd made a plan when I was 40 days sober and I was sticking to it. Sober living, a waiter job, my own apartment, a new television, a new couch, a cat, and daily AA meetings.
Fast forward...4 months later, I had my own place, a very cute cockroach infested studio apartment in Glendale, with a million dollar view of Downtown L.A. . Of course here I am, all these years later, living downtown. I'd just worked my out of a nasty sober living, in about 7 weeks. My domicile was a 2 bedroom apartment with 3 other guys who'd been kicked out of the recovery home for using. I think it was the second night or so I came home to my apartment smelling like crack. Everyone knew, nobody cared.
I pursued my tiny dreams described above, and achieved my desired life, complete with T.V., sofa and cat, in less than 6 months. Lucy is 15 and still with me. Not bad for a guy who'd gone from golden boy in the Hollywood club scene to a junkie people would cross the street to avoid. Anyway, I locked myself in my house and ate a lot. I had no idea how to deal with people sober and I was still in a toxic relationship with Fuckhead #1, which hindered my recovery, just like everyone else said it would. He taunted me about my weight every time I saw him, which wasn't much. He later told me he'd been off fucking some hot redheaded guy with a rockin' body. He was such a whore.
It took me a year and a half to peel the flab off and "refine" myself to be fit to live amongst decent people once again, something I'd lost along the way. I had 40 pounds to lose, and did it by quitting smoking, exercising and eating right. I once again, this time sober, descended into the dance clubs, and did what I always did best...I danced for hours, the best cardio on the planet. My favorite story is a guy from my work, and I'll even use his real name because it's such an awful name; Mochtar (Mock-tar, kinda like fake tard). I asked him out once, and he sent me down in flames saying, "I'll go out with you if you lose 30 pounds." Months later, there he was in one of my favorite clubs; he recognized me, his jaw hitting the floor. "Hey baby, you look...fucking awesome, what are you doing tomorrow night?" This was my moment, and I was going to enjoy it. "Whatever I'm doing, it won't be with you. Yeah, I did lose some weight, 40 pounds to be exact, but you're still the same asshole you were a few months ago," I said, turning on my heel. My friend Nora Varbadian (if anyone knows where she is, I miss her!) laughed as hard as I did, as she was there before when he shot me down.
I enjoyed my re-found shape, a body I'd known and loved for years but hadn't seen since before I'd gotten sober. And then I met HIM. I don't mean "Him" the way the christians write it, or maybe that's exactly what I mean. Yes folks, I met Fuckhead #2. I'd made a wish after FH 1 left me unceremoniously, banging on my door at 830am, his car outside loaded to the gills, announcing he was leaving me and driving to Miami and the bastard was nice enough to stop and tell me goodbye. That's the only time anyone has ever left me like that. Anyway, FH 2 was going to mend my heart and make my dreams come true. As FH 1 had keen intelligence and killer instinct, I wished for a hot, stupid guy. Unfortunately, my wish was granted. His first priority, far above all else was physical appearance, I worked out and watched my diet furiously to stay up to his standards, to please "Him." One nice thing about being the age I am now, I'd never let anyone like this near me again.
So there I was, moved to Las Vegas with Him. Early on, I discovered a few things about him. Number one, he was a sex addict. He was a mornign person, I was not. He'd wake me with a big smile, freshly showered. Always freshly showered, strolling through the door that way mind you. Number two, a gambleholic I was a fine dining waiter, sometimes making up to $1000 a day. I'd stash the cash and sometimes have the same amount of money on Friday as I'd had on Monday. I also bought him an Explorer, paid his car insurance, rent, bills...what was I thinking? Number three, if I gained an ounce, I was a pariah. I decided to test his mettle and intentionally gained 15 pounds. I found out what I suspected...he only liked me for my looks and body, berating me, telling all his friends, "he got fat! He's disgusting!" A friend visited from L.A., saying "wow, to hear him talk, I thought you'd be obese." Truth be known, on my build 15 pounds isn't much of a gain, I'm built like a farm boy. My definition leaves, my ass gets a little bigger, and I get a little under the jaw, but that's about it. So then came the violence. And the stalking. I had the good sense to save a big chunk of money to leave him. People used to call the police on us. And I ate. I was still sober, but food was all I have. In Las Vegas, if you work for a Strip casino, they take excellent care of you. They provide dry-cleaned uniforms daily, HEALTH INSURANCE (which I can't get now, and won't ever if the Republicans have their way), and they fed us in employee lounges resembling nice restaurants. They'd grill for us, we had buffets, and the desserts were off the hook. Bellagio was the best, Paris not so much. I ate more at Paris because FH 2 worked there, and I had to see him every day after I left, him harassing me, stalking me, and bashing me to everyone I knew. Drama, table of one...I think I leveled off 30 pounds heavier than when I'd met the psychopath.
Let me rewind a click. The straw that broke the camel's back...two things. One, I wouldn't have sex with a guy from his work he had the hots for. The guy was really hot, but I'm not the 3-way or invite others into my relationship kinda dude. I knew if I didn't screw the guy, he'd call me a prude and if I did, he'd call me a whore. There was no way to win with him. I also cut off every cent, not wanting to pay his bills or fund his gambling addiction. This caused more violence, and he went out and got a boyfriend to spite me. This just drove me further to food. For the record, the worst thing about him, worse than his being a psychopath, was that he was stupid and wouldn't shut up. Awful combination. My best memory was sitting at a table with several people from Manhattan. He flapped and flapped about their city, an expert. I knew what was coming. Finally, one of them asked, "have you ever BEEN to New York?" His answer was classic,"well no, but..." and continued to flap. He was so stupid, their smirks and snarkiness were all lost on him.
Long story short, I left him, got my own place, met Kelby, blew out of Vegas, and hauled him back to my native Los Angeles. We settled in Old Pasadena and it was one of the happiest times of my life. Finally, I decided to lose my flab, which my way of showing the world how much I hated myself. Kelby was patient as I babbled about weight loss, and I ended up reaching my goal, see my beach bod at the top of the page. I'd started smoking again in Vegas, the city where they issue you a carton at the airport. I never quit, smoking all the way to goal. I quit afterwards, February 7, 2003 as a matter of fact, and not a ciggy for me since. I mention this not to be self-righteous, but it was essential to my overall health, a concept I hadn't quite understood and would not for years, but it was a step. Also, we live to be almost 100 in my family unless we smoke. If we do, we drop dead at 60 of cancer or another smoking related illness. Anyway, I hit goal, I'd returned to college, got good grades and changed careers...all was well.
And then all hell broke loose. I almost got shot in front of our store, instantly instilling horrific PTSD, and we lost our business, which was devastating. And I went off the deep end. For the wrong reasons, we moved to Hawaii. In the final analysis, I decided I had to save face by doing something people would consider really fabulous. I regretted the decision on the plane, and regretted giving up our place in Old Pasadena, one of the most awesome neighborhoods in the L.A. area. And I started eating again. I ate like never before in my whole life.
So, Hawaii and I weren't any better of a fit than we were when I'd served time there as a kid. Let me illuminate a bit. The Hawaii on television and the way the Hawaiians are portrayed isn't exactly accurate. I think the Hawaiian fire dancers in the movies are really Latino strippers from West Hollywood. I've never met a Hawaiian guy who looks like that. It's perfectly acceptable to weigh 300-400 pounds and nobody will sweat you about being fat, ever. Heart-busting plate lunches of chili, rice, gravy, greasy hamburger meat...cheap and plentiful. Everything else in Hawaii is outrageously expensive, so they are tempting. And quick. And easy. And I wanted to go home. So, coined my own sales pitch about where I was, recited it over and over...and I segued into workoholism, I mean I rocketed it to a whole new level, sometimes 120 hours a week. Call me day or night, it doesn't matter what time, I'll answer the phone by the third ring. I was terrified of losing a client. Yes, I know how much sleep that is if you do the math. As this was unfolding, "the washer shrank my clothes," I'd say. I really believed it. I had to. Finally, I plopped on a scale and I was in the 220's. "There's no way, the scale must be busted," I said. It wasn't. I was desperately homesick, not enjoying my life, and so rooted in workoholism I couldn't see my hand in front of my face.
[caption id="attachment_17" align="alignleft" width="161" caption="This guy ate the real Jeremy"]
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One afternoon, my husband was tending to the flower beds in the front yard. It was a steamy Hawaiian day, nothing unusual. I dragged myself outside. to speak to him before shoving off. Suddenly, pain and numbness radiated up my arm, and down past my shoulder into my chest. It felt as if I'd been thrown to the ground and sat on by a Samoan. I remember thinking "Not now!" I was 36 years old and supporting a household. I did my best to play off my (what doctors informally confirmed to be) a probable near miss; I didn't want my husband to know. As twisted as my thinking was, I didn't want to "get in trouble." In truth, he would have been worried for my life if he wasn't already. Now about those clothes. The shirt was an 2X, I needed a 4X. The pants were 48 with a six inch gap at the top, held together with a belt, I was at least a 52. I refused to shop at the fat boy store and acknowledge my obesity.
I'd gained 114 pounds. Those photos must be about 5 years apart, right? Try a little over a year. Yeah. So I marched right down and lost the weight, right? I wish it were that easy. I made the decision, but was an emotional basket case. Between the time I hit my max weight of 294 and about 42% (possibly even more) body fat, I was probably at max obesity from late 2004 until spring 'o5 when this was taken, arriving back here in California in April 2007, I did make a dent in my heft.
When I landed back in L.A., I hadn't been here in 2 years. People were so thin, and I was disgusting. Some days I'd walk up to 10 miles. I lost another chunk, culminating in my surgeon almost killing me during a tonsillectomy right after Thanksgiving 2007. At least I lost 14 pounds while on the GI feeding tube for 8 days and not being able to eat food after that. I still have a hefty scar on my neck in the spot my doctor stuck something out of it that resembled a dorsal fin. That was tons o fun. One interesting thing that happened as a result was, my sense of smell became bionic, resulting in my wanting to vomit every time I smelled meat. When I left the hospital, I asked Kelby to roll through the Mc Murder drive through so I could get a Filet-O-Fish and a strawberry shake. Without even opening the carton of the sandwich, I was overwhelmed by the smell and had to throw it out in the Hollywood Freeway. I would have been able to eat it anyway, solid food, drinking without choking and speech were a way off, I just didn't know it yet.
So, I returned to my boydhood vegetarian ways. For the next two years, I maintained my loss within 4 pounds. Being a vegetarian made this much, much easier and for the record, I don't miss any type of carcass I gave up. The one think I thought I'd miss, the BLT, is easily accomplished with veggie bacon, a Reuben also a cinch with Tofurky peppered slices. Patty melt? No problem, Morningstar of Boca accomplish that.
In January, I decided it was time to lose the rest. I'd finally rid myself of toxic family members, and a sense of total serenity descended. I consulted with top scientists, hired a nutritionist whose methods work, although they fly in the face of every known scientific fact about eating. I found the miracle cure, the magic pill, and the miracle of all chemical reactions, allowing me to eat whatever I want, burning it all off as I sleep, with no exercise whatsoever. Just kidding. Fad diets are bullshit, Atkins is bullshit, supplements are bullshit. I've personally tried them all, and everyone I know who stuck with them for longer than me...10 years later they are all fatter than ever unless they adopted something sensible. For the record, Dr. Atkins faked his research, and I can tell you all the ways he did it, also advocating supplements for his diet's shortcomings...sold on his own website. Expensive too. But that's another blog. Truth be known, there is only ONE way to lose weight: burn more calories than you take in. How you accomplish this...up to you, but that's the law of weight loss
So, I've recommitted, dropped my daily calorie intake a little and pumped up the exercise. The scale has dropped, but more impressive is the amount of body fat that's left me. I've lost another 20 pounds and 6% body fat (plus or minus for margin of error, of course). My total loss is 74 pounds and a whopping 14% body fat. My recent loss statistics tell you I've put on a hog of lean muscle from the gym workouts. I have 40 pounds to go. I'm almost to the point I can hide it in clothes again, which makes me really happy. I have not been this weight since 2003.
In 2004, Kelby and I were taking a plane trip. They closed the door, and I had to fasten my seatbelt. I couldn't. My ego would not let me ask for an extension. Kelby and I struggled and struggled, and finally got it fastened. And it was painful. One nice thing about being fat was often getting an exit row without asking. Concert seats were murder, I always felt sorry for the people next to me. While in Hawaii, a big client of mine from California sold me a clean RX-7 and had it shipped over. It was my third, and I was looking forward to driving it. When it arrived, I could barely get the door shut without dislocating the center console. My other two, I'd just slid right in. Tying my shoes, stairs, and small restaurants were all a problem. My sleep apnea got so bad, Kelby would lie awake watching me, afraid I'd suffocate.
Today, I can run a 12-minute mile. It doesn't sound fast, but I can run all the way to the gym and back, and when anyone in the gym challenges me, I can smoke 'em. All my vitals are normal, and I'm in pretty amazing health for a fat guy. Before, they were a disaster and my doctor said I was killing myself. The boys are giving me a little attention again...not that I'll do anything about it, I'm a married man. I'm starting to look normal in clothes. Stairs are really no big deal. People have stopped offering me diet advice. I'm expecting a few people to treat me differently in a few months. It's happened before. I weed out the ugly people this way. "Yeah, since I've lost weight, my I.Q. has jumped 30 points, and I'm of course a much better person, since fat people are stupid and immoral." I have one "friend" from AA whose name I won't mention (ahem..Murray...ahem) I used to hang out with every Tuesday for a year and a half, who pretended not to know me last time I saw him, which was a year or so ago. I hadn't seen him in years, and had the smokin' bod. It had been a long time, but he remembered me. And I'd gotten him a V.I.P. ticket from Dick Clark Productions to the AMA's, escorted his ass down there, helped him with his outfit... Asshole. People are rad this way. Oh...and you'd think I'd have gnarly stretch marks and sagging skin, but I don't. I think in the end, everything will snap all the way back.
So...some of you may read this and call me a yo-yo dieter, and I guess you'd be right. What's different this time? For one, I know how to maintain a loss, I did it for 2 years. But more than that, I know the secret to lasting weight loss. I should patent it and charge people $1000 a piece. Are you ready? The secret to lasting weight loss is....inner peace. Yes, it sounds corny, but that's it, I swear. I've removed major drama from my life, including some family members who caused it. I no longer have the urge to binge. Chipping away at pounds without working on this too is like bailing out the water without fixing the hole in the boat. Also, having a life outside of banging away on my keyboard in the loft. Like movies, coffee houses, the beach, concerts, thrift stores, museums...anything but me and my big steel BOSCH refrigerator. It makes food look so pretty. I walk my dogs a lot, which helps. I have to get outside every day. So here's the rest:
*I only eat food I like. No frankenfood, as whole as possible.
*I don't eat "fat free" anything unless it's milk (I actually prefer 1%), yogurt or cottage cheese. Body needs fat.
*I divide my plate in half, eat slowly, pausing at half. I then eat more if I need it.
*No deprivation. If I want the pecan pie, I have it...although I crave it less and less. The last one was a modest serving of chocolate cake and ice cream, and I ate half and didn't want any more.
*I chug 1-2 quarts of water before a meal. Stretches the stomach.
*I keep "red light" foods out of the house. These include chips, snack foods, sugary breakfast cereals, sweets and pizza. If I want it, I have to walk to the market and get it.
*2 big dogs prone to mania if I don't walk them, with tiny bladders. I'll always walk.
*I never, ever, ever go hungry. If I do, I just end up binging.
*I eat as many low-density foods as possible (not processed). Legumes and fresh produce are sexy.
*I've made friends with my kitchen. I never cooked before. Now, I get creative. I'd hire a chef if I had the money, but then again Oprah has one and she's still fat.
*The big one...when I get emotional and want to binge, I change my physical location, exercise, go for a walk or start a cleaning project. Shopping is also better than eating. Also, I binge on fruit first. I always keep it in the house. My husband says I have a "citrus addiction."
*I don't always journal, but I do a lot of the time, especially when I'm getting sloppy. I periodically use measuring spoons to make sure my portions are right on. Fitday.com figures out every last calorie, nurtient and statistic regarding foods, activity, mood, etc. I love it and best of all...free.
*I never pile my plate, there's always more. Place is 1/2 veggies, 1/4 starch, 1/4 protein.
*Finally, NOBODY can guilt me into eating. And I don't have to clean my plate. "No thank you" works, "No" if necessary.
August 31 is my ideal goal, but if it takes until my birthday in December, so be it. I'm making good effort, but am not married to either date.
If I stopped the gym routine, I'd still lose, although I enjoy it; it's MY time.
Here I am, two days ago. No hocus pocus. This journey has humbled me. I never thought I'd become obese, but I did. Running around in a huge fat suit ruined my life. This is hard won, and I don't ever want to go through this again. I'm 41 years old, and ready to live.
For the record:
Start: 294 pounds, 42% body fat, "Morbidly Obese."
Now: 220 pounds, 28% body fat, on the border between Obese and Overweight. If you compare the pounds lost and the body fat lost, I've put on a hog of lean muscle.
Goal: 180 pounds, 14% body fat.
[caption id="attachment_26" align="alignleft" width="225" caption="No photoshop, no tricks"]
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[caption id="attachment_21" align="alignleft" width="224" caption="In front of the Boca/Morningstar cooler"]
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[/caption]The guy displaying himself on the beach had quite a journey before this photo, a story which cannot be told in less than 80,000 words. This wasn't the best beach bod he ever had, but it would prove to be the last, at least for a very long time.
I hate when people talk about themselves in third person, so I'm going to stop...right now. I also want you guys to know that I'm not writing this for "awk-ho-lawds," or sympathy or to sell you guys supplements that don't work. I have no ulterior motives, I'm just tired of hiding myself behind photoshop and "MySpace Angles." I want, for the first time in years, to show my true face.
Meandering through hell on a trip that had taken most of my life, arriving in my 34th year relatively unscathed was a blessing. Addiction destroyed me, robbing me of everything. In recovery, I parted ways with alcohol, cocaine, crystal meth, marijuana, pills, and my Glock 9mm handgun. That thing was beautiful; never give one to someone who hasn't slept in 41 days...and that one is a funny story (nobody got hurt). It's a miracle I never shot Fuckhead #1. People outside of recovery don't understand statements like this, those inside recovery laugh, as many of them have done just as crazy (if not crazier) things.
When I first cleaned up, I discovered my dealer had been cutting my crystal meth with heroin as I threw up blood alongside the other junkies in detox. I also went through DT's from alcohol. Crystal allowed me to drink gallons of bourbon. The thing that sucked about detox besides the excruciating process, was the fact that they wouldn't even give us regular coffee. But we could smoke as many cigarettes as we wanted. I don't know about the other junkies, but I wasn't there for coffee addiction, and from what I heard, coffee wasn't going to lead me to a relapse. A cool aside, Marylin Monroe's insane mother had been in the same place, Metropolitan State Hospital. I do have to offer a shout out to Cider House Detox, they were good to me and the food was excellent. After a week, they said, "we've done all we can for you," and I shoved off on my merry way.
[caption id="attachment_16" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="My rehab"]
[/caption]September 20, 1995, one week sober, I arrived at this building, the blond white boy from Redondo Beach, deposited amidst 96 black crack addicts, most from South Central, some from Skid Row, many just released from prison. Even in my drugging, I'd never been to a neighborhood this bad, and I was terrified. The lovely building in the photo is the Royal Palms, a recovery home. In the photo, it appears to be a pretty old hotel. On the inside, water dripped into the dining room on the first floor from a bathroom on the fourth. You could see all the way up through huge cracks thanks to the Northridge quake the year before. Huge rats inhabited the building, so if you wanted to keep any treats in your room, you had to hang them from the fire sprinklers so the vermin wouldn't get them. We had a drive-by on the front walk while I was there, and amazingly I was the only one who instinctively hit the floor. All the guys from the ghetto ran to the window to investigate while there was still gunfire. The block was a drug enforcement zone with a crack dealer across the street. The designation basically implied martial law for anyone who entered.
Every morning we cleaned, but of course you can't polish a turd. Afterwards, we'd go for "morning walk." I guess beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but let me ask you this; have you ever seen a $2 hooker? I hadn't either. She's got a long, filthy t-shirt slit up the back (to be bent over with ease), no teeth, addicted to crack, and most likely AIDS. I wondered how the guys in the house could get it up for these poor creatures.
Soul food was the rule, good, fattening soul food. Which is exactly like Texan food, the stuff grandmother gave me. And I ate it. A lot. I had the same ritual every day. I'd stuff my face with as much food as possible, and then park myself on steps from a building that used to be next door. And I'd cry. I'd usually cry for an hour, pouring through my photos of everything I'd lost. I attended AA meetings nightly, and I knew all the ones with food. The Arlington Group on Wilshire had the best spread, and the most celebrities. No, I'm not telling who. Maybe I can tell the ones who outed themselves...nah, better not. Anyway, after 90 days, I left the house. They wanted me to stay for 3-9 more months and I said "no way." Seeing 4 dead bodies in 3 weeks or so helped make my decision. Later, I found out I'd been in the middle of a gang war. Truthfully, I probably wasn't ready to leave, but I'd made a plan when I was 40 days sober and I was sticking to it. Sober living, a waiter job, my own apartment, a new television, a new couch, a cat, and daily AA meetings.
Fast forward...4 months later, I had my own place, a very cute cockroach infested studio apartment in Glendale, with a million dollar view of Downtown L.A. . Of course here I am, all these years later, living downtown. I'd just worked my out of a nasty sober living, in about 7 weeks. My domicile was a 2 bedroom apartment with 3 other guys who'd been kicked out of the recovery home for using. I think it was the second night or so I came home to my apartment smelling like crack. Everyone knew, nobody cared.
I pursued my tiny dreams described above, and achieved my desired life, complete with T.V., sofa and cat, in less than 6 months. Lucy is 15 and still with me. Not bad for a guy who'd gone from golden boy in the Hollywood club scene to a junkie people would cross the street to avoid. Anyway, I locked myself in my house and ate a lot. I had no idea how to deal with people sober and I was still in a toxic relationship with Fuckhead #1, which hindered my recovery, just like everyone else said it would. He taunted me about my weight every time I saw him, which wasn't much. He later told me he'd been off fucking some hot redheaded guy with a rockin' body. He was such a whore.
It took me a year and a half to peel the flab off and "refine" myself to be fit to live amongst decent people once again, something I'd lost along the way. I had 40 pounds to lose, and did it by quitting smoking, exercising and eating right. I once again, this time sober, descended into the dance clubs, and did what I always did best...I danced for hours, the best cardio on the planet. My favorite story is a guy from my work, and I'll even use his real name because it's such an awful name; Mochtar (Mock-tar, kinda like fake tard). I asked him out once, and he sent me down in flames saying, "I'll go out with you if you lose 30 pounds." Months later, there he was in one of my favorite clubs; he recognized me, his jaw hitting the floor. "Hey baby, you look...fucking awesome, what are you doing tomorrow night?" This was my moment, and I was going to enjoy it. "Whatever I'm doing, it won't be with you. Yeah, I did lose some weight, 40 pounds to be exact, but you're still the same asshole you were a few months ago," I said, turning on my heel. My friend Nora Varbadian (if anyone knows where she is, I miss her!) laughed as hard as I did, as she was there before when he shot me down.
I enjoyed my re-found shape, a body I'd known and loved for years but hadn't seen since before I'd gotten sober. And then I met HIM. I don't mean "Him" the way the christians write it, or maybe that's exactly what I mean. Yes folks, I met Fuckhead #2. I'd made a wish after FH 1 left me unceremoniously, banging on my door at 830am, his car outside loaded to the gills, announcing he was leaving me and driving to Miami and the bastard was nice enough to stop and tell me goodbye. That's the only time anyone has ever left me like that. Anyway, FH 2 was going to mend my heart and make my dreams come true. As FH 1 had keen intelligence and killer instinct, I wished for a hot, stupid guy. Unfortunately, my wish was granted. His first priority, far above all else was physical appearance, I worked out and watched my diet furiously to stay up to his standards, to please "Him." One nice thing about being the age I am now, I'd never let anyone like this near me again.
So there I was, moved to Las Vegas with Him. Early on, I discovered a few things about him. Number one, he was a sex addict. He was a mornign person, I was not. He'd wake me with a big smile, freshly showered. Always freshly showered, strolling through the door that way mind you. Number two, a gambleholic I was a fine dining waiter, sometimes making up to $1000 a day. I'd stash the cash and sometimes have the same amount of money on Friday as I'd had on Monday. I also bought him an Explorer, paid his car insurance, rent, bills...what was I thinking? Number three, if I gained an ounce, I was a pariah. I decided to test his mettle and intentionally gained 15 pounds. I found out what I suspected...he only liked me for my looks and body, berating me, telling all his friends, "he got fat! He's disgusting!" A friend visited from L.A., saying "wow, to hear him talk, I thought you'd be obese." Truth be known, on my build 15 pounds isn't much of a gain, I'm built like a farm boy. My definition leaves, my ass gets a little bigger, and I get a little under the jaw, but that's about it. So then came the violence. And the stalking. I had the good sense to save a big chunk of money to leave him. People used to call the police on us. And I ate. I was still sober, but food was all I have. In Las Vegas, if you work for a Strip casino, they take excellent care of you. They provide dry-cleaned uniforms daily, HEALTH INSURANCE (which I can't get now, and won't ever if the Republicans have their way), and they fed us in employee lounges resembling nice restaurants. They'd grill for us, we had buffets, and the desserts were off the hook. Bellagio was the best, Paris not so much. I ate more at Paris because FH 2 worked there, and I had to see him every day after I left, him harassing me, stalking me, and bashing me to everyone I knew. Drama, table of one...I think I leveled off 30 pounds heavier than when I'd met the psychopath.
Let me rewind a click. The straw that broke the camel's back...two things. One, I wouldn't have sex with a guy from his work he had the hots for. The guy was really hot, but I'm not the 3-way or invite others into my relationship kinda dude. I knew if I didn't screw the guy, he'd call me a prude and if I did, he'd call me a whore. There was no way to win with him. I also cut off every cent, not wanting to pay his bills or fund his gambling addiction. This caused more violence, and he went out and got a boyfriend to spite me. This just drove me further to food. For the record, the worst thing about him, worse than his being a psychopath, was that he was stupid and wouldn't shut up. Awful combination. My best memory was sitting at a table with several people from Manhattan. He flapped and flapped about their city, an expert. I knew what was coming. Finally, one of them asked, "have you ever BEEN to New York?" His answer was classic,"well no, but..." and continued to flap. He was so stupid, their smirks and snarkiness were all lost on him.
Long story short, I left him, got my own place, met Kelby, blew out of Vegas, and hauled him back to my native Los Angeles. We settled in Old Pasadena and it was one of the happiest times of my life. Finally, I decided to lose my flab, which my way of showing the world how much I hated myself. Kelby was patient as I babbled about weight loss, and I ended up reaching my goal, see my beach bod at the top of the page. I'd started smoking again in Vegas, the city where they issue you a carton at the airport. I never quit, smoking all the way to goal. I quit afterwards, February 7, 2003 as a matter of fact, and not a ciggy for me since. I mention this not to be self-righteous, but it was essential to my overall health, a concept I hadn't quite understood and would not for years, but it was a step. Also, we live to be almost 100 in my family unless we smoke. If we do, we drop dead at 60 of cancer or another smoking related illness. Anyway, I hit goal, I'd returned to college, got good grades and changed careers...all was well.
And then all hell broke loose. I almost got shot in front of our store, instantly instilling horrific PTSD, and we lost our business, which was devastating. And I went off the deep end. For the wrong reasons, we moved to Hawaii. In the final analysis, I decided I had to save face by doing something people would consider really fabulous. I regretted the decision on the plane, and regretted giving up our place in Old Pasadena, one of the most awesome neighborhoods in the L.A. area. And I started eating again. I ate like never before in my whole life.
So, Hawaii and I weren't any better of a fit than we were when I'd served time there as a kid. Let me illuminate a bit. The Hawaii on television and the way the Hawaiians are portrayed isn't exactly accurate. I think the Hawaiian fire dancers in the movies are really Latino strippers from West Hollywood. I've never met a Hawaiian guy who looks like that. It's perfectly acceptable to weigh 300-400 pounds and nobody will sweat you about being fat, ever. Heart-busting plate lunches of chili, rice, gravy, greasy hamburger meat...cheap and plentiful. Everything else in Hawaii is outrageously expensive, so they are tempting. And quick. And easy. And I wanted to go home. So, coined my own sales pitch about where I was, recited it over and over...and I segued into workoholism, I mean I rocketed it to a whole new level, sometimes 120 hours a week. Call me day or night, it doesn't matter what time, I'll answer the phone by the third ring. I was terrified of losing a client. Yes, I know how much sleep that is if you do the math. As this was unfolding, "the washer shrank my clothes," I'd say. I really believed it. I had to. Finally, I plopped on a scale and I was in the 220's. "There's no way, the scale must be busted," I said. It wasn't. I was desperately homesick, not enjoying my life, and so rooted in workoholism I couldn't see my hand in front of my face.
[caption id="attachment_17" align="alignleft" width="161" caption="This guy ate the real Jeremy"]
[/caption]One afternoon, my husband was tending to the flower beds in the front yard. It was a steamy Hawaiian day, nothing unusual. I dragged myself outside. to speak to him before shoving off. Suddenly, pain and numbness radiated up my arm, and down past my shoulder into my chest. It felt as if I'd been thrown to the ground and sat on by a Samoan. I remember thinking "Not now!" I was 36 years old and supporting a household. I did my best to play off my (what doctors informally confirmed to be) a probable near miss; I didn't want my husband to know. As twisted as my thinking was, I didn't want to "get in trouble." In truth, he would have been worried for my life if he wasn't already. Now about those clothes. The shirt was an 2X, I needed a 4X. The pants were 48 with a six inch gap at the top, held together with a belt, I was at least a 52. I refused to shop at the fat boy store and acknowledge my obesity.
I'd gained 114 pounds. Those photos must be about 5 years apart, right? Try a little over a year. Yeah. So I marched right down and lost the weight, right? I wish it were that easy. I made the decision, but was an emotional basket case. Between the time I hit my max weight of 294 and about 42% (possibly even more) body fat, I was probably at max obesity from late 2004 until spring 'o5 when this was taken, arriving back here in California in April 2007, I did make a dent in my heft.
When I landed back in L.A., I hadn't been here in 2 years. People were so thin, and I was disgusting. Some days I'd walk up to 10 miles. I lost another chunk, culminating in my surgeon almost killing me during a tonsillectomy right after Thanksgiving 2007. At least I lost 14 pounds while on the GI feeding tube for 8 days and not being able to eat food after that. I still have a hefty scar on my neck in the spot my doctor stuck something out of it that resembled a dorsal fin. That was tons o fun. One interesting thing that happened as a result was, my sense of smell became bionic, resulting in my wanting to vomit every time I smelled meat. When I left the hospital, I asked Kelby to roll through the Mc Murder drive through so I could get a Filet-O-Fish and a strawberry shake. Without even opening the carton of the sandwich, I was overwhelmed by the smell and had to throw it out in the Hollywood Freeway. I would have been able to eat it anyway, solid food, drinking without choking and speech were a way off, I just didn't know it yet.
So, I returned to my boydhood vegetarian ways. For the next two years, I maintained my loss within 4 pounds. Being a vegetarian made this much, much easier and for the record, I don't miss any type of carcass I gave up. The one think I thought I'd miss, the BLT, is easily accomplished with veggie bacon, a Reuben also a cinch with Tofurky peppered slices. Patty melt? No problem, Morningstar of Boca accomplish that.
In January, I decided it was time to lose the rest. I'd finally rid myself of toxic family members, and a sense of total serenity descended. I consulted with top scientists, hired a nutritionist whose methods work, although they fly in the face of every known scientific fact about eating. I found the miracle cure, the magic pill, and the miracle of all chemical reactions, allowing me to eat whatever I want, burning it all off as I sleep, with no exercise whatsoever. Just kidding. Fad diets are bullshit, Atkins is bullshit, supplements are bullshit. I've personally tried them all, and everyone I know who stuck with them for longer than me...10 years later they are all fatter than ever unless they adopted something sensible. For the record, Dr. Atkins faked his research, and I can tell you all the ways he did it, also advocating supplements for his diet's shortcomings...sold on his own website. Expensive too. But that's another blog. Truth be known, there is only ONE way to lose weight: burn more calories than you take in. How you accomplish this...up to you, but that's the law of weight loss
So, I've recommitted, dropped my daily calorie intake a little and pumped up the exercise. The scale has dropped, but more impressive is the amount of body fat that's left me. I've lost another 20 pounds and 6% body fat (plus or minus for margin of error, of course). My total loss is 74 pounds and a whopping 14% body fat. My recent loss statistics tell you I've put on a hog of lean muscle from the gym workouts. I have 40 pounds to go. I'm almost to the point I can hide it in clothes again, which makes me really happy. I have not been this weight since 2003.
In 2004, Kelby and I were taking a plane trip. They closed the door, and I had to fasten my seatbelt. I couldn't. My ego would not let me ask for an extension. Kelby and I struggled and struggled, and finally got it fastened. And it was painful. One nice thing about being fat was often getting an exit row without asking. Concert seats were murder, I always felt sorry for the people next to me. While in Hawaii, a big client of mine from California sold me a clean RX-7 and had it shipped over. It was my third, and I was looking forward to driving it. When it arrived, I could barely get the door shut without dislocating the center console. My other two, I'd just slid right in. Tying my shoes, stairs, and small restaurants were all a problem. My sleep apnea got so bad, Kelby would lie awake watching me, afraid I'd suffocate.
Today, I can run a 12-minute mile. It doesn't sound fast, but I can run all the way to the gym and back, and when anyone in the gym challenges me, I can smoke 'em. All my vitals are normal, and I'm in pretty amazing health for a fat guy. Before, they were a disaster and my doctor said I was killing myself. The boys are giving me a little attention again...not that I'll do anything about it, I'm a married man. I'm starting to look normal in clothes. Stairs are really no big deal. People have stopped offering me diet advice. I'm expecting a few people to treat me differently in a few months. It's happened before. I weed out the ugly people this way. "Yeah, since I've lost weight, my I.Q. has jumped 30 points, and I'm of course a much better person, since fat people are stupid and immoral." I have one "friend" from AA whose name I won't mention (ahem..Murray...ahem) I used to hang out with every Tuesday for a year and a half, who pretended not to know me last time I saw him, which was a year or so ago. I hadn't seen him in years, and had the smokin' bod. It had been a long time, but he remembered me. And I'd gotten him a V.I.P. ticket from Dick Clark Productions to the AMA's, escorted his ass down there, helped him with his outfit... Asshole. People are rad this way. Oh...and you'd think I'd have gnarly stretch marks and sagging skin, but I don't. I think in the end, everything will snap all the way back.
So...some of you may read this and call me a yo-yo dieter, and I guess you'd be right. What's different this time? For one, I know how to maintain a loss, I did it for 2 years. But more than that, I know the secret to lasting weight loss. I should patent it and charge people $1000 a piece. Are you ready? The secret to lasting weight loss is....inner peace. Yes, it sounds corny, but that's it, I swear. I've removed major drama from my life, including some family members who caused it. I no longer have the urge to binge. Chipping away at pounds without working on this too is like bailing out the water without fixing the hole in the boat. Also, having a life outside of banging away on my keyboard in the loft. Like movies, coffee houses, the beach, concerts, thrift stores, museums...anything but me and my big steel BOSCH refrigerator. It makes food look so pretty. I walk my dogs a lot, which helps. I have to get outside every day. So here's the rest:
*I only eat food I like. No frankenfood, as whole as possible.
*I don't eat "fat free" anything unless it's milk (I actually prefer 1%), yogurt or cottage cheese. Body needs fat.
*I divide my plate in half, eat slowly, pausing at half. I then eat more if I need it.
*No deprivation. If I want the pecan pie, I have it...although I crave it less and less. The last one was a modest serving of chocolate cake and ice cream, and I ate half and didn't want any more.
*I chug 1-2 quarts of water before a meal. Stretches the stomach.
*I keep "red light" foods out of the house. These include chips, snack foods, sugary breakfast cereals, sweets and pizza. If I want it, I have to walk to the market and get it.
*2 big dogs prone to mania if I don't walk them, with tiny bladders. I'll always walk.
*I never, ever, ever go hungry. If I do, I just end up binging.
*I eat as many low-density foods as possible (not processed). Legumes and fresh produce are sexy.
*I've made friends with my kitchen. I never cooked before. Now, I get creative. I'd hire a chef if I had the money, but then again Oprah has one and she's still fat.
*The big one...when I get emotional and want to binge, I change my physical location, exercise, go for a walk or start a cleaning project. Shopping is also better than eating. Also, I binge on fruit first. I always keep it in the house. My husband says I have a "citrus addiction."
*I don't always journal, but I do a lot of the time, especially when I'm getting sloppy. I periodically use measuring spoons to make sure my portions are right on. Fitday.com figures out every last calorie, nurtient and statistic regarding foods, activity, mood, etc. I love it and best of all...free.
*I never pile my plate, there's always more. Place is 1/2 veggies, 1/4 starch, 1/4 protein.
*Finally, NOBODY can guilt me into eating. And I don't have to clean my plate. "No thank you" works, "No" if necessary.
August 31 is my ideal goal, but if it takes until my birthday in December, so be it. I'm making good effort, but am not married to either date.
If I stopped the gym routine, I'd still lose, although I enjoy it; it's MY time.
Here I am, two days ago. No hocus pocus. This journey has humbled me. I never thought I'd become obese, but I did. Running around in a huge fat suit ruined my life. This is hard won, and I don't ever want to go through this again. I'm 41 years old, and ready to live.
For the record:
Start: 294 pounds, 42% body fat, "Morbidly Obese."
Now: 220 pounds, 28% body fat, on the border between Obese and Overweight. If you compare the pounds lost and the body fat lost, I've put on a hog of lean muscle.
Goal: 180 pounds, 14% body fat.
[caption id="attachment_26" align="alignleft" width="225" caption="No photoshop, no tricks"]
[/caption][caption id="attachment_21" align="alignleft" width="224" caption="In front of the Boca/Morningstar cooler"]
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