From Fat Boy to Slim. Chapter 3 — “Escaping the black hole”

From Fat Boy to Slim. Chapter 3 — “Escaping the black hole”

236.

That’s not just a number. It’s a purgatory.

I am starting to wonder if I’m ever going to move away from this plateau in terms of my weight.

A plateau is defined as “a state of little or no change following a period of activity or progress.” For the record, this is my second week at 236. It is becoming increasingly clear to me that this plateau is manifesting itself in the broader scheme of how I’ve chosen to live my life. More, it is yet another wake-up call because, if high blood pressure and type-2 diabetes aren’t scary enough, so is stagnation.

I keep thinking about the concepts of gaining and losing. Not just in the physical sense, but the spiritual and emotional areas, too. I think about the financial gains and losses of the last few years. It’s been a lifetime of “too much.” I’ve consumed immense quantities of self-pitying, self-loathing, bank account draining stupidity.

I’ve surpassed the weight limit allowed for emotional baggage.

Reasons exist for the plateau on which I find myself. And the void that I have tried for years to fill is now a testament to the self-sabotage that is my routine.

The gravitational pull of a black hole is so powerful, not even light can escape. That is the void that has haunted my universe for as long as I can remember.

I don’t know what it’s going to take to get content again. I can’t say happy because that’s too lofty a goal. But I am in a state of suspended animation. Nothing is being lost or gained. Just…stasis. And it’s frustrating the hell out of me because I can’t seem to move from this point.

In some ways, the saving grace in all of this is not going by 236 to 237, although I was awfully close to that number at weigh-in this morning. I don’t want to cross that threshold tomorrow.

This is my last week of a 10-week program to rein in the lack of control in what and how I eat. This is my last week in the Lindora orbit before moving out into the real world without a daily check-in and vitamin B shots. I’ve lost 22 lbs., but gaining some insight into what it is that ails me in the first world sense.

This wasn’t for vanity. This wasn’t for loneliness, although I continue to eat my feelings. I am reaching for healthier food, however. This program was to better my life. But first, I need to recognize that I truly want to live, because some days, I don’t truly believe that I do. It is a selfish waste of time, space and gifts to even have such a dark thought enter my consciousness. But there it is and it feels like the gravitational pull that drags all matter into the center of a black hole. I am skirting its orbit now, but still a distance away from being totally consumed by this void once and for all.

This feels like madness sometimes. I remember a period where my Dad was having a similar mental break when he was this age. He was so angry, disconnected and dissatisfied with everything and everyone around him. He was “The Other,” not the man who raised us to be strong and responsible and healthy. “The Other” was weak, irrational and unstable. It was a terrible period for my family, but he rebounded and we got Dad back from whatever black hole threatened to consume him.

I’m “The Other” right now. I don’t want to be saved and I understand the cure. If I can bring down my sugar levels and stabilize my blood pressure, if I can eat better and get fit, then I can shed this malaise in my heart and brain. At some point, I will be able to say “this void is condemned.”

Writing helps. I’m not sure if I can say “I need help” just yet, because what I carry in my heart right now is something only I can repair.

I don’t know how to end this post. But I do know it won’t be the last.

Animo. Y vida.

“I Resolve to…Understand That The World Goes ‘Round” — #theclosingoftheyear

“I Resolve to…Understand That The World Goes ‘Round” — #theclosingoftheyear

God, how long have I been basking in the glow of hyperbole?

It’s like I don’t know any other way to express myself or view the world. Everything to me is:

Big!

Bold!

Must have!

Must see!

Like!

Post!

Followers!

Retweet!

It’s all just a cover-up, really. This endless search of non-information that clutters my brain, distracting me from the narrative that I really want to express, not just to the world, but to myself. If there is anything to offer as a resolution for 2015, it is to abandon the hyperbole and focus on what matters in defined terms. Fuck these endless social media streams, I want truth again.

I haven’t been too eager to promote many entries on this blog of late. It’s been a combination burn book and teen girl journal for weeks. “This family member talked so much shit about my me!” or “Those family members had the nerve to make it all about them!” or “This date was just another Harry Houdini! Now you see him! Now you don’t!” I bet even Taylor Swift would go, “Fuck bitch. Get a new theme!”

What happened to self-reflection and understanding, to humor and positivity?

What happened to the last third of 2014?

Well, a lot.

John Kander and Fred Ebb composed a song for Martin Scorsese’s “New York, New York” called “The World Goes ‘Round.” I’ve had it on a loop these last few weeks. It helped shape what I decided to write today, summing up exactly what sort of year many of us experienced in 2014.

Sometimes you’re happy, sometimes you’re sad
But the world goes ’round…

And sometimes your heart breaks with a deafening sound…
Somebody loses and somebody wins
And one day it’s kicks, then it’s kicks in the shins
But the planet spins,

and the world goes ’round….

I thought a lot about what this closing blog entry of the year should contain. But, as I sit here in my bedroom (More teen girl imagery. That has to go in 2015), I find that I don’t want to replay any of it. I want to focus on the reality that the world will continue to spin — and that hope matters.

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My boss Alan and I got into a rather revealing discussion about hope, an ideal my friend doesn’t seem to think exists.

But I do. I really do.

Hope, like love, has lost its power. It’s a brand. It is a campaign logo.  It has been appropriated by the self-help contingent, those annoying life coaches and magazinespeak spinners. It is that blanket statement too many of us use to cover up our woes, disappointments and our other beautifully weak and frail moments. “Don’t worry. There is always hope.”

Hope, like love and happiness, takes effort. It takes work to NOT let yourself fall prey to the myriad of distractions and stupidities that dominate our daily lives. You can’t use hope blindly. Hope needs to be seen clearly. It isn’t like prayer. “I hope” is not like talking to God. You are talking to yourself. You are being your own source of faith and courage to face the challenges that we face. And the challenges, particularly at this age, will arrive with the efficiency of a high speed train.

Hope, like love, is not for pussies. And hope needs to be taken back from the legion of those wanting to cash in on our gorgeous neuroses for their own gain. Before any of us can begin to understand just how important love is in our lives, we have to reeducate ourselves in the power of hope. Where there is hope, you will find love. You will find them exactly where you left them before you let all the static of modern life cloud your own beliefs and true self.

In a few hours, 2014 will join the album of detritus that is memory. It will be relegated to the tales we tell whenever we reunite. Those who are lost, will be remembered. Those who hurt us will be reviled again, but ultimately forgiven because they just don’t know any better. Those who made us laugh, will make us laugh that much harder. And we will all be glad that we survived to tell the tales again and again.

I also found great comfort in another song, one composed by Hans Zimmer and Trevor Horn for the film “Toys,” performed by Wendy & Lisa and Seal. It features this lyric:

This is a Time to be Together
And the Truth is somewhere here
Within our love of People
At the Closing of the Year.

I spent these last months in a state of free fall. I haven’t hit ground yet, but I see it below. I have not lost sight that it is with my family and my family of friends, new and old, here and abroad, where I did find my truth in 2014.

I can’t wait to find out what I will learn in 2015.

Wednesday, December 31. Written and posted from Wayne Avenue Manor in South Pasadena, CA.

“El día que mi padre me olvidó”/”The Day My Dad Forgot Me”

“El día que mi padre me olvidó”/”The Day My Dad Forgot Me”

Mi nombre es Jorge. En el barrio de mi nacimiento, todavía soy “George,” pero ya no me identifico come ese muchacho del ayer. Soy Jorge, pero no soy el original. Yo soy el segundo Jorge porque llevo ell nombre de mi padre. Mi madre quería llamarme Alejandro pero nací para llevar la marca de ser el primer hombre en una familia sencilla. El orgullo me nombró, no la poesía o el romance.

Llevar el nombre de mi padre tiene una gran responsabilidad. Como todas las cosas buenas, los griegos inventaron “Jorge.” Per mis padres Jorge y Lilia Carreón Ramirez crearon esta versión. El origen de mi nombre representa lo que es un granjero o una persona que cultiva la tierra. Ni siquiera puedo cuidar una planta. Sin embargo, esto me dirige a usar una metáfora. Las palabras son lo que yo cultivo porque soy periodista. Yo cuento las historias de personas que tú conoces para ver en la tele o leer en la Internet. Creo que eso me hace un granjero de los medios.

Siendo el segundo Jorge de mi familia es una historia diferente, una historia que no llevo a contar al mundo. Nunca pensé que mi padre y yo teníamos muchas características en común. Siempre estuvimos en una guerra de ideología. Ahora soy mayor y empiezo a darme cuenta de lo que tenemos en común. Como la mayoría de los hombres latinos, vivimos en nuestros recuerdos. Es como si fuéramos granjeros cultivando la tierra que da vida a nuestro´árbol genealógico.

Ahora mi padre está enfermo. Su mente está borrándose lentamente en una manera insidiosa. Un día no voy a ser el segundo Jorge, pero el primero. Es por eso que tengo que recordar todo relacionado con él y con nosotros. Porque ser Jorge es mas que compartir el mismo nombre de mi padre. Ser Jorge es vivir como el conservador de la historia de mi familia.

Porque anoche, al final de la fiesta de cumpleaños de mi hermana mayor, mi padre se olvidó de mi por la primera vez. Me dio su mano, como si yo fuera un desconocido, no su hijo mayor, no el que lleva su nombre. En ese momento, si cambio todo porque reconocí que sí, mi nombre contiene poesía y romance.

Porque llegó el día de ser Jorge el primero.

Domingo 28 de septiembre 2014. En mi casa en South Pasadena, CA


My name is Jorge. People still call me “George,” especially in the neighborhood where I grew up, located in the shadow of downtown Los Angeles. I’m Jorge, but I’m not the First. I am the Second Jorge because I carry my father’s name, a junior version. My mom wanted to name me “Alejandro,” but I was born to carry the name of our patriarch, the first boy born of immigrants in their new country. Pride named me, not a sense of poetry or romance.

To carry your father’s name is a huge responsibility. Like all good things on this earth, it was the Greeks who invented Jorge. But my parents, Jorge and Lilia Carreon Ramirez, created this version. The origin of my name is supposed to mean “farmer” or a person who cultivates the ground. I can’t even take care of a plant. Regardless, this does lead me to use a metaphor. I cultivate words and images because I am a journalist. I tell the stories about people you know to watch on TV or read on the Internet. Maybe that makes me a farmer with the media as my expanse of land to nurture?

Being Jorge the Second is a different story, one I never intended to tell to the world. Not really. Yet reasons exist why I can admit that I never thought my father and I had much in common. We were always locked in a battle of ideology. Now that I am older, I see what we do share and it is more than the name. Like all Latino men, we live in our memories. It is as if we are a special brand of cultivators, tasked with the preservation of our family trees.

My father has Alzheimer’s. His mind is slowly being erased in the most insidious manner. Since the day he was diagnosed, I knew that at some point I would no longer be Jorge the Second, but the First. That is why I have to record all that is Us before his files are completely emptied of data.

Because being Jorge is not just sharing the same name.

Being Jorge is living as the chief chronicler of my family.

Because last night, at the end of my older sister’s birthday party, my father forgot who I was to him.

He offered me his hand to shake, smiling and saying “It was nice meeting you.” Sure, it was a polite and friendly gesture. He meant it. That was the version of Jorge for when he met people he liked. But it was more than that, because I recognized that my name does carry poetry and romance.

Last night, I became Jorge the First.

Sunday, September 28. Posted in Spanish and English from Wayne Avenue Manor in South Pasadena, CA

Ice Ice Bucket Challenge, baby.

Ice Ice Bucket Challenge, baby.

Hmm. Maybe every cause, every other disease, every injustice, every moment of civil disobedience, every maligned group, every compromised amendment, every cut school budget, every bullied kid, every soon to be extinct animal, every consequence of global warming, every damn woe that contributes to our failing society should include an Ice Bucket Challenge. Then maybe we’d all finally give a shit about the world we live in.

Tuesday, August 19. Posted from Wayne Avenue Manor