Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 10, Day 68 — “Breathe”

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 10, Day 68 — “Breathe”

“At first I was afraid, I was petrified
Kept thinkin’ I could never live without you by my side
Then I spent so many nights just thinking how you did me wrong
And I grew strong
And I learned how to get along…”

— From “I Will Survive” by Freddie Perren & Dino Fekaris

Weight: 238.6 lbs.

Glucose Reading: 126

Lean for Life Program Loss: 24 lbs.

Mental State: Cautious Optimism

Today was my last regular visit to Lindora. I completed the 10-week Lean for Life program, designed to help me combat my Type-2 diabetes. The results? A more realistic loss of weight, a greatly improved series of glucose readings, lowered blood pressure and…? I’m not sure yet. What ever happens next is going to be on me, literally. And I am fuckin’ scared.

When I completed the Lindora program before, the results were always dramatic and euphoric. I was leaner, meaner and looking oh-so chic! (Ironically, that euphoria was also felt whenever I completed one of my late night eating binges of King Taco’s finest.) But like the fast food I returned to court with renewed gusto, the results were never satisfying or lasting. The weight would come back in due time, usually with a few MORE pounds tagging along for the next ride into the Depression City.

It was a truly vicious cycle, one that was particularly self-destructive by late 2015. Never before had the tyranny of food left me feeling alone and suicidal. Never before did I use food as something that could lead me to such a terrifying reality. That is the true power of addiction, when you feel you have no other recourse but to end your journey out of selfish, desperate fear. I don’t ever want to walk that plank again.

“Go on now, go. Walk out the door
Just turn around now ’cause you’re not welcome anymore
Weren’t you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye?
Did you think I’d crumble?
Did you think I’d lay down and die?”

Before I walked away from Lindora this AM, Nurse Maria asked me, “What are you going to do next?” I honestly didn’t have an answer for her. I’ve been dreaming of pizza, nachos and fried chicken of late. Dreaming, not plotting a course. I can’t go back to what I was in late January when I started the program. I can only move forward. Certain carbs, the ones we all love most, will always be a bad crowd for me. I still have to return to Dr. Jason to complete a new A1C panel. The reality is I may never stop taking them to keep the “Sugars” under control.

Wellness and healthier living are meant to be a marathon runs, not sprints. The instability of these last months has been my biggest obstacle. Family is enduring its own trials. Friends have suffered heart and other reminders of our mortality. The world is being used as target practice for Tomahawk missiles, both literal and figurative ones at that.

This revived “Me Generation” defies the selfish, narcissism of the 1970s. We were told to live in the “Now,” but all that’s done is make us think in terms of “hurry up” and “faster.” It is also not dictated by age anymore, nor does it heed the endless cries for living an “authentic life.” No one can seem to even wait for someone to make a turn in front of us, much less wait at a stop light. No one person’s life or time is more important than your own. So many an’t even respectfully slow the fuck down to avoid the red light you’re still going to break the law to cross. Let them all be damned since no one will take the fault for an error anymore, either.  It takes everything in my being to just stop and breathe.

Breathe.

Pondering Nurse Maria’s question anew, I think I have an answer. I’m just going to take this a day at a time. When the mania rises, when I feel the least in control and need to reach for that thing that does me the most harm, I will stop, breathe and think. I will remind myself of the dark mental state that conspired to pull me out of this world out of fear.

It’s hard not to be awestruck at the photo of little me, the one that is the featured image of this entry. I look at the abject joy in those chubby little cheeks. I was happy to be in this strange world of ours. Somewhere along the way, I let that world turn a different shade, opting to hide from the very people and things that brought me so much happiness before.

My beautiful picture
My beautiful picture

I knew from a very young age I was a peculiar little gent, but it didn’t bother me. It has taken me almost 50 years to return to that point. The destination is a little hazy, but the signs leading me here are unmistakable. I now have a better understanding as to who I was supposed to be. Not total acceptance, mind you, but I am working towards that goal.

I’ve tried on so many different personas over the years, I confused myself, literally losing myself in this panicked desire to be all things to every being that’s ever been a part of my life. I see the folly of this today. It didn’t mean a thing, trying to please my way through this world. Friends came and went, just as lovers and co-workers did, too. The people that stayed demanded nothing of me, but I kept up appearances because I had a warped perception as to WHY they liked me in the first place.

Some people may have their own notion as to who is Jorge. Not George or Coco or MediaJor or The Peach or the Jor or any of the names that have defined me at various stages of my life. Jorge is something unique all unto himself. I am more than the Teflon brother who always gets what he wants, or the gay jester or the “Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican” or the producer/interviewer or any of the things that are part of my persona. I am ALL of those things, though, the masculine and the feminine, sometimes even both at the same time. Instead of running away from all of this, I want to stop forcing myself to fit into a space that is not of my own design anymore. It is time to embrace all of me and stop pretending to be someone I’m not or capitulate to false perceptions.

As I start the next phase of improving my wellness and health, I am humbled by certain truths I’ve uncovered anew. I’ve used my family to fund my ridiculous efforts to cover my weak self up with material goods, to fill this insatiable void of my own making. It has been exceedingly unfair and I will not abuse their unconditional love in this manner anymore. This squandering of resources is on par with the awful food choices I’ve made for years. It’s all one big cover up and I am exposing this crime of emotional fraud once and for all. It didn’t make me happy in the least, not in the longterm anyway. That I ever thought I had the right to repay them with a departed soul is unforgivable.

One chapter of many is closing. This entry is the summation of a not so complex equation, a chronicle of a life that continues to be lived, despite its considerable contradictions and flaws. Samantha, whose embarking on a similar journey to end her habit of smoking, recently said to me, “The training wheels are coming off!” That is indeed true. As I steer myself into territory unknown, I know I won’t be alone. All I have to do to survive is…breathe.

I will survive.
Oh, as long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive.
I’ve got all my life to live.
I’ve got all my love to give.
And I’ll survive.

 

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 10, Day 64 — “Failure”

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 10, Day 64 — “Failure”

Not a legend
Not ordinary
Not alternative
No position
No religion
F-A-I-L-U-R-E
I might as well be giving up all the time

— “Failure” by The Ting Tings

I ate a basket of bread today. I couldn’t stop myself. I tried to justify it with a joyful, “It’s Sunday Funday. I’ll be good six days a week, but I’ll treat myself to whatever I want on Sunday!”

Yeah. No.

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The fact is I had zero control. Despite the decision to eat a grilled salmon entree with broccoli, I still opted to consume quite a bit of the endless salad with tons of salty Italian dressing and soggy croutons. And then that bloody bread basket. Our helpful waitress literally wore a path from the kitchen to our table as she replenished our warm, flavorful breadsticks. The less said about the marinara dipping sauce, the better.

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Bloody Olive Garden! Is it any wonder why we are enduring a health crisis in this country? I really do think we are given so much choice, Viking sized portions and other reasons to eat in bulk are part of an insidious conspiracy to keep us all fat, lazy and sick since we refuse to be told how to live. Millions sold, billions earned and we are blind to the reality that we are truly lambs being lead to slaughter. Case in point, Olive Garden’s special was offering a second entree dish to go for free! But is anything ever really “free?” The costs are diabetes, hypertension, elevated cholesterol, heart disease and death, all with a generous side of Alfredo sauce.

Mind you, I can’t blame Olive Garden for my mania. It started earlier at my parents’ house, where I consumed hummus, walnuts, papaya, some Pollo Loco chicken, romaine lettuce, cucumbers and, in a fit of inspiration, air popped popcorn with melted Smart Balance butter and Tajín!

¡Joder, tío!

I am ending the Lean for Life program at Lindora this week. Four more days of regular visits to the clinic. Then, I have eight more visits for check-ups to complete on my own time. It can be eight weeks or eight days in a row or any configuration of eight. After that, it’s all on me.

Why I chose to sabotage myself before the very end is so typical! It harkens back that infamous freshman year at UCLA when I sold my books before my finals in one class — and it was an open book test!

Sitting at the table with Anne and Helen that night, our reminisces about the past circled to the bullying we endured or witnessed when we were in middle school. As I write this now, I realize that I’ve been my own worst bully. The difference between then and now? Those guys who knocked my books out of my hand, slapped the back of my head as I walked down the hallways at Meller Jr. High or yelled the most hurtful slurs about my peculiar brand masculinity were left way behind in Pico Rivera. But, I still say and think some of the darkest shit about myself to myself on the daily. I shame myself for my failures and weakness. I reserve the harshest criticisms for myself.

If any of us are to stay on the path towards wellness, bullying ourselves cannot be part of the regimes we attempt to establish. We have to love ourselves even more as we battle the moments of weakness that will inevitably occur again. It may be on a Sunday or some other part of the week that ends in “y.”

I am angry with myself right now, but tomorrow is another opportunity for a reset. I made a choice to be healthier for a reason. I’m still grappling with the concept that failure is just part of the process. Yet, I do know that success will forever stand right next to failure. They are never that far apart, but you do control the amount of distance that remains to be covered when you experience that moment of weakness. I let 17 months go by before I finally stopped my descent into a full blown health crisis. And I’ve had success in making great improvements.

I contemplated not going into Lindora tomorrow to avoid having to see the scale head upwards in the morning after seeing it drop over the last week. I will go in as planned, however. As I write these closing lines, I ponder that law of gravity that keeps our feet on the ground. Whatever goes up, will eventually come down. And down these numbers will continue to drop.

Oh, did I mention I also hit Yogurtland, too?

Update:  The weigh in at Lindora gave me a case of the Mondays. I was up SIX pounds of sodium-induced bloat, reaching 245.8. My glucose reading was at 119. I’ll be drinking a lot of water this week. 

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 10, Day 60 — “Fat”

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 10, Day 60 — “Fat”

“The girls (and boys) that think they’re ugly because you’re not a size 0, you’re the beautiful one. It’s society who’s ugly” – Marilyn Monroe

Weight: 240.5

Glucose Reading: 106

Body Fat Lost to Date: 6%

Hard to believe, but I am approaching the 10th and final week on my Lean for Life program. Time sure flies when you’re only eating egg white for dinner every damn night. To say that I have mixed feelings wouldn’t be me now, would it? The stagnation I feel has begun to set, anchoring me like a pair of cement shoes, albeit Italian ones. Not feeling so sparkly, either. Rather, I’ve been feeling rather morose of late. And I’m chasing that with healthy shots of: Tired. Annoyed. Fed up. I feel absolutely no joy about the progress I’ve made and that freaks me out.

Earlier this week, Nurse Maria told me the news. I’ve lost 6% of my body fat. The program usually sees patients lose between 2 to 3%. I should be elated. My clothes fit better. I sleep better. Luster has returned to my skin. I just look healthier, period. But all I felt was: nothing. Not like “A Chorus Line” nothing, but null and void. It is then I realized my body dysmorphia has taken a turn and I wondered if I’m always going to see myself as just another “fat boy,” no matter what I do to improve myself.

Last night, as I made my way to the Urth Caffé for yet ANOTHER first date, I started thinking about which of my comfort food venues I was gonna hit hard the minute I end my daily visits to the clinic next week. That’s not good, because I can’t process those foods anymore. The end result is too dire to contemplate even half-orders or a singular visit every other month. But the truth is I feel stuck and emotionally constipated.

I’m literally going through the motions.  I am missing something. A spark. Inspiration. Something to restore a sense of grace and a desire to stave off the demons of depression. Even the armor provided by the Lexapro is starting to show some dents and scratches. Is it my singleton status? Is it my approaching 50 in July? It could be that and more. All I know is that it’s as if covered wagons tented in mediocrity are circling me again. And don’t let me get started on the state of the American Union thanks to President Babyhands.

At times, I feel like I’m serving someone else’s dream. Other times, I get the sense that I’m just floating through life, buffeted from time to time by the obstacles I place in my own way. I just see “Fat Me” through it all because that all I’ve ever known, to be honest. It makes me think of that old Lynn Redgrave film from the 1960s, “Georgy Girl.” The reality of being the perennial schlub, no matter how much I may dress it up, inside remains the marshmallow center of “Fat Me.”

In the matter of being healthy, what you feel matters as much as much as how you choose to view your physical self. The only time I don’t succumb to any these dark swells on my mental shores is when I write. It shines a light on the boogeyman that is the childhood me, that pudgy soul who just wanted to be liked by the world.

As I reach this final week of the Lean for Life program, it is time to reflect on the road traveled before tackling the next journey. He needs to bid a quick retreat because it is when I don’t pretend to be someone I’m not, that’s when I use these fears to help me create and express myself with truth and clarity. It is only then I truly feel empowered and sane.

In no way am I ringing an alarm here. It’s part of the process of change. I knew that stripping away the layers of this unhealthy 40-something carcass was going to stir up some shit. These cycles of feeling woe and sorry for myself are destructive infidels determined to kick me off the course I’ve set for myself. I’m fighting back the best way I know how, this diary. It is my battleground to conquer. Each realization is the flag I will plant on the mountain I own, dammit. I just have to weather these moments of weakness to wrest the focus back onto what matters in this life.

Now, about my visions of those pinche Casa Garcia nachos…