Gorge; It Ain't Just a Hole in the Earth, or Mission: Musings on My Mother

There is an ongoing debate amongst scholars and bystanders alike as to whom was actually the first person to coin the phrase, "the road to hell is paved with good intentions". I'm not gonna clear that issue up here and now, but I'm pretty sure that whoever said it may have had an affair with my mother. Don't get me wrong, my mother's heart has always been in the right place. Her head, however, has occasionally been in Altuna. Camryn Manheim (major big-girl inspiration) once said, "Parents know how to push your buttons because, hey, they sewed them on". She too, may have had an affair with my mother.

OK, I'm kidding. Frankly, my mother could've used a good affair or two. She was married for twenty-two years to a man with detachment issues and Oedipal tendencies, and believe me, that's the nicest possible way to describe him. More often than not, all my mother and I had was each other, and a relationship formed under those kind of conditions can result in one of two outcomes: you'll either wind up being best friends or you'll be ready to murder each other. My mom and I have succeeded in a little bit of both of those extremes. There is no one, and I mean no one, who has been in my corner like this lady. She has championed and supported, if not always understood, every major (and minor) endeavour I've taken on. Conversely, she has, at varying moments, made me want to find a fluffy, mewling kitten and punch it dead in the face. The evolution of our relationship from mother/child to true friend has been built on a healthy love of a good joke, red wine, and each other. But I don't always like her, and she doesn't always like me. And for as long as I can remember, one of our biggest (forgive the pun) points of contention has been my weight.

My mother, bless her svelte little heart, was about 116 pounds when she got married in 1970. As of this writing, she's 102 pounds. Five-foot four inches, in her sixties, and the body of a teenage Korean gymnast. Don't set the bar too high or anything, Mom. When I was younger, she would regale me with tales of her "chubby years", right before she hit thirteen. I was reassured ad nauseum that I simply had baby fat and I would grow out of it. Meanwhile, seventeen years later, my baby fat has attended college and been engaged twice. But I digress. The one thing you need to be made aware of, o ye wonderful reader, is that "worry" is my mother's baseline emotion. It's what she knows, it's who she is, it's all (and I do mean all) she does. At any given moment, catastrophe could befall the earth; we may all be thrust into nuclear winter, and my mother's mood will not change. In fact, it would be right up her alley. It's not her fault. It's just the way she is, and if I had to live the life she's had to, I couldn't sit here with a straight face and tell y'all that I wouldn't have ended up the same way. But my mother's worry is akin to a heat-seeking missile, and my health has all-too often been her designated target.

Have you ever noticed that your parents can say one thing to you, but because they're your parents, the way you interpret what's being said could be completely different than their intent?

Case in point:
My mother says, "Jahaira, I'm really nervous for you. If you don't change your eating habits, you could wind up with diabetes or coronary artery disease!!"

But I hear, "Goddammit Jahaira, would ya pick up a carrot stick already, you're starting to look like a small country!!"

My mom is not a malicious person. Never has been. I know she only brings the subject of my weight up because she cares about me. I know this because that's what she tells me every time we argue about it. (joke, joke, hehehe) But the fact remains, it hurts. It hurts every single time. It hurts because there's no way you can explain obesity to someone who's never been obese. It hurts because parents are supposed to love you unconditionally (in theory, anyway) and I don't feel loved when my mother goes off on her tangents in a pair of size-two Donna Karan jeans and an Escada sweater that would probably fit comfortably on my forearm. I feel enormous, and ashamed, and I want to hide in my apartment with a large pizza and shut out the world. Which is exactly how I handled my mother's little pep talks for more years than I can count. My mother's issue with me was about food, and I didn't feel good when she kvetched about food, so food was what I ran to, just as soon as I could get away from her. Which has to, has to change. Both my running and her...whatever you call it. This horse has been beaten for so long, it's glue. Hopefully MSAPF will give both of us a way out of this cycle we're in.

...It should be noted, though, that my mother almost cried with joy when I explained the Mission to her. See? I told you she supports me. =-)



P.S. Author's note: It's reprehensible to have gone this long without updating MSAPF. As some of you know, I'm in the process of securing my own apartment here in Brooklyn, and getting out of my sister's bouncy, Pantene-esque hair once and for all, which is beating the sweet hell out of any free time I have. But January 4th is looming, so I'll try to make myself more available to all of you. I hope everyone had a much healthier Thanksgiving than I did (ugh...so...much...food), and I'll post again soon!

Lists are Good, or Mission: When You Wish Upon a Salad

So the effort to post more frequently continues. Food-wise, today was a pretty good day for me. I actually managed to eat lunch, which brings my grand total of meals eaten in one day up to 2. Believe me, it's an accomplishment. Normally I eat one meal at around 7 p.m., then eat the gastronomic equivalent of a small village around 3 a.m. Granted, when I'm in my own apartment (please, kind baby Jesus, may it happen soon), it'll be easier to do the three-meals-a-day thing. Until then, I make do with the Halal mom-and-pop place behind my building. Which isn't bad, seeing as there's no ham or salami in sight, and I did find something healthy there that doesn't taste like shit (shoutout to Boar's Head for making salsa-flavored turkey breast!). But woman cannot live on turkey alone, and I'm definitely looking for new inspiration without having to actually cook anything. Which is not to say that I can't cook (you think I got this size by looking at food?), but ya know, it's not my kitchen, I'm not trying to change anyone else's eating habits, blah, blah, blah.

The one idea I did end up gleaning from Ruby's Diary was to make a wish list. Conversely, this is one exercise I know I'm gonna hate doing, which is pretty much how I know that it needs to be done. This whole brutal-honesty, all-my-business, here's-my-deepest-secrets-for-all-the-world-to-see shit is for the birds. Sorry, but that sentiment falls right in line with the whole honesty thing. I know that this may be helping someone, I know that expunging my subconscious is necessary for those who'd like to get to know me, or for those who'd like to get to know me better. I can comprehend all of this on a cellular level. But that sure don't make this easier.

OK, deep breath...here goes.

I wish...

* I wish I didn't have to think about buying two bus tickets to travel one-way, just to spare a stranger the embarrassment of having to sit next to me.

* I wish I could buy shoes like regular people, and wear heels.

* I wish I didn't have to sit down so often because doing the most mundane stuff leaves me out of breath.

* I wish I could buy sneakers with shoelaces and not have to wish that someone else would tie them.

* I wish I could reach around my body without the accompanying pain in my side that knocks the wind out of me.

* I wish I were small enough to do a cartwheel again.

* I wish stairs weren't the enemy.

* I wish I could regain feeling in my hips again, my weight has pinched the nerves so deeply that I have localized paralysis.

* I wish I wasn't a bigger size (26-28) than some of the plus-size stores carry clothes in.

* I wish my friends wouldn't have to slow down when they walk, just so I can keep up with them.

* I wish someone could see the pain behind my smile, the pain I carry every single day that I'm trapped in this body.

OK...I think I've done all the wishing I can do for one day.

P.S. In regards to my laptop, or DietPepsiGate, as this issue will henceforth and evermore be known as, no news to report. I've gotta work tonight, and my weekend is shot, as I prepare for an event that I've been threatened with bodily harm about, should I choose not to attend. So Monday morning, I'm off to Best Buy. As an aside, in the city that never sleeps, why is the only Best Buy in a mile around so damn far away from me? I tell ya, there's just no justice...

Snafus, Studies, and Swearing or Mission: If It Ain't One Thing...

It's an unavoidable truth that when one attempts something that drastically deviates from their day-to-day routine, some odd circumstance will rise up in an attempt to discourage them from their intended goal. Truth be told, I shouldn't have been surprised by this latest fly in the road-to-wellness soup I've got simmering here. I am not exempt from Murphy, or his law. And yes, in my mind Murphy is a man. A man who should be chained and dragged naked through the streets whilst being publicly spurned for his micropenis. But I digress.

It's also an unavoidable truth (unless you renounce earthly pleasures, in which case, what the hell are you looking at a computer for?) that denial of any particular thing can oftentimes lead to nonstop thinking about the very thing you've been denied of. Exhibit A: my laptop ran into an unfortunate incident involving an overturned can of Diet Pepsi and my less-than-catlike reflexes. Now, I realize what all of you must be thinking...and I completely agree with you. Water is a much healthier choice than diet soda. I understand that. But this is my laptop, people. My lifeline. My connection to everything, including you. And Joni Mitchell needs to get smacked right in her sassy little mouth for being such an insufferable know-it-all. You really don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. All the days I didn't blog when I should have turned from mere procrastination into wasted opportunities. Cue the self-flagellation orchestra. Opus Dei, here I come!

Fortunately, my sister (who I'm now thoroughly convinced is actually St. Agnes of God, cleverly disguised as a size-2 fashionista) has been kind enough to let me use her Mac for the purpose of MSAPF. And if you ever needed to know how technologically-deficient/image-obsessed I truly can be, no example will ever be greater than my internal response to the moment that my sister said, "You know, the Mac is just sitting there, you can always use it". I thought she was talking about makeup. Classic me. Of course, the fact that I haven't sat down to a desktop computer since my pre-collegiate years will not deter me from getting all of this stuff out of my head (and heart, because believe me, there's some serious heart-stuff coming), and onto the screen. I'm going to make a conscious effort to post on a daily basis, even if it is on my normal 3 a.m. schedule. January 4th is getting closer, and I'd like to start the new year off having purged myself of the fat-girl crap I've been holding onto in silence for so long.

But for those of you who think I've just been idling the days away while my beloved Vaio lays comatose, fear not! Let us not forget the time-tested, age-old adage: "Those who can, do. Those who can't, research the hell out of what it is they're trying to do". Or something like that. My two dearest friends and I (one being Barnes, the other being Noble) have been enjoying a number of threesomes as of late, and we're all quite satisfied, thanks for asking. I bought Ruby's Diary, by Ruby Gettinger, and finished it in one night. Ruby, for those of you who may be unawares, has an eponymous reality show on the Style Network, chronicling her weight loss from a high of 715 pounds in 1997, to her current weight of 334 pounds (as of the publication of her book). I believe she was somewhere in the 500's when the show began, and apparently her goal weight is 150 pounds. I came to a lot of conclusions at the end of her warm, funny, touching, and spirited book.

First of all, changing your life is hard work, whether you're 300 pounds or 700 pounds. There truly are no shortcuts, not if you want to remain in a healthful state for the rest of your life. And seeing as how 98% of all diets fail, you better be aiming for a drastic change of life, not some quick fix, because the odds are already stacked against you. Ruby's story forced me to come to grips with some things that I've never consciously allowed myself to even think about, things I know I'm gonna have to 'fess up to on this Mission. Things that knocked the wind out of me and started the projectile tears when I read them, because in that moment, Ruby's truth was my truth, too.

Of course, one other conclusion became painfully evident after reading Ruby's Diary...this chick and me could never, in a million years, be friends. It's not her, of course. It's me. Definitely, unquestionably me. You see, Ruby is a true Southern belle, the apple of her (late) daddy's eye, raised up a good Baptist girl (ok, I'm only guessing that she's Baptist, but having been around a good number of Baptists in my day, it's an educated guess), and all that jazz (or country, as the case may be). This beautiful woman says 'dang' instead of 'damn', 'helicopter' instead of 'hell', and refers to her backside as 'Bertha'.

And then you have me.

I was raised in a Catholic home, took a left at Catholicism, and have never looked back. I rediscovered that spirituality doesn't have to equal religion in my mid-twenties, and that's basically where I am today.

The first curse word I can remember saying was 'jackass'. I was in kindergarten.

My father and his family disowned me when I was 16. I speak to him, on average, twice a year. When he dies, I hope someone will read his obituary in the paper and call me to let me know that he's passed on. As was the case with my paternal grandmother.

And quite frankly, the stories I've got in conjunction with my every-Crayola-in-the-box colorful language would probably result in sweet Georgia peach Ruby running at full speed in the opposite direction. I have the utmost respect and admiration for people like Miz Ruby, I'm just too damn ghetto for her and her kind.

Ah, well. Another 4 a.m. bedtime, but this was so worth it. I missed this. And I missed y'all. Real talk.

(I bet Ruby don't even know what "real talk" means. So there.)

On Neglect, or Mission: One Out of Three IS Bad

I'm seriously gonna have to start blogging with greater consistency than this. Unfortunately, my inspiration only seems to hit me at 3 in the morning, so by the time I'm done editing and all, I'm spent. Definitely gonna have to pick up the pace when the Mission really takes off, though.

Argh, the Mission. I think the devil on my shoulder is rebelling against the whole idea of this thing. Case in point: my eating habits suck, y'all might as well find out now. I have this godawful habit of forgetting to eat. Not deliberately skipping meals, not knowingly putting off the eating process, just forgetting. My days are pretty full, especially now as I move full-speed ahead towards finding my own place in Brooklyn, plus the work that I do, plus social obligations, so eating, especially during the day...well, like I said, I forget. And today was no different. I woke up around 11 a.m., sit in my room for most of the day making phone calls and doing all my online crap, no breakfast. Three o'clock rolls around, I'm still on the phone, Tweeting (damn you Twitter for your heroin-esque side effects), basically doing my day. No lunch. Forgot. I mean completely slipped my mind.

So now we're at 7 o'clock. And it strikes me, "hey, you haven't eaten yet". So I throw some sneakers on and make my way to the Chinese restaurant, where I proceed to buy an obscene amount of food. Like if food was porn, this would be the equivalent of a gangbang. My rationalization behind buying this much food (nature of food addiction exhibit A coming at you in 3...2..1) was that I'd have leftovers for the next day. Of course, what I neglected to admit to myself was that I was ravenous. Which resulted in me going home and consuming enough food for all of you, your mothers, your dogs, your dogs' mothers, and well, you get the drift.

Even as I sat gnawing on a rib with the voracity of Hannibal Lecter at Thanksgiving, I was saying to myself that I must get in the habit of eating three times a day. Which incidentally, is part of my gameplan. Even if I have to stick a Post-It on my footboard just to remind myself, I have to eat 3 times a day, there's just no getting around that. And maybe it's a good thing that I'm at least thinking along those lines (because trust me, this line of contemplation never entered my cerebral cortex prior to the planning stages of MSAPF), but thinking about it isn't taking any pounds off. I've got to put this thing into action, and I feel like I've at least gotta start taking the steps now, because it's not like January 4th is about to trigger some cosmic shift in the way I think.

I know this post is shorter than usual, but it'd be real nice to get to sleep before 5 a.m. And if I wake up early enough, I promise, I'll eat a healthy breakfast.

P.S. Susan Powter (of "Stop the Insanity" fame) said hi to me on Twitter! And wished me luck on MSAPF! How cool is that?

P.P.S. In the middle of writing this post, I spilled an entire can of Diet Pepsi on my bed, forcing me to flip my mattress, change my sheets, frantically try to salvage my laptop, and all that madness. Which I am officially declaring as my first attempt at exercise. I've got the asthma attack to back up this claim. And it sucked. Just thought you should know.

The Magic Number, or Mission: Avoid Spontaneous Human Combustion

340.6

three hundred forty pounds, point six.

THREE HUNDRED AND FORTY POUNDS, POINT FUCKING SIX.

I told myself that I wouldn't freak out by the number, I was prepared to hear the number, I had psyched myself up to hear the freakin' number, I haven't blogged in God knows how long because I wanted to give y'all the sonofabitchin' number!

And now, I know the number.

And now...and now...and now...

How did it get here? How did I arrive at this? Shouldn't there have been some bell going off at 300? Some noisemakers, some shofar blowing in the distance? You mean to tell me that I have 40 (point 6) pounds to shed before I reach 300? Three hundred forty isn't a weight, it's a guest list at a wedding in the Hamptons! I didn't gorge myself on every Hershey's product ever distributed, I didn't polish off a 12-pound ham by myself (despite the temptation), I eat corn, for God's sake, could someone please explain to me just how the hell this happened!!!

So, about that whole freaking out thing...yeah. Moving on...

I arrived for an appointment with a pulmonologist because I have asthma and chronic bronchitis, made worse by my smoking. The medical assistant, who was just about the nicest man another nice single gay man could ever hope to meet, was very patient when I explained to him that I needed to be weighed, but I hadn't actually known my own weight for a number of years. Hell, I didn't even know that scales had apparently gone digital. He never broke a smile when I asked him in all sincerity whether the scale would be able to register my weight, and to his credit, he made it as pleasant an experience as he could.
The indication that this was not going to be a good moment in the history of my life probably came when I deduced that I couldn't see over my stomach in order to read Satan's contraption (the scale, for those of you who skip-read). So again, the nice man (to all of my gay male followers, contact me, this one's a keeper!) was kind enough to tell me the number out loud. Upon hearing the number calmly and gently uttered from this benevolent man's mouth, I immediately stopped breathing. This medical assistant, who may very well be the Dalai Lama's illegitimate son, instantly begin pacifying me, letting me know that "it's only a number", and that he's "seen much heavier people on this scale" (because nothing makes fat people feel better than knowing that someone else out there is fatter than you, right?). And then, the unthinkable: with the best of intentions, I'm sure...he gets on the scale himself.
Why this sweet, kindhearted friend of Dorothy felt that putting his own weight out there would somehow loosen the knot firmly ensconced in my chest after hearing my weight for the first time in the twenty-first century is beyond my comprehension, but he did it. And gaily (no pun intended) proceeded to let me know that he weighed 294 pounds so you see, we both have some work to do in order to get well!

The bastard was over six feet tall.

I'm 5'7".

What the fuck did you just accomplish here, mister?

OK, look. I know there's work that must be done here. It wouldn't be much of a Mission if there wasn't, right? It was just a little unrealistic to think that I could be so Zen about finding out how much effort it's going to take to accomplish my goal. This is not a situation I can't overcome, and I will overcome it, but I think it's healthy to freak out just a little. I mean, now that I know what I'm working with, with perseverance and faith, it can only get better from here, right? Right?

(p.s. Happy Halloween and whatnot. I will be avoiding candy, but a cocktail would definitely help.)

And Now, a Little (Lotta) Backstory.

So...hi.

I'm Jahaira.

That's jah-HIGH-rah, for those of you who will unintentionally (but alas, inevitably) mispronounce it in your mind.

There's probably a much snappier, punchier way to rope someone into reading this blog, but since neither snap nor punch have ever been my strong suits, maybe I should just lay some framework here. Let's start by telling you what this Mission (henceforth to be known as MSAPF) is not.

MSAPF is not the melodramatic whining of yet one more obese woman whose husband left her because she was too fat, who can't play with her kids, who can't stand being seen in public, who can't, can't, can't, ad nauseum. MSAPF is not about my quest to whittle myself down into roughly the size of a Dixon No.2 and blow you all away with my gently retouched Auschwitz-esque figure memorialized on-screen in a designer bikini. MSAPF is not a pass-the-buckathon blaming my weight on my mother (well, mostly), my exes, or my life in general. Sorry, it's my cross, and I'm gonna jog with it. OK, maybe I'll powerwalk with it, but there will be some movement involved here, people. Which probably should bring me to what MSAPF is.

MSAPF is me. A girl who is pretty much the life of any party she's at. A girl who commands respect with the kind of presence that only the internally fragmented can manufacture, who entertains almost everyone she's around with acerbic wit and one-liners that would've made Jackie Mason retire before he ever got started, and who's got the ever-faithful sidekick role down to a fucking science.

But inside, she's dying.

Inside, I'm dying.

Dying because I have no recollection of the exact moment when my health no longer became a factor in my day-to-day existence. Dying because I know a girl 5 years younger than me and at least 60 pounds lighter than me who had her leg amputated above the knee due to diabetes. Dying because I now live in a city with far more subway stations than elevators, so I'm praying just to make it up the steps to the above-ground landing on W.4th. Dying because I have honestly wondered if I could get one of those Rascal© scooters because I'm losing mobility in my legs. Dying because tying my own shoes is something I have to internally psych myself up for.

Dying because I'm afraid that if I don't do this, I really will die.

I'm afraid. So unbelievably afraid. I'm afraid of what that scale is going to tell me after years of politely but firmly asking every nurse who ever weighed me not to read the number out loud. Looking straight at the faux-stucco ceiling so that I wouldn't see a number which I knew would only depress me, and make me want to go home and carb my cares away. I'm afraid because in about a week, I'm going to the doctor's to be weighed, just to have a starting number for me (you, us together) to go on. Yes, I will post it here. And yes, I'll be breathing into a paper bag as I do. But I refuse to bullshit my way through this project, so brutal honesty will be the order of the day. Or year. Whatever.

By the way, did I mention that I have a propensity to not finish anything that I start? Yeah, there's that, and the fact that I smoke like a chimney and curse like a drunken sailor. Just so everything's out on the table at once here.

Now I'm depressed. Enough to sleep, but not enough to eat. Maybe that's a good sign.

In The Beginning, There Was Fat.

The Contender: Jahaira Camer, age 30. Newly relocated to New York City from Boston in search of a more meaningful existence. Currently living with her sister's family in a low-income apartment complex, known to anyone within a ten-mile radius as "the projects". Surviving on a fixed income which pretty much affords her the ability to report to you live from the poverty line.
Hasn't weighed herself in ten years, but is more than sure she's seen 300 pounds come and go. Confident about her looks (which is her story and she's sticking to it), but would like to live the kind of life that doesn't involve praying for death every time the need to climb a staircase crosses her path.

The Mission: One hundred pounds. Three hundred sixty-five days.

No surgery, no shakes, no "trainer to the stars", no home delivery, no miracle pills. Real food, real exercise, real results.

Can it be done?

January 4, 2010, one woman makes a last-ditch effort to finally put herself first.

Mark your calendars, people. It's about to be one hell of a ride.