Week 4: Food and Depression

Being Good

I went to the Gym again this week (again just the once, because of their attitude) and worked out harder still. I think I am getting the hang of this gym thing. The trick I think is to get you sweating as much as possible in as short a time as possible. Anyhow, I nearly killed myself again on the stepper and followed it up on the bike that doesn't again. There were a number of people who chose to waste their time watching me struggle on the bike, but I persevered on, after all, if you have paid already... I checked out a couple of other places this week, and I couldn't help feeling like I often feel in Gym's, just uncomfortable. I hate the idea of someone seeing me and hearing me wheeze to death after 5 minutes on a treadmill.

Being Bad

I had another good week in terms of food, well mostly. I had no chocolate, and only the one sandwich. And only once had food after 11. I'm starting to feel like a gremlin.

Despite the above, I just didn't get out enough. I must make an effort to do more stuff mid-week. All in all though, not too bad. Although on Friday I ended up cooking too much, and simply couldn't throw the excess away. Not good. It's the first time I have felt "stuffed" this month.

In conclusion though, I lost an entire pound! Woo hoo! I am being sarcastic in case you hadn't figured. This is getting frustrating.

Food and Depression

It's difficult to know what sets off depression. Sometimes it can be an event, like the death of a friend, or the loss of a job, and at other times you drift into it like a gently nagging headache, until you feel like your head is too hot and your whole body has lost its energy. The sense of feeling like nothing is going to change, that you will never get to the goals you set and that the world designed to keep you down, can sit in the back of your mind haunting you like the thudding bass track from your teenage daughters stereo.

Some people take medication at this point, to try to bolster their enthusiasm. Some people drink, in an attempt to relieve the boredom. Some people go in search for justification, perhaps that's what I am doing on here. Trying to prove to myself I am worthy, people do care. I matter.

I imagine fit people search out others to "do something", anything from kicking a football around to going to a movie, perhaps they all work out in their personal gym's, running for hours on a treadmill or using weights til their muscles are ready to burst. I don't really know these fit people, and they tend not to ring me up when they need a fifth for their game. Besides, despite all my efforts, my tendon still aches, and running is still a step too far.

I also suspect this is why people spend hours in pointless pursuits like train-spotting and stamp-collecting, just to stop the boredom and depression. Don't get me wrong, I don't disapprove to hobbies, in fact I think they are a very good thing, for children especially, to help them understand the need for study, research and patience. I however, hide.

I often hide when things aren't so good. When you are filled with self-loathing, you aren't much fun to be around, and when you can see how you affect others around you, when people start avoiding you because you are flakey, or lacking in enthusiasm, then you know it's best to be on your own.

Depression makes you feel worthless, and any struggles you have, with weight, smoking, drinking or any harmful addiction suddenly find themselves like a bacteria in petri dish. My depression in the past meant not answering letters, not making important telephone calls, and for a period, not looking for work. It has taken two good friends to kick me out and send me down the road for a job. Both times I will never forget the debt I owe them.

I have never been to a doctor for depression even though, like most people I suffer from it. I think we over prescribe our conditions, when we should in fact deal with them. I can't help feeling like as a grown man, I need to control my emotions myself or at least deal with them properly. I need to find a way without turning to chemicals every time something gets me down.

Perhaps the much harder question is why do I get depressed in the first place, and finding a way to counter-act that. It's hard though, since most of us lead what Thoreau called "lives of quiet desperation". Some people argue that diet is a major factor with depression, and I can see their point. It is clear that having too many burgers and not enough greens is not healthy at all. The proper balance of vitamins is very important for your body and mind to work efficiently. Thing is though, I personally have had a very good balance of fruit and veg. Apart from when I was a student perhaps, I have always had that balance. I like cooking and enjoy the different textures and colours you get from a well-balanced meal.

The real struggle with depression from a middle-aged man like me, to the teenager in unrequited love, is that we are in a position where nothing we do is the right answer. If the teenager tells his love interest how he feels about her, she will surely dismiss him out of hand, and he will lose the connection, the hope once and for all. To not say anything however, to never make the approach blocks him from finding love elsewhere. There is no right answer for him. Time ends up being the only solution, but time takes time. Eventually things get better. Whatever he decides to do, time heals the wounds.

In my case the same is true. Eventually I will have a visa in my hand and be off to my new family. Eventually, I will have saved enough money and not be terrified of how to make ends meet when I get there. Eventually I will lose this weight and look a lot better when I slip into the suit I will be married in. Right now though, I feel guilt and depression. Guilt for spending money, guilt for going out, guilt from even taking up room in my parents house. guilt for staying at home even though I know there is no work to be had. And that in turn leads to depression, which leads to reclusiveness, which leads to more depression. The cycle.

I look around me at other people my age and wonder how they did it all, and then I remember how desperate they were, and how one by one they found their partners. When I think about it, I cannot think of a single one who lives comfortably and happily on their own without assistance from someone somewhere. I have taken too long maybe. I have been too fussy, or hung on to too many relationships for too long when I knew they would fail. I am not apologetic about it, because everything I have done in my life, has been done with good reasoning at the time. They were important to do to lead me to this point, but they have also led me to this current slump I am in.

I am effectively single, but awkwardly, not single in the sense that I can go out with other single guys on the pull at the local pubs, so that avenue of escape (of which I would feel guilty taking anyway) is not available to me. I hardly drink anyway, having found that as cabbie, you lose customers when you are seen out drinking.

Perhaps there is always a reason not do to something.

Anyhow, as the depression seeps into you, then everything adds to your pain. A TV show that you are not in the mood for, a phone call that could have gone better, a game you just can't complete, a lack of texts. And before you know it, you are in the kitchen looking for something to do. For me it has always been something sharp and spicy to freshen my mouth. A cheese and ketchup sandwich, some crisps and pickles. The TV seems less dull when you are preparing a sandwich, the room feels less hot, and the enthusiasm begins to creep back in.

I never stay depressed when I am eating. It always goes away. Maybe it's because I am actually doing something, but oddly I am never inspired to cook either. I never feel the urge to bake a cake, or knock up a Bolognaise sauce for the freezer. I wish I did feel that way. Perhaps its the release of various chemicals in my brain that help me through it, but as I venture back into the kitchen, empty plate in hand, so the depression slowly returns sure as night follows day. Except that this time it is backed up by the thought that I have eaten even more. I often think this is why diets have a habit of making people fatter in the long run, because when you break (and we all break at some point) you feel twice as bad as you did before.

I am trying very hard not to get down on myself on this diet. It's mine and so far it as worked to the extent of 1lb, so that's progress. lol. I know that not eating as much is only half the issue. I was told recently by a couple of people who going to the gym, once a week wasn't nearly enough, and that I had to go more. I want to go more, but I look at the expense, and I think about how I got myself into this mess and I feel bad. Jees' when you're down, even the thought of losing the weight makes you feel bad.

I saw a guy on TV a few years back, who had lost weight very quickly. He has so much excess skin, that I shivered at the thought of looking like some Shar Pei dog. To be honest, I really don't know which is worse. I am hoping that the skin eventually contracts, but I have never looked it up. After all, we aren't talking about a 9 month pregnancy here.

Anyhow, on Sunday I thought I would get out of the house, go find some people and try to feel a little better. I tried, I didn't feel better at all, but I tried. I came home and started eating as soon as I got through the door. I managed to stop myself from going nuts, and practically ran out of the kitchen once the feeling had left me, but there my demon was, just waiting for me to get weak.

I think he will always be there. He is always going to be sitting on my shoulder saying you wont get the opportunity to have another roast potato for a good fortnight, you don't want to throw it out surely. He is always going to be reminding me that you haven't had breakfast and maybe this large lunch just evens things up.

I gave up smoking last year, cold turkey. It's why I am doing this now. If I have the strength to give up that highly addictive drug, just by demanding control of my body, then maybe I can do this. And yet every time I see a cigarette being smoked by a cold teenager outside a pub, every time I smell the musky smoke waft past my nose, I think about how great it would be to smoke right now. And that's after 18 months. Maybe these demons never go away.

Then again, we all have demons. We all have the voice telling us to do something we shouldn't. Maybe it's to tell our loved ones what we really think of them in the middle of an argument when our blood seethes with anger and boils with injustice. Perhaps our demons tell us we shouldn't look at the new girl at work with the long legs and the sensual smile. Maybe even our demon screams out to us as we lamentably pass by the pub, the laughing voices enjoying their late night revelries. We all have demons. Food and depression are two of mine.

My Fat Truth

I am 5'5'' and weigh nearly 19st (266 lbs). I am 39 years old with a life expectancy of 55. I am morbidly obese, and have been since I was 20.

I am plenty of other things too, I am a particularly good loser for example. I can juggle with three balls. I am good at recognising bits of music, especially from the 80's. This blog however is about Me and my relationship to FAT.

I know there are many people out there who would probably look at me in disgust. Who would suggest I am wasting my opportunities. Who think I am a failure. In time I intend to really get to grips with what they have to say. I actively encourage your comments. I would be surprised if there is anything I haven't already heard, but please go ahead. Make me your vent if you will. Right now though I want to make my admissions.

There are many reasons for my weight. Literally hundreds that I have come up with in my time on this earth. So lets just go through a few of them.

First my brother is six years older than I am. He was athletic also, loved playing football, joined the CCF at a young age. He walked the ten-tours across Dartmoor three times. When we were growing up there was no chance I would ever beat him at anything sporty, or even in fighting. As a competitive soul I recognised I could only get my revenge by winding him up to the extent where he would get into trouble. It didn't require me to be healthy. If anything, it helped to have people look at my chubby little face in sympathy.

This is not why I am fat, but it's a good excuse.



I was never very good at sports. From a very young age I knew I was not the kind of guy that would be a good runner. My run looked funny. I had bad balance. I was clumsy.When we played games I was picked last, which in turn made me feel bad. I eventually chose to reduce my activity to a minimum, only sticking to the things I really enjoyed doing. Until even that stopped when I left school.

My mother didn't speak good english, and I didn't have many friends. I spent a lot of time on my own in my room. I became a commentator of my own imaginary games, just like every young boy did. I was not a rebel and never pushed going out to other boys houses. My mother was a little distrustful of people anyway, and I hated the idea of having to explain a tight curfew to critical xenophobic parents. In the end I avoided any friendship outside of school hours and so never got as much playing time as other boys.





My father was away for most of my young life. He used to don his captain's hat and sail off into the oceans for nine months of the year, if not more. He was never there to fight my corner, to teach me how to fish or have a kick-about in the back garden. I never grew up knowing what a man should be able to do, or be inspired by his ability. I never learnt how to saw wood, or lay cement, or even to wash the car right. With no father around to fight with and adventure with, my weight, and my excuses built up.





My mother faced bouts of depression. We had a habit of going to our separate bedrooms. She was a good mother caring for me as best she could, but as soon as I began to show independence and with my brother much older, she knew her role in the front room watching TV with us was over. With no dad there, she slowly withdrew to her bedroom, allowing me the opportunity to sneak down the stairs whenever I wanted to. The poem "Chocolate Cake" springs to mind.

She spent many evenings more alone than I can ever imagine, crying quietly into her pillow. I remember listening and wishing I could do something about it. Some of my favourite moments were when my dad would turn up in the front room with what mother would call "pickings". These small morsels such as cheese and pineapple on sticks, mini-cheese pieces wrapped in parma ham, pickles and crisps would make my mother beam with excitement and my brother and I would sit on the floor and lick our lips like two hungry puppies. When I got older, and when mum was sad, I would try to make things for her so she would be happy again. My relationship with food as a source of happiness was already growing.

She was also a good cook, but coming from a poor background, she instilled into us the commendable ideas of never wasting good food and always clearing the plate. At the same time she wanted us to be happy, and we so enjoyed her food. For a very long time I blamed this one thing alone for my weight problem, and today I still have a real effort when throwing good food away.



I have heard that certain things release endorphins into the brain. These pleasure stimulators flood the brain and encourage you to continue doing something. You often hear of people who regularly exercise getting unhappy or even grumpy because they haven't done their daily run or their weekly gym session. The same is true with food. As we are all different, it is obvious that some people get a big high doing push-ups, whereas I get a big high eating a chicken flavoured crisp sandwich with mayo and pickle.

I always liked cooking. My brother did to. He eventually became a really good chef, for a while. I enjoyed the way that flavours mixed together, but I also liked my cooking to be moist and crunchy. It meant lots of cream and milk, lots of meat. I was never good enough to chef. I was never good enough to do anything in fact. I always almost managed to do things. I was good at maths, but not



the best. I was good at chess but not good enough. I have always been a jack of all trades, including basketball and badminton, but never ever a master. Never ever even to a point where people would say, lets ask Eggy.

It was always depressing and that combined with my conscious lack of friends meant I became a recluse to all intents and purposes. The further away from other kids I got, the less my weight mattered. I found myself protected from the outside world, cuccooned. As my self-esteem drifted, I searched for more cerebral attachments, with older friends that could be trusted. I began to reject people my age, most importantly girls. I am not gay, but I never faced the kind of scrutiny other boys went through. Weight was never an issue.



When I finally did encounter girls, I was a young man and could easily see that the aesthetically pleasing girls were also the most obnoxious. The quiet shy lilies were far more graceful and dazzling, appreciative and interesting. They also tended to be girls with similar stories to me. My attraction to larger girls had begun.





As you can see, throughout my life there were many different reasons why I was a fat child and why I became a fat man. All of them had a part to play I am sure, but if there is one thing I am going to do with this blog, it is to accept I am the real reason for my weight. The difficulties I face every single day may be described by things that have happened in my past, but they do not excuse it.

I am morbidly obese. And it is all my fault.