CHAPTER ONE:
I lie in the dust, completely discouraged… (Psalm 119:25, New Living Translation)
Perfect People and Other Myths
Growing up I had this wonderful fantasy. I would marry an athletic-looking man; we would live in a comfortable house with a beautiful, well-manicured lawn in a pleasant neighborhood. In the evening, I would be the perfect wife listening attentively to my husband and making pertinent comments as we discussed the events of his day. Soon we would be blessed with a child or two. I would be the perfect mother cooking nourishing meals and making sure my children were always happy. He would be the perfect father happily changing diapers when they were babies and playing sports with them when they were older. They would be clean, well-behaved and lovable…perfect children. They would be one of our biggest delights. Every day our lives would be filled with bliss and happiness.
Unfortunately, on the road to life my fantasy took a wrong turn somewhere, never to be seen again. I met Carl and we married. He was not the athletic-looking man of my fantasy world, but he was intelligent with a nice sense of humor. However, this intelligent man that I married had a terrible flaw. He was addicted to alcohol. When he started drinking, he could not stop. Unfortunately and unbeknownst to him, he also married a person with a terrible flaw. I was addicted to food. I was not a woman who overate occasionally, but a woman with a serious problem. Once I started eating, I could not stop. These addictions, along with some instances of bad luck, came frighteningly close to destroying our lives.
We did buy a house, a bona fide handy man special. It had no well-manicured lawn, but it was in a decent neighborhood, and it was ours. We did have children, two beautiful boys, Daniel and Joseph. They were my heart’s delight. My whole world revolved around my children. I had succumbed to the idea that the perfect husband and the perfect house were unrealistic aspirations. Yet, I held tightly to the illusion of wonderful, well-mannered, perfect children. It was my earnest desire to be the perfect mother.
We plodded along reasonably well until 1980. Carl lost his job after seventeen years of employment. It was not “personal.” The company relocated to another part of the country. This was a time when business in America was suffering, and new jobs were practically non-existent. Carl knocked on doors looking for employment while I sat at home worrying and stuffing myself with food.
Carl became a “jack of all trades.” Installing rugs, working construction, delivering knives, he did whatever work he could find in hopes of gathering enough money to pay the ever-increasing pile of bills. Tending bar was his favorite. He met like-minded people and escaped from the concerns of the world. Many of these casual acquaintances helped him find lucrative leads to other moneymaking propositions. We lived from paycheck to paycheck on the wings of a halfhearted prayer.
Occasionally my parents and my stepsister, Lorri, helped us by supplying food, shoes or clothing for the boys, but Carl was a proud man. He didn’t take handouts easily. It was a tough place for me. Not knowing where to turn, I ate more food. At this time in our lives, fear and financial insecurity robbed us of any peace we may have had in our home.
One day my cousin Linda suggested we might help each other. Her infant daughter, Angela, needed a babysitter and I needed money. It was a welcomed solution. I helped Carl with our floundering finances while I continued to stay home with our children. Thus, my daycare career began. The news spread quickly. Soon I had a house full of children and a new goal: I would be the perfect parent/daycare provider to all the children in my care. It was yet another impossible dream. Just like my goals of a perfect husband, home and children, my estimation of excellence was more than unreasonable. My goals were unreachable by human standards. Therefore, anxiety and frustration consumed me. When my workday was over and my boys went to bed, I collapsed on the couch and ate junk food.
Early in life I learned how to handle emotional turmoil. My mom would say,
“Have a cookie, Pammy, that will make you feel better.” It was like an old wives’ tale, a myth for sure. I did not feel better after eating a cookie, a box of cookies or ten boxes of cookies. After eating the first few cookies—which was my usual intention—I lost sight of reason and my rampage would begin. Time after time, despite determined efforts to control my overeating, I gorged myself with food—everything and anything. With each bite, I sank lower into a pit of despondency. Whatever happened to my dreams of perfection? My hopes were lost in a sea of despair and a mountain of food.
One unforgettable morning, I crawled out of bed in my usual daze at the demands of my screaming year old son, Joe. On the way to the door I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. It was not a pretty sight. I went back to the nightstand to grab my wire-rimmed eyeglasses to take a closer look. My too-small nightshirt clung tightly to my bellowing hips. My thighs jiggled like Jello and looked like cooked oatmeal. As I walked toward the mirror, I saw my long dark hair straggled around my puffy face. Tears welled in my eyes. What had happened to me?
My mother once told me a story about her best friend’s mother. She was obese. Every time this mom came to school, the young girl cringed with embarrassment, almost mortified. The child often ignored her mother’s presence and sometimes, worse than that, she denied that she knew her at all. Ouch. My heart fell to the floor with a loud thud. I saw that mother in MY mirror. I refuse to be that mother. My diet starts today, no ifs, ands or buts. My children will never know that pain.
I greeted Joe’s wailing with a halfhearted smile. I was trying to be a “good” mom. As I rescued him from who-knows-what, his outlandish behavior stopped. Joe was just like me—he wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. The moment he opened his eyes, no matter what time it was, day or night, he expected to be released from captivity (his crib), and he expected my full attention. I rarely slept because I refused to let him cry. God forbid, he might feel unloved and abandoned.
I scooped him up and headed back to my room to face the dreaded task of getting dressed. Rescuing my worn-out jeans from the pile of dirty laundry, I sucked in my gut to zipper them one more time. I couldn’t face buying another size twenty. I dismissed the thought because today I was going to start my diet. I would soon be wearing smaller sizes. Determined to follow my food plan, I set forth to conquer my world. I kicked the laundry pile against the wall and thought about making the bed. If anybody were to see this room, I’d die. Joe and I went downstairs to the living room. I plunked him in front of the television set. Thank you, God, for Sesame Street.
Lunchtime was approaching and I wanted more food. Was I hungry? Who knows? I already ate lunch at snack time. Please, God, help me. I can wait until dinner. I will barbeque a luscious T-bone steak, bake a potato and steam some vegetables. That is certainly a hearty meal. It will be wonderful. Anticipation kept me focused for the rest of the afternoon.
I fed the children lunch. This time I threw the leftovers in the trash and smiled. Wow, that was good. I felt like a hero. I can do this. I will be fine. Later we baked corn muffins, and I made myself a cup of coffee instead of eating even one crumb. Patting myself on the back, I was pleased. I am really good. I can do this.
Dinnertime came. My mouth watered as I envisioned the delicious dinner I had planned. (It was like a love affair; I could not wait to be alone with my lover—the food.) In order to thoroughly enjoy my “date,” I cooked dinner for the family first. Carl volunteered to entertain the boys while I cleaned up their dishes and ate my meal. I took advantage of the offer and served my bountiful feast on fine china and sat at the head of the table all by myself. I felt like royalty. Eating one precious bite at a time, I spent nearly half an hour alone with my food—my best friend. This is great. I love this diet. I could do this forever.
As I washed the rest of dishes, my mind raced to my next move—oh no, my food is gone for the rest of the day. What am I going to do? I could watch television, but without food it wouldn’t be fun. I suppose I could review this new diet and plan my meals for the week. It would be better to think about the diet than to think about eating more food.
Around 7 P.M. Dan and Joe were tired, and Carl’s patience was wearing thin. In a matter of minutes, he was more than annoyed. It was my responsibility to protect the boys from his anger, but as usual I joined him, yelling in an attempt to keep some semblance of a loving home life. What a tangled web—I yelled to keep him from yelling. Frustrated, I swished the boys off to bed.
It was my routine to read books and sing songs until the boys were asleep. So, as usual, I read their favorite stories and sang some soothing melodies, but this time my head was in the clouds; I was thinking about food. In time the children settled down, and I joined my husband in the living room. What can I do now? Anxious and annoyed, I told my husband I wanted to catch up on some reading and suggested that he go to bed early. Carl was exhausted. He willingly agreed that he could some extra sleep.
My pride kept me from telling Carl I was dieting again. I cannot count the times I thought I had the answer—some new and improved diet. It never changed anything. I would start off gung-ho only to fail once again. The embarrassment and shame was devastating. This time will be different. I will prove that I can diet and succeed once and for all. I’ll show him.
Last Supper and Then Some
Everything looks different at night. The ghosts and the goblins come out of the woodwork, so to speak. That night all of my troubles were magnified. My burdens were too heavy to bear. My husband had problems, my children had problems and I had problems. I wanted to fix everything and everybody. Life should be easier. I sat alone with no answers, no comfort, no food. I continued to dream. Where is my fairy godmother? I longed for a place, some fantasyland, where all the streets were paved with gold and everyone felt loved. Oh, what a glorious place that would be! Fairy tales are for princesses, not for me. I lived in the real world with real problems. Gloom and doom accompanied my somberness. Poor Pammy, poor sad Pammy.
Smothered by my insecurities and my fears, I remembered my mother’s words, “Here, Pammy, have a cookie. That will make you feel better.” Maybe I could have a piece of fruit. The diet suggests two pieces a day, but three could be considered reasonable. Don’t you think? (The committee in my head concurred.) I scurried into the kitchen and found a beautiful apple. I grabbed my cutting board, my favorite paring knife and my special fork. Bringing my treasure to the living room, I artistically cut it into dinky, bite-sized pieces and slowly, carefully relished every mouthful. That was okay. Apples are a healthy snack, only 60 or 70 calories. It takes 3,500 calories to gain a pound. I am still a “good” girl.
Now what? I was hungry, or so I thought. I definitely wanted something more to eat. I pondered my options. It was only 8:40 P.M. The grocery stores were still open. What should I do? Marching to the kitchen, I began my hunt. Slowly and thoughtfully, I opened every cabinet door. My resolve to diet was waning. Fortunately, the cupboards were relatively empty. Food didn’t last long in my house. I quickly ate whatever I bought. I felt relieved and considered going to bed, then a light bulb went off in my head. Uh-oh, I’m in trouble now.
Carl had some goodies put aside in his desk. I had promised not to touch them. He got rip-roaring mad when I ate his food. Once he even threatened to buy a lock and key to protect his stash. I can’t eat his stuff. My history went before me. I ate his food time after time and then fabricated excuses for the missing sweets. Most often I pleaded, “Someone stopped by and I needed to offer them something.” Sometimes I would say, “I gave the children your goodies as a special treat for exceptional behavior.” I had to lie. The truth was unacceptable, even to me. At the time of the heist, I lost touch with reality. I was compelled. It was almost like an out-of-body experience.
Even though I knew it was wrong, once again I inspected Carl’s hidden supply… chocolate kisses, peanut butter cups and chocolate covered cherries. I could eat a peanut butter cup and replace it tomorrow. He won’t even know. Snatching my treat, as one might steal a kiss from a married man, I ventured back into the living room where I could fully enjoy this mouthwatering sensation. I slowly removed the wrapper. With anxious anticipation, I used my special knife to cut it into many tiny, bite-sized pieces. I slowly, lovingly devoured each morsel. I love chocolate. I r-e-a-l-l-y love chocolate. I was drawn back to Carl’s hidden reserve and helped myself to the remaining splendor. I’ll start my new diet tomorrow. I didn’t follow the plan today anyway. I had better go to the store and replace Carl’s food.
Gee, what else should I eat tonight? Chocolate chip ice cream, raw cookie dough and chocolate fudge frosting—maybe just a little of each. I could use some cookie dough to bake cookies with the daycare children tomorrow. It will be the craft project of the day and my excuse for shopping tonight.
Enthusiastically, I hopped in the car and headed to the market to buy replacements for Carl’s candy. I also bought a bag of chocolate kisses for me, plus a half-gallon of ice cream, a stick of ready-made cookie dough and a can of fudge frosting. On the way to the checkout line, I grabbed a box of chocolate chip cookies for the boys. As I drove out of the parking lot, I rummaged through the bags searching for my beloved chocolate kisses. I downed six as I sped home, one mile down the road.
Gathering my bags from the car, I tiptoed into the house hoping everyone was still sleeping. I listened to the silence for a brief moment, but I was anxious for my tantalizing delights. I dashed to the kitchen and modestly scooped a reasonable portion of ice cream into my favorite bowl. I sliced four pieces from the stick of cookie dough and placed a dollop of frosting on each one. I’m only going to have one bowl. I’ll eat it slowly and r-e-a-l-l-y enjoy it. Normal people eat a bowl of ice cream and a few cookies as a snack. I have certainly had enough junk food today.
Sitting in front of the television, I savored every bite. That was so good. I want some more food. I guess it was stupid to think I could stop after one bowl. I am so sick. It has been less than two minutes and I need some more food. Disgusted with my inability to control my eating, I hung my head in shame and retreated to the kitchen once again. I retrieved the half-gallon of ice cream from the freezer, the rest of the cookie dough and the wonderful chocolate frosting. I started eating directly from the containers—frantically—concerned Carl might wander downstairs and notice my outrageous behavior once again. After all, my love affair (with food) was my precious secret.
Halfway through the frosting, I felt physically sick. My stomach felt as if it might explode. I got a bucket in case I threw up. What is wrong with me? I don’t want any more food, but I cannot stop eating. I quickly dumped some filthy cigarette ashes into the partially eaten container of frosting, closed the lid and threw it in the trash. Okay, good-bye frosting. Somehow I ate the rest of the ice cream and polished off the cookie dough feeling a little worse with every bite.
Suddenly I had an idea. Maybe I should make myself throw up. Months earlier, a friend told me how to induce vomiting. She said it helped her to stay thin. I remembered her words. “Put a spoonful of mustard in a cup of water, drink it, dash for the bathroom.” It sounded ridiculous until today. If I can make myself throw up, I can eat and not get fat. That sounds pretty good to me. I tried. God knows I tried, but it didn’t happen. I tried shoving my finger down my throat. No luck. I can’t even throw up right. I am such a loser. I gave up and started to cry. Moments later, I was face first on the bathroom floor sobbing uncontrollably. What is wrong with me?
My heart pumped wildly in my chest. I am having a heart attack. My stomach felt like a water balloon ready to burst. I am going to die. I should wake up Carl and go to the hospital. No, I can’t do that…if I have to tell him all I have eaten, he would think I was crazy…I am crazy. I dragged myself into the living room and passed out on the couch until Joey startled me with his crying once again. It was 5:30 A.M. I needed to get ready for a new day.
Back to the kitchen I went. My binge foods were gone. The boys’ cookies were sitting on the counter. I’ll just have a couple. I started with two. Two became four, then six, then eight, then the whole row disappeared. Anger welled within me. I threw them on the floor, disgusted, and stomped them to death. As I discarded the cookie crumbs in the trash, I noticed the discarded can of frosting. I retrieved it, scraped off the ashes and ate the disgusting frosting. I am really sick! Why can’t I stop eating?
I lost all control. Anything edible was mine. I concocted make-believe cookie dough: a little flour, some sugar, a blob of butter and a dash of vanilla. I mixed it all together and ate it. I found some old nuts, jimmies, chocolate chips and the like. Desperate and afraid, I sprayed oven cleaner on a batch of something. Convinced it was poison, I had a reprieve.
Minutes later I found an old piecrust mix. I made pinwheels by spreading a little butter, a sprinkle of cinnamon and a spoonful of sugar on the dough. It took barely fifteen minutes to bake. As I waited, I found a stash of brownies in the freezer. I gnawed on one while the others defrosted in the microwave. I ate raw pudding mix moistened with a little hot water… I would continue to explain my rampage, but I blacked out here.
I cannot remember all I ate. It was volumes—enough to put on fifteen pounds in three days. I was sick and tired, but try as I might, I could not stop overeating. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t know how to live. Help me, Lord.
Weighting in the Wilderness
“Ring-around-the-Rosy, a pocketful of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.” I traveled around the same mountain doing the same things and expecting different results. Diet after diet, I tried and failed. I could not stop overeating. My doctor sent me to a nutritionist. Her food plan was nutritionally sound. It looked great on paper, but it was the same mountain leading to another frenzy of compulsive overeating. I felt helpless, alone and afraid. The definition of frenzy in Webster’s Dictionary explains it all: temporary insanity.
I was obsessed with being thin. I spent hours at the library seeking new approaches to losing weight. On the way home, I would stop at a store to pick up my last splurge. Any diet started with a binge. The Grapefruit Diet, The Cabbage Soup Diet, The High Protein, Low Carbohydrate Diet, The Aids Diet Candy Regime, Atkins, The Slim Fast Diet… I tried them all. Nothing worked.
A special occasion, the high school reunion, the summer vacation or the holiday celebration always put me into a tailspin. To me, if you looked good, you were good. Fat was ugly and unacceptable. I would put my best foot forward and try (really try) to diet faithfully. With my eyes on the calendar, I often dropped a few pounds. However, as soon as the big day arrived, my usual eating regime returned—more compulsive overeating, more pain. My weight rose with each event.
Desperate for help, I considered weight loss programs. I invested in Weight Watchers, Diet Workshop, Gloria Stevens Fitness Center and others offered at local hospitals and medical centers. History repeated itself. I committed to a program, attended the meetings and stepped on the scale (being careful to wear my lightest clothing). The next day was a free-for-all. For one day, I ate whatever I wanted. Then I would diet all week preparing for my next class, the weigh in and my reward—my day off. It was a vicious cycle.
Initially I experienced success, but soon rationalized and justified my need to stay home: “My husband and children need me, and we cannot afford to be spending money on frivolous things.” Each time I stayed home, I made a solemn promise to continue to diet. Time after time I tried. Time after time I failed. Embarrassed, frustrated and confused, I could not understand why these techniques worked for so many people, but not for me. What was wrong with me?