So, What’s it Gonna Take?

I suppose the start of anything can be the hardest part. And here we are at the beginning. Or wait, no.
Here I am, wondering what it’s going to take for me to get from here to there or what it will take to get me from start to finish.
This is a going to be a good journal for me,
at least I hope so.

Take the ideas of a personal project, for example.
Or think about the cost of a gym or a workout plan.
Think about the goal to be fit and in shape.
Close your eyes, if this helps.
Think about the best physical version of you. Now, think about what this looks like, and next comes question, “What’s it gonna take?”

Is it money?
Is it dedication?
Is it training?
What needs to happen?

I was thinking about the time I saw a picture of myself. I remember thinking “Who is that” because the person in the picture was fat and unrecognizable to me.
Can you believe that?
I didn’t recognize myself, and worse, I looked awful.
I was round. I was fat.
I was ugly.
I remember when the light came on in my head.
I said to myself, “holy shit! That’s me!”
And worse, I remember how disgusted I was about myself.
No one should feel this way.

First, I have to admit and discuss the feelings and internal degradation. I have to confess to the realization that I knew I had eaten my way to where I was, which was shameful to say the least — and I saw this too. This was as clear as the photograph.
I saw all the times when I was lazy, or eating too much, and thinking this was funny.
Or there was some kind of pride with this, because I could eat anything, and somehow, i thought this made me a man. Right?
A real man eats everything on his plate, no?

I saw my reflection in a more truthful light.
I saw myself as a joke. Only, there was no punchline to this and there was nothing funny.

I remember thinking about the challenge ahead of me.
I saw that picture of me, fat and sad yet, I thought I was okay.
But this is how the mind helps us survive.
This is how our denial allows us to continue.
However, I was aware now.
I was unable to unsee what I saw. And while shame can be abusive and painful, shame can also be an excellent motivator.

I had to question, what’s it gonna take?
What will it take for me to drop the weight?
Or to be fair, I am not a salad fan.

I do not eat healthy foods. Not at all.
I love comfort food. This is the good stuff, which is the tasty stuff, which is all the food that sticks to your ribs and hardens your arteries.
And when I eat, I EAT A LOT.
And I ate this way with pride.

First and foremost, I love food. I have to admit this.
I love the taste. I love how it feels to sit down at a table and eat a big meal.
I love and acknowledge that food is social, and meals can connect people in such a loving way.
“Food is love,” I always say.
This is great but my love for food and my love for myself branched off in an unhealthy direction.
So, I had to ask myself, “What’s it gonna take?”

Even still, I think dinnertime is a production of events. I see mealtime as a special occasion.
And, too, my favorite childhood memories of family gatherings are revolved around family dinners.
Mom’s mashed potatoes and her chicken cutlets.
My Aunt’s brisket. And yes, I am a pasta fan. I love baked ravioli. I love pizza too, although, I have to admit that some of the more fashionable slices are a little much. I think about slices like baked ziti pizza are a little too redundant—even for me. But who am I to “yuck somebody’s yum,” right?

I love to order different things at restaurants. And I love to order a lot!
I like to try new foods and yes, I am open to try anything. It is my idea to try everything at least three times, once, because I might have tasted it wrong the first time.

I was never much for portion control.
I never watched my calories or tracked my macros, or whatever that means.

I had no idea what the meal plan would look like. At the same time, I was tasked with a new level of awareness. I saw myself and viewed my reflection with anger, resentment, contempt and disgust.
How did I let myself get like this?
This was the worst question.
But more, how would I be able to get where wanted to be?
What’s it gonna take?

I know that medication helps. And for the record, and with full transparency, I eventually found myself with a medicated regiment that was helpful.
In the beginning, there was shame and turmoil.
I was consumed by the emotional blockers and my internal laziness.
I knew this meant I had to make changes to my reward system. Or to be more specific, I knew this meant that I would have to work!
But how?
What do I do?

I didn’t know the answers to this, at least not emotionally.
I understood this from an intellectual perspective, but intellectually, I knew that emotionally, I was afraid to withstand the truth and the answers ahead of me.

Food can be used as a quick fix.
I was hungry.
I wanted to honor my cravings.
And I did.
A lot!

All I knew is that I was fat. I knew I was out of shape.
I knew that I looked awful. And, in the event that I was going to take this challenge and lose weight, what would this mean to me?

No more fast foods?
No more Taco Bell?
Did this mean that I would lose my comfort?
I ask this question openly because while the taste and action of eating was comfortable to say the least—it was that same comfort that made me gain weight.

What about pizza?
What about the love I have for cheeseburgers, or the disgusting and somewhat perverse love I have for the belly-bombers which are otherwise known as the burgers from White Castle?
What about my love for pasta?
What about ravioli, manicotti, and what about ziti in a vodka sauce or mixed with ricotta cheese?
What about the bread I needed to sop up the juices and the sauces from my meals?
How do we experience this kind of goodness and satisfaction, only to stop or write this off as unhealthy?

Of course, I understand this becomes a symptom of identity.
This was me. “This is Ben,” and Ben eats. . . A LOT!

I understood that I had to cut down on my portions and reduce my carbohydrates, but to be fair, how can anyone live without bread?

I love bread.
I love all kinds of food.
I consider the cooking channels on television to be a soft grade of culinary pornography, and to be honest, I do appreciate a well-cooked meal. But yes, I get it.
Anything can be a good thing, taken in moderation.
However, I had no moderation.
I had no “on” or “off” switch.

I ate until I was full.
And when I wasn’t full anymore, I ate some more.

I never thought much about this. I didn’t realize that I gained weight. I didn’t see this as harmful or self-destructive. Or to add some detail, I saw my meals as something I deserved.
And, of course, I deserve to eat.
Even prisoners in jail are fed and deserve rations.
Right?

I never realized how I was out of breath. I failed to see how this might have something to do with the fact that I ate too much.
I weighed too much.
My blood sugar was through the roof and so high that the doctor told me “You could die,” to which I answered, “really?” because I thought I felt fine.
But I knew I didn’t feel fine.

What has to happen?
I ask this question now and out loud because I asked this to myself.

What would have to happen for me to take the first step?
What would need to happen for me to start and keep going?

Do I have to have a stroke?
Do I have to keep eating until I clog my arteries and die of a cardiac arrest?

What else needs to happen?

Do I need to gain so much weight that I am even more unrecognizable to myself?

Do I need to see my reflection in the mirror and feel such an internal hatred that I completely cancel myself as unworthy and unlovable? And if so, then what?
Is this so I can eat whatever I want at that point?
I mean, who else is going to love me?

Here’s something that no one really talks about when it comes to overeating or compulsive behavior.
The things that are killing you and make you sick is also the same thing that brings comfort.

This is the tough part. This is tricky because where will I get my comfort now?
From a salad?

I knew that I shouldn’t eat so much, but I loved to eat.
At the same time, I knew that food was something that brought me comfort—and while I was eating, I felt fine.
I felt great until I ate too much or until I ate myself into a food coma. Then I laid down on the couch, feeling fat, and narcotized.

But what can I say, right?
I was hungry.
I deserved a good meal, right?
Of course I did.
In the end, I felt worse than I did before eating the food because the window of satisfaction came with a bigger price and a shorter experience of satisfaction.
Food started to come without a reward.

I have read different texts that explain the draws to certain compulsions. I have read that while it is understood the act of compulsion itself may be degrading, the action itself brings on a sense of relief or peace. While the act brings on relief, the aftermath brings on the feelings of shame.
And shame sucks.
So while the rational side would say, “maybe I should stop this,” the emotional side wants to feel that sense of comfort and relief.

This is why people go back or stick to their old routines or their compulsions.
This is how people dig themselves in too deep — and this is why the procrastination and hesitation to change, quit, or improve becomes a problem.
This is why the question, “What’s it gonna take,” is bigger than we think.

How many times have you heard someone say, “I’m going to quit tomorrow,” but tomorrow never comes?

I have gone up and down with my weight. I have learned more about this and while my weight and my physical training is not up to par at a professional level, I can say that I am in good shape and stronger now than ever before.

I had to see what worked for me. I had to stop listening to others tell me about what worked for them.
I had to go to the doctor to learn that my A1C was dangerously high (I think it was over a 10 or 11, which is “stroke city” or so I was told) and I had to see that my testosterone was terribly low.
I have my disagreements with “big pharma.”
However, medication was helpful to me. And yes, testosterone replacement therapy and other steroids were helpful. I do not deny or hide this.
I do not listen to what others say because no one else has to see my face in the mirror at the end of the day.

I am on medication for my diabetes. I get my blood checked regularly. I exercise. And the great thing is I still eat a lot. But I can work this off now.
I can find the reward in exercise.

Look . . .
Life hits everyone. Certainly not just me.

I am no health guru.
I do not have any professional advice.

I’m a real person, faults, flaws, good and bad.
More than anything, I am someone looking to find the answer to my question.
What’s it gonna take?

If it’s not food, it’s something else.
I am not wondering about my physical appearance at the moment.
No, I suppose my obstacles are different now and more emotional and closer to the heart.

Like I said, the hardest part is the beginning.
This is why I chose to start this journal.
I want to find out, “what’s it gonna take?”