Warped Food Think

Once upon a time and always, Nan was fat. There was not a breath of time between decades when she was “normal.” A typical size, an average eater, as determined by whom: Society, Dr. Phil, Oprah?

Opening the door of her closet was a walk down memory lane. She grazed through her closet of slimming black pants in various sizes. According to the telltale waistbands’ width, she might have arrived in the “normal” column at some point in adulthood when she wore a 12, 16, 18, and now an astounding size 22.

At least there are stores for extra special, oversized physiques; trendy stores with size 16 mannequins that do not have bulging thighs. Nan could pick the fashion ensemble as shown, but it would look skewed on her bulbous figure. After she starred in the dressing room mirror for hours, the reflection began to take on a surreal form. A Picassoesque rendition entitled, “Women Pretending to be anything she is not.” She fled the mall of darkness to drive into the light, towards the bakery.

The thin gal behind the counter with the flaming red hair arranged the baked goods as requested. There is an inspiring and beautiful symmetry to a bakery box wrapped with red and white string. Nan could swear the redhead shifted her gaze between her linebacker sized bubble coat and the array of scrumptious crumb cakes, donuts, and cookies.

At home, she untied the string and peered into the cardboard box. This was the height of foreplay. Upon climax, the last donut sat cradled in her hand, singing colored sprinkles and curvaceous mounds of pink icing. With triumph and a sigh of relief, she threw the donut into the trash, followed by the pretty box from the bakery.

Gratitude flowed through her body as she eased into her comfy chair with the blanket tucked under her chin. The TV remote was poised and ready. As she flipped through the 500 cable channels, a subliminal message glimmered on the TV: it was time to put an end to the insanity.

Nan settled on a crime show to divert her mind from the demon donut that possessed her. It whispered in her ear a constant stream of convincing arguments. It’s Thursday! I’ll have the weekend and start fresh on Monday.

Nan cringed as if spied on while she committed a felony. The box was crushed, but the donut pristine.

Friday morning, she woke up hungover and felt as if her face was saturated with sugar. She dragged her body out of bed, found a pair of black pants and a blouse that she rather liked. Her spirit lifted; she left for work and stopped at the bagel place for breakfast. The thought of Monday and a svelte new body kept her buoyant through the office grind.

On the drive home, determined to block out the food drive, she took a preventive left turn. A beam of lightning struck her as she realized Monday was 56 hours away. The car careened as it took a 180, and she sped to the grocery store for a weekend stock-up.

Determined for this Monday to be the last Monday of failure, she made an appointment with a nutritionist.

She joined a gym and hated it. All the thin work-out junkies made her feel fat and ugly.

Bought a stack of self-help books.

Went to meetings of Overeaters anonymous; wanted to hang-up on her sponsor and put the “gray sheet diet” through the paper shredder.

Found a new therapist.

Stood in front of the mirror, cried, yelled, screamed, and punished herself with hatred and self-loathing.

The scale determined her mood for the day. The numbers spun, but before it stopped, she jumped off, opened the door, and threw it outside. It sailed through the air and landed with a satisfying thunk next to the trashcan. She felt a little lighter.

Tuna fish lunches had turned her brain into cottage cheese, both of which she loathed. Damn the food scale, and the measured four ounces of protein, pretending it was delicious and satisfying.

Is it a crime to eat a bagel? Is it possible to leave the house and not spend the entire day stressed about where and what to eat and not eat?

A new perspective on feeding her body led to engagement with her inner hunger or lack of it. To put the fork down when she was full was almost impossible at first but became increasingly effortless. The yummy stuff would be there later when she was hungry again.

After months on the therapist’s couch, hundreds of pages of recovery books for overeaters, and support group meetings, she realized there was hope.

Food and will power are incongruous. Eating is a self-defense mechanism. It had been the only means to protect herself from being battered by others and the stream of negative thoughts entrenched in her psyche.

Recovery from overeating is molasses-slow, as the earth spins on its axis, slow.

Photo procured from UnSplash by Sahin-Sezer-Dincer

Exile to Long Island: A Refuge from Catastrophe

“The precinct is firebombed.” The railroad is down. We have no choice. Nick hollered from the bedroom. “Pack up; we have to move.”

My parents begged me to travel out to the island just two days before, but I didn't want to leave the sexy cocoon of Nick's Chelsea apartment. I thought it was standard parental hysteria, but I was so wrong. Backpacks jammed with water, protein bars, and other essentials; we crept down the stairs of his apartment building, which was morbidly quiet.

In the distance, the zing of bullets had sweat running in rivulets in my bra and down my back. The slamming of my heart drowned out Nick's instructions. He took me by the shoulders and stared fiercely into my eyes.

"Focus! Stay by my side." No problem; where would I go? Even though it was a chilly 44 degrees out, Nick's hair was plastered to his head as he tried to peer out the window on the ground floor.

The acrid smell of smoke lingered in the air along with a blanket of gray haze. He edged the door open and peered into the bleak night. It seemed strange that the man in the vestibule across the street had no coat or shoes, dressed for a couch potato night by the TV. The glass splintered in the door, which hung on a hinge. Was he trying to get in or out? Nick ripped me out of my fog and yanked me through the doorway, and we took to the streets skimming the walls and ducking in alleys as if in a thriller flick.

The subway loomed as a dare across the broad avenue. It was the only escape from the city.

A burst of gunfire exploded several blocks down, and my ears rang with horror. Nick is gigantic but not a superhero that deflects bullets. Any other day him being a cop would have been an assist, today it is an obstacle. Everyone is a target, in particular, NYPD.

We broke into a run and flew down the subway stairs. I was about to pull out my Metro Card but saw no point as we pressed into the families, crying children, and the masses drowning in alarm.

The hours dragged as we neared the edge of the platform to maneuver our way onto the subway car. The plan was to switch trains and get to Queens, and then?

The doors open, and we shoved in with just enough room before they slid shut. The scream of faces left behind, glared with hatred and contempt as the train sped out of the station.

It was as if everyone held their collective breath; it was silent except for a few whispers. A few gasped when the lights momentarily went off, even though it's a regular occurrence as a seasoned subway rider. I held tight to Nick. We swayed, being simultaneously pressed in and held up by the humanity around us. Where did we think we were going, or if we would ever get there?

"Don't offer any information. Respond to direct questions, otherwise don't speak," Nick ordered.

"Who do you think…?" The words crunched out as my teeth chattered, even though the car smoldered with oppressive heat and heaviness. Nick cut me off.

"Don't talk." He saw my startled expression and soothed, "We don't know if they're listening."

The train screeched to an abrupt halt and went black. A sharp edge dug into my side and knocked out my breath with a wheeze. Nick asked if I was alright, but I had to be. It became apparent after minutes, then an hour, we were at the end of the line. A disembodied voice came over the speakers.

"Everyone, get out." That was it, not please exit the train in an orderly manner.

People pushed out the emergency windows with no idea of what nightmare hid in the dim tunnels. It was more organized than you'd think; one person jumped to the tracks to aid the next climb out and fall to the ground. They say New Yorkers rise to the occasion in a crisis.

We made our way like expatriates from a 3rd world country. The dread was palpable. It reminded me of the news feeds I ignored on cable of the refugees dragging children and belongings out of Turkey or Lebanon. The graphic 24-hour cycle makes us oblivious to their pain and devastation. It changes when you are entrenched in the riveting reality of the catastrophe.

We crawled along until we got to Jefferson Street Station, not far from my apartment on Melrose. Sleep for a few hours, hit a bodega for some food, and continue on foot. My naïve brain thought it would be an easy trek two blocks to my apartment and relative safety.

As we approached the top of the stairs, the familiar storefronts of Bushwick came in to view, so did two armed men in full riot gear. They were actual NYPD, not the militia. It seemed they were spinning the war-weary around and sending them back into the inferno. For once, Nick's badge broke down a barrier instead of a cause to run for cover. Even with that, I had to dig out my license to show my address. Relief flooded through me like a cold stream; no mobs or bullets, but smoke hung like a curtain.

The relief fled fast as I came to terms with my neighborhood burnt out like a journalist's montage of shock. The bodega was an empty shell.  How could this be Brooklyn?

The outer door to my apartment was intact. I dug out my keys and was relieved to find my apartment as I had left it, in its usual state of messy disorganization. My roommate had flown back to her parents the week before and left some dinners in the freezer. She ate crap, but we were grateful for it and stuck them in the microwave one at a time. The city was falling apart, but we had Wi-Fi and cable—a small crack of normalcy.

The shower was lukewarm but refreshing. We plopped in front of the TV, flipping between news channels. The objective was to get to safety until the streets were vacant of gun-toting combatants. Nick's lap was a welcome pillow, and I crashed as he continued to scramble for ideas on how to ditch the city for Long Island, our new oasis. Never did I think Long Island would become a sanctuary.

The warm whispers in my ear sent a thrill down to my toes; till his murmurs became frantic as voices drifted in from the hallway and neared my apartment. Fists began to pound on the door along with rapid-fire Spanish. Grabbing our bags, we made for my bedroom, which gives way to a small courtyard. We dashed out and made for the fence.

The railing is wrought iron about five feet with spikes, and although I am in decent shape, I am and never will be an athlete. Climbing the rope in gym was a nightmare. An old plastic table served well enough for Nick to catapult over and then help me until a spike snagged my pants in mid-air. I ripped free as three ragged men charged out waving bats.

We shot down the block, which was obscenely empty when I realized I had dropped my bag.

"Wait my bag." Nick whipped around.

"Crouch down here; I'll be right back." He charged down the block, swiped up the backpack, and pressed into an alcove. I was fixed on Nick and didn't realize the door had inched open behind me. A gruff voice said, "Get in," and wrenched me through.

"My boyfriend is down the block," I squeaked out, not sure if this guy was a friend or otherwise. His cascade of braids whipped around as he slammed in the bolt after Nick slid in.

"I'm Jerry, come." We followed him up creaky stairs to a small apartment filled with six people sitting on chairs and cross-legged on a threadbare rug. They scarcely noticed us as they stared laser-focused on CNN.

There was a spot near the window where we collapsed, and I lay my head against the wall. "Where is he? I croaked.

A pretty girl of about 14 looked up, "They don't know," she said in a hushed tone and returned to the TV with intense concentration like there would be a pop quiz. Jerry handed us water bottles and returned to his chair.

"The bastard is in some bunker shooting out Tweets," Jerry spat with disgust.

We slept crunched up in our little circle wrapped in a patchwork quilt with bright flower patterns. Nick shifted, and I woke up startled. He put a finger to his lips. “I’m scared, I mouthed.”

“Me too,” he mouthed back as he slowly stood up, limping a bit from the tight position on the carpet. Jerry looked up and started to rise; Nick put a hand to his ear to signal he was listening, but Jerry nodded attuned to the subtle squeaks in the hallway.

“Fire escape?” Nick asked, drawing his pistol from the back of his pants.

“Backroom,” Jerry hissed as he dug under the large, crocheted pillow for his piece. He corralled everyone to the bedroom and, with stealth, opened the window. “It’s going to make a hell of a racket when it slides down. Move fast.”

“Jen, go with them. Jerry and I will hold them off, then follow.”

“I can’t leave without you.” I held on to him like an anchor.” With a gentle shove, he pushed me off in the direction of the bedroom.

The escape cranked down, and the others began to negotiate the steps with trepidation. With one foot out the window, I heard the door blast open and several shots fired. I sprang out, flying down the steps at what seemed subhuman speed.  At the bottom, I waited for Nick for what seemed as if forever.

“Run,” I heard someone shout, and I did.

The Superpower to End Binge Eating

Both diet and anti-diet cultures have become as divisive as politics. There is no agreeing to disagree. One of the issues I have with either culture is black and white thinking. Healthy, diet, overweight, and fat are examples of terms fraught with controversy. Those that differ are blatantly lambasted as fatphobic.

Your Fat Friend wrote an insightful article on Medium entitled “Just Say Fat.” It is a fantastic achievement to own “fat” and be comfortable physically and emotionally; not all of us can. It is my issue that I cannot. A little background: I grew up as dare I say, an overweight child from preadolescence and struggled with it straight into adulthood and throughout. Insulted by children at school, left for last in gym class, and shopped in the chubby section at department stores. Well-meaning parents offered me money to lose weight. “Fat” is tricky for me to internalize; I admire that Your Fat Friend can, but my reaction to it was visceral. Is it sacrilege for those of us who cannot own it?

After years of yo-yo dieting and the typical unequivocal thinking of either binge or starve, I have found a middle ground. I eat with “Conscious Choice,” forethought without obsession.

“Conscious Choice” has alleviated my bingeing, no deprivation, no off-limits food, but I do not eat without discretion. I enjoy several snacks a day, and I have found comfort food that satisfies without deprivation. I love chocolate chip cookies, but not every day and not the whole box.

Tools of the Trade

I see “Intuitive Eating” as a tool. When I mentioned this on Instagram, I was bombarded with messages. There is no concrete path to self-acceptance. “Take what you need and leave the rest,” is a 12-Step motto which I adhere to. Implementing the principles from “Intuitive Eating” and “Health at Every Size” is helpful. Do you have to assume all 10 “Intuitive Eating” beliefs as gospel? Can you accept where you are but balance nutrition and comfort food to over time find a natural body size for your frame and individual body chemistry?

Way before “Intuitive Eating” was a thing, Geneen Roth wrote a book entitled, “Breaking Free from Compulsive Eating.” This book changed my life without the precepts surrounding “Intuitive Eating.” Her book suggests cramming your home with all the food you have avoided. I found it to be revolutionary. As with “Intuitive Eating,” some will gain weight at first. I lost weight, but most importantly, I was empowered by the ability to walk into a store, buy what I desired, and not have the need to make an excuse for it.

“Conscious Choice” in Practice: The Hamburger Deluxe

This classic menu item available at all diners is heavily laden with all kinds of calories, and what most would consider no-noes. If you are craving it, then you should have it, but negotiate accordingly. Reconsider a short stack of pancakes gushing with butter and syrup for breakfast or lunch. To plan beforehand is not the same as a meal plan.

• The typical deluxe is a hamburger with a seeded bun, French fries, garnished with two onion rings on top, lettuce, tomatoes, raw onions, pickles, and, coleslaw.

• What is most important to satisfy your cravings?

• If it is the French fries, consider leaving the onion rings and the bun or have one half of the bun.

• Dying for the onion rings — have them, eat fewer French fries, and half the bread.

• If sinking your teeth into the burger and bun with tomatoes, onions, and ketchup, is the end-all for you, do it! Can you give up the onion rings or eat fewer fries?

Dig into a little of everything, and after sated, get a take-home box for later, or the next day.

I hear it now coming at me from all ends of the Twitter-sphere, THAT’S A DIET! I do not consider consuming whatever is vital for your daily survival to avoid bingeing a diet. How you arrive at a comfort level is all you. Getting there does not entail:

• Restricting food. Hunger will lead to the eventuality of binge eating. Never go hungry.

• Counting calories or points is labor-intensive. Although I have an aversion to any food with the word “skinny,” I will eat lite items to satisfy my fancy.

• Weighing grams. If you eat to satisfy and not overeat, there is no need to weigh food.

• Skipping meals. Forfeiting one meal to feast later does not work. See restriction of food above.

Anticipation relieves my anxiety and stress over food, dining out, visiting friends, and family. When I was attending Overeaters Anonymous, a member suggested praying for the food to show up; I say pack and carry when necessary.

Are you going to weigh short stack over hamburger deluxe regularly? Most likely not. Is it dieting to consider eating less bread for lunch when you want to have pasta for dinner? Is it dieting when you have pizza for lunch but a salad with protein later? Is it a diet if asking for dressing on the side, ordering the hamburger without the bun or salad instead of fries? Perhaps folks who are not compulsive overeaters do not question those choices. “Conscious Choice” almost feels like a superpower when it serves to abate bingeing food frenzy.

Help children and adults work through feelings associated with sexual abuse. Fawn's Touching Tale: A Story for Children Who Have Been Sexually Abused. https://amzn.to/317I641

An Exercise in Chocolate Chip Cookies. Purpose: to avoid binges and ease in to eating with intention and empowerment or what others might think of as “normal” eating.

I’m choosing cookies which are one of my comfort foods, but you opt for your favorite. Buy a bag or box of cookies with intention. They are no longer “contraband” or “off-limits. No need to mix it in with other groceries as a ploy, because, they are not really for you. It IS for you.

In a safe place break open the box. Don’t decide how many you will eat beforehand. Take one out of the box and eat one. That cookie is damn good. Enjoy the cookie and realize you don’t have to give them up for a lifetime because you are dieting or stash them deep behind the bag of kale chips in the back of the cabinet. No cloak and dagger stuff.

Dig your hand in to the box and eat another. This is amazing good. Do you need another cookie? If you do that’s okay, eat it…or 2 or 3. Decide when you can put the box aside.

This is scary because it is not following a diet, or a snacking from a 100-calorie bag. It’s relying on your internal barometer to determine how much you need to eat. I had many days where I could not stop eating, so I understand.

The key to developing your internal sensors is helped by the knowledge that you can have another cookie in a half-hour or an hour. It is momentous to know you can have more cookies tomorrow and the day after that.

In small steps over time, you will binge less. How wonderful to decide what you will eat, when and how much without guilt. I think of intuitive eating as conscious choice.

Please check out my website jackiebluz.com and The Last Bite Before Monday. A humorous and brutally honest account of my journey to an improved relationship with my body and food.

Diet Wars

There must be a softer, gentler way. As soon as 2020 was rung in the diet and gym commercials bombarded the screen. Is it any coincidence that Planet Fitness is plastered all over Times Square on New Year’s Eve? The other night Lester Holt did a segment on “Diet Wars.” The war is between all the diet programs, pills and food competing for your $$$$.

All the commercials, news segments and advice is overwhelming; all I want to do is eat. Years ago, I would have done just that by bingeing for days on end. There is a new catchphrase on the internet, “intuitive eating.” The term might be new, but the idea is old. I lost weight and stopped bingeing over 20 years ago after reading “Breaking Free From Compulsive Eating” by Geneen Roth.

The book was contrary to anything I had ever read on dieting and pivotal on changing my relationship with food. Eat what and whenever you want, in fact, stock your house with all the food you love. Once the BAD, and I’m not allowed are removed it is empowering; there was a shift in my perspective and attitude. I bought chocolate chip cookies at 7/11 and yeah, they were for me, and I was going to eat them, so there! It takes time, but the idea is to eat when you are hungry and stop when you are full. It’s tough but over time it happened for me. I would eat till I was sated and knew I could have the rest later. Once you are FREE to eat what you want when you want, it’s like bricks have been removed from your shoulders.

The gym. I don’t like it. I’ve joined plenty of them and spent tons of money. Now, I walk my dog and get in about 8 – 10,000 steps a day. I’ve been at this dieting game for years. I don’t diet anymore, but I have found my comfort zone with food. Physical activity and nutrition are important for every aspect of your health, but when you have an eating disorder, you need to start with a small step.  If you are interested in knowing more about my diet resume and how to remove “diet” from your vocabulary, you can check out my website at JackieBluz.com and read The Last Bite Before Monday. It’s not a diet, it’s a gentler way to start your journey.

Jackie Bluzer: Illustrator Fawn’s Touching Tale: A Story for Children Who Have Been Sexually Abused.