Monthly Archives: November 2012

26/11/2012 – Another week, another set of anxieties.

I have had an up/down kind of week. I started well, getting my daily lunchtime walk in on Monday and Tuesday but with rains pelting sideways and my shoes with a split in them and me without replacements until they get delivered at the overnight couriers’ leisure, I was never going to get out on Wednesday or Thursday. Friday was ok though. I walk around the industrial estate where I work. It’s full length pans out on Google at around 2 miles. I can cut it 3 ways – The Short One, The Mid One and The Big One. This week I managed the Mid One all week except Monday when I did the Short One. The evenings weren’t much better either. Only a couple of half arsed attempts at doing 10 more minutes on the treadmill aren’t going to help.

Look – here is the real news – I got depressed about all the new stuff happening in my life. I don’t want to have to do all this. I want to eat pepperoni pizza and chip-shop chips with lashings of salt n vinegar. I’m a fataholic and I’m having a bad week. This is how it is when you go through this process I guess. I’m not going to lie to you, I’m no angel. And I don’t want to hear people being all smug either.

I got on the scales on Saturday for a sneak peek at what the weight was likely to be on Monday because I was feeling particularly energetic and lively. It read 123kg. I was very happy and bragging to a colleague about how I was going to impress come Monday. When I got on the scales this morning it read 124kg. No bits thereof, just 124kg.

Hardly the great big fanfare for that I thought. Last week was 124.3kg. All I have lost is 0.3kg – So what was it that let me down? Well there is only ever one answer, it was my mouth. It opened and ate food. Specifically bread. I binged on granary bread on Saturday and Sunday evening. Also I got very interrupted sleep by staying up late worrying about my weight and my fatty liver problem that the doctors haven’t even begun to investigate more than a month after the tests. So I ended up being peckish again at around 11pm. Being a fataholic is a vicous circle – it would seem.

People will probably say that you’re on a diet, be positive about the loss, don’t obsess over the size of it. Well that’s half the problem. Portion control is a monster I find it hard to control and dominate. Let me explain;

I make a salad with sufficient ingredients for 3 people to have a dinner plateful and be more than satisfied. My wife will eat one, because she is trying to support me in my endeavours. The other one will go down my throat. I love salad. Don’t misjudge me as a fataholic who is troubled by an inability to eat certain foodgroups. I can eat everything bar liver and tripe. So what do you think will happen to the 3rd serving? You guessed it. I fail to get the “thud” that signals to my brain and belly that I have had enough. So I throw the 3rd and final serving down my throat as a second helping without waiting for 20 minutes for the other portion to get down there! By the time I get half way through it the fish and lettuce gets too much and I want to stop. But I face yet another layer of the fataholics onion – the unwillingness to leave food on the plate.

I got depressed about something else too. Here’s an admission that’s difficult to write about – I was lacking fruit today. I didn’t do the shopping for food this weekend and I lost some control over this rudimentary part of my life. I kept nagging my wife to check if certain items were on the list. Anyway – this morning I had to have cereal or toast for breakfast and so I had micro-porridge. I normally put two round tablespoons of porridge in a bowl, cover it with a visually learned amount of milk and nuked it for the normal 2+ minutes. My diet was knocked out of whack only by a lack of planning on my part, (I cannot blame anybody else). I began to crave sugar badly by around 11am. The supply of ready fruit at work was limited and I was deep in concentration with my work so I failed to graze like I normally do. By the time my lunchtime walk was due at 1pm I was seriously hungry but I went on the walk and rushed the Big One. The reason I did this is because I knew I was craving sugar and I was going to have some turkey, veg and sauce to quench the cravings along with some yoghurt but I didn’t get to the shops and I ended up having 2 pieces of granary toast and a double helping of Oatso Simple. I was carbohydrated up to my eyeballs. By teatime the sugar low was becoming extreme and I craved food like bananas, melon, etc but all I had was satsumas and apple. Their sugar was not doing it for me and I went to the snack machine at 5.30pm and took a chocolate bar. I ate it like a hamster eats, furtively and worried of exposure. I told nobody (until now) and hid the wrapper. I was eating on my own. I know that anybody who is close to being an alcoholic should never drink alone. I honestly believe it is no different for a fataholic. It was a very bad thing to do, the fat content alone was 19% of the normal man’s GDA. But I know that I would have been able to avoid the temptation if I had the right kind of food supply readily available. Then I got home and punished myself with two large portions of salmon with a green salad, laced with chickpeas and pasta, (just how I like it). My guts are in turmoil. My head is churning the disappointment in myself. I must get a grip of myself. I must sort out the early day, the mid day and the 5pm period to be able to cope with the evening. it’s past 10pm right now. I am not hungry, I ate so much salad in order to not be hungry at this time. but next to me is an empty fat free yoghurt pot and a banana skin. And an unopened punnet of grapes. I have had far too much food, (albeit good food), and I am not in the mood to walk anywhere let alone over to the treadmill. I need to learn that food is not my friend. I should not cuddle a choccy bar if I want to beat this addiction, this habit. I don’t need to diet. I need to pay attention to what I am eating and do regular exercise. Hopefully writing about it is having a calming effect on my anxieties. It feels kind of right to write. I hope you find this educational in some way and that if you want to discuss anything with me I can be contacted through this blog thingy. I want to get through this on my own merit, but any support will be gratefully recieved I can assure you!

So there you go. The true tales of what it’s really like to be me – a recovering fataholic.

More next week.

The Tale of the Tape (and the scales and the ecg and…)

This is a catch-up blog post to bring anybody who doesn’t know my history as up to date as possible nice and quickly.

I started this journey a few weeks ago, to be honest with you. It all began 26th October 2012. I was at the doctors having tests performed. Lots of tests. They took ages but they were incredibly thorough. I had lots of blood pressure, low cholesterol, didn’t even register on the diabetes scale and my lungs have more or less recovered from 30 years of smoking having given up some 6 or 7 years ago. Trouble was they put me on the scales. It was quite depressing when they turned to me and said in a very matter-of-fact way that I was 127.1kg but it didn’t really register as a ‘proper’ weight because it wasn’t in English. I do stones and pounds. So after a few more tests and during a lull I got out the Blackberry and punched in the numbers. 20 stone and …

I didn’t want to hear the rest. Not me, not 20 stone. Surely not?

So in a nutshell I was fit, but fat. Bugger!

But there it was. staring me in the face like a funny mirror at the circus, the one that takes your image and turns you into this grotesque overweight thing right before your eyes.

While that little nugget was trying hard to sink in I had a visit from a ‘special’ doctor who was a consultant as it turns out. She got me to lie down and she started prodding my right lower side. This was paired with some grunting, nods and quiet introspective muttering. Her bedside manner could do with a polish, I thought. No matter, just give me the news doctor, what did you find? A broken bone? Some bruising? Some buried Spanish gold? An alien implant maybe? Or a burst appendix? What?

None of that. Nope I had a fatty liver. Oh – right then.

I have to admit I wasn’t really sure what to do with that information. So I attempted a reaction of surprise, which became concern when she added that she thought I showed signs of cirrhosis. Now just you hang on a minute! I am not an alcoholic, I’m a fataholic. Surely there is a difference? Apparently not. Her instructions were succinct:

Stop all alcohol, fizzy drinks, and eat low-fat healthy food. Don’t go mad just try to think about what you are eating and choose more healthy options. And definitely NO ALCOHOL until at least the end of your liver clinic.

I was stunned into a daze. I am not often speechless as those of you who know me will readily attest. I forgot to ask her – what’s a liver clinic? Oh never mind. I would find out eventually when the appointments start to come in.

And to think I was just supposed to be having a sort of medical version of an MOT. It’s no wonder I dislike doctors and hospitals.

Anyway – much water has passed under the bridge since then. I am now under 20 stone. My last weigh in has me at 124.3kg. So just some minor changes in diet and attitude plus a mild increase in exercise from walking and I have dumped a very quick 2.8kg which for the British and American amongst you is 6.17 pounds.

Easy and I haven’t really tried apart from the food thing. So there you go. You are all up to date now. My next posts will be more current information. Catch you at the next weigh in which will be around next Monday.

 

 

 

The day after yesterday and life smells like chips…

A few weeks ago I had a moment where I wasn’t sure I would make it. You know the sort of moment I mean; the one where the smell wafts quietly and gently across the office to notify everybody within a two block radius that somebody has been to the chip shop and not taken your order! HOT CHIPS WITH SALT & VINEGAR! Who on earth thought that would be a good idea with me trying to turn over a new leaf?

So, did I crack? No, as it happens, I didn’t crack but I wanted to so badly. Instead I left the building! I had to – I just couldn’t cope with the smell of those lovely fluffy potato delights that only moments before had been bathing in a vat of scrumptious overused chip-shop cooking oil. The chip. A very great British thing. So very lovely and good and the very thing that sums up what I am about.  

I am a recovering fataholic. I used to pig out on all the usual suspects in the bad food directory; chips, pizzas, fried chicken, fast burgers, chinese and indian takeaway food too.

I am writing down my thoughts here. Follow, if you want to, my diary entries and let’s see if I can strip all the b.s. out of the way and tell it like it is for us fatties. I am not doing this for anybody’s benefit. I just want to write a diary of my experiences. This is a personal account so I am not offering a diet. I am not preaching. I am just going to tell you how it feels to be a fatty that’s trying to do the right thing and how I feel about the highs and the lows of changing my ways to lose weight and regain my life.

So, let’s start with that very Amercian group therapy idea – an admission of the problem:

My name is Mario and I am a recovering fataholic.