The Sixth Circle

Inevitably, on the weight loss journey up from the depths of hell, we pay a visit to my family. I'm placing them in Dante's sixth circle, as this is the home for the followers of Epicurus - which may be where all the trouble started in the first place.

Now, I'm not exactly in the business of blaming others for my own shortcomings. Hell, even when I lost my last job, I was the first person to say that I wasn't doing it well anymore. At the end of the day, I was just too damn sick to manage the workload. I'm not saying that the organization wasn't full of poisonous and depraved jerks (I'm not talking about you, Howard) and that I wasn't set up to fail pretty much from day one, because that was the nature of the beast, but hey, I take plenty of that responsibility on my shoulders - I wasn't performing to where I wanted to be. I'm just not sure that anyone would be capable of those unrealistic standards.

But getting back to the subject of blame, I have to say that my family has played a not-so-supporting role in this whole unhealthy lifestyle of mine. First and foremost, I have to question my family's relationship with food: everything in our home was about rewarding with food - both my parents (especially my dad) and my sister are total foodies. Whenever we had a celebration, the dinner or the dessert or the restaurant was always the first point of the rewards discussion. And when I showed an inclination to put on weight, even as a little kid, being left out of those celebrations (or, in other words, here's some melba toast rounds for you while everyone else gets birthday cake) wasn't easy. And for heaven's sake, who enrolls an eight-year-old in Weight Watchers?

Yeah, that's right: technically, I've been on this diet since 1978.

After Weight Watchers failed, it was Diet Center: that was when I was 14. Basically on this plan, you stop eating, and replace much of your normal food intake with vitamin supplements. At the time I was already taking a crapload of mineral supplements for my potassium/magnesium deficiency. So during this little sojourn, I was taking 96 pills a day.

What sort of parents think this is a good idea?

Obviously 96 pills a day is not sustainable for any length of time. Which leads to the next diet, a homemade speciality concoction called "Your Sister is Getting Married and the Bridesmaids' Dress Only Goes Up to Size 10."

Man, you should have seen it. It was 1987. Think Krystle on Dynasty. Off-white, puffed sleeves, huge balloony tulle skirt, tight-fitting bodice with a sweetheart neckline. I looked like a Green Bay Packer in a drag version of Swan Lake.

So even after the forced dieting (food consumption was strictly monitored and limited to melba toast rounds, sliced smoked turkey, and celery) and being dragged to aerobics classes three times a week, I still couldn't fit into the damn dress. I did, however, end up with a lifelong aversion to the songs "You Should Hear How She Talks About You" and "Let's Dance," two of the workout songs from Susan Marlowe - I still get a facial tic every time I hear them.

When they finally gave up two weeks before the Big Day and allowed me to choose another dress, I was blamed for "ruining the wedding." Yeah, glad I was able to help. Considering that they're now contemplating divorce, maybe the dress was a contributing factor?

After that, in the summer between freshman and sophomore year of college, I made a stupid move on my own account: Optifast. It worked. Oh dear G-d, did it ever work. 50 lbs gone in six weeks. Then there's this little problem called eating. Because you don't eat for the six weeks - you only drink shakes four times a day. Of course you can lose 50 lbs in six weeks. But guess what happens as soon as you start eating actual food again?

Yeah, it happened to Oprah too.

The highlight of being on Optifast for me was the one time I cheated. I went to Lange's Deli in Scarsdale and bought myself a turkey sandwich. I ate it holed up like a criminal in the back of the vault in the Bank of New York branch where I was working as a summer teller. To this day, it was one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten. Mostly because I hadn't eaten any other food in four weeks.

As a result of Optifast I got a new wardrobe, a new boyfriend (or three) and a chronic case of strep throat which lasted for 9 months and ended up with me getting my tonsils out the next summer, by which time I had pretty much gained all the weight back.

After that there were several other initiatives, both family- and self-inflicted. Jenny Craig (expensive failure); another round or two at Weight Watchers (Fat & Fiber, 1-2-3 Success - whatever); some grapefruit thing. When I moved back home after grad school for a couple of months while looking for an apartment, my mom actually went out and bought fat-free American cheese to replace the Kraft singles I had in the fridge. She put them in the same packaging and figured she could fool me into eating more healthfully. I don't like Kraft singles anymore, but seriously, like I wouldn't notice?

The strange part is that even with all of the food issues, yo-yo dieting, and conflict that this caused in my family, they never changed: we still celebrated everything with food - it always remained the reward for success, and was the favorite punishment and exclusion tool for my family whenever I wasn't where they wanted or expected me to be weight-wise.

I ended up doing Weight Watchers again in '01 and was very successful: I think I had actually grown up enough to want to take control and do something healthy for myself. But even though I was successful, the old ghosts got me and as soon as I started to look good again, I freaked out and fell off the wagon. You see, being fat has always been the easiest way to deflect unwanted attention, to keep potential bad people away, to not have to deal with my past and to not have to deal with the fear of bad things happening to me in the future.

But now there is no choice as to whether or not I can stay overweight: I have to do this, for better or for worse, for ugly or for pretty, whether I want to or not, otherwise I am not going to live long enough to achieve the things I want to do: writing another couple of books, becoming a rabbi, maybe even going back to Alaska someday. The fact that it is now a health issue and not a looks issue does take a lot of the extraneous baggage off the cart but I know it's going to be an issue and I need to find the best way to overcome it once it starts happening. It's not even that I worry about meeting someone like Claude again - I just don't see myself as wanting to have that kind of attention - and of course I am afraid that the people who love and value me now will love and value me differently once I start to look different - as if I will be a better or more worthy person in their eyes than the one I am now.

Not half an hour ago, my sister lectured me about how first of all, it was never about my looks (bridesmaid dress anyone?) and that I am too focused on being a sick person, that all I do is worry about doctor's appointments, blood tests, treatments for RA, whether or not I am strong enough to go back to the gym - and how no one should have to hear about how tough it is, how depressing it is to be around me. It's funny - when I was eating badly I obviously couldn't do anything right. Now that I'm really trying to get healthy again, and I could really use some support, obviously I can't do that right, either.

I know it's no one's fault but my own that I am in the bad place that I'm in now. But it's sad to me that I am still failing to achieve my family's support or approval in this process. And it's even sadder to think that without their constant focus on my weight for the past thirty years, I may not have had quite so many problems and issues with it. Unfortunately there is no way that I can see to take them out of this equation. I only wish the equation was a basic mathematical function, not the calculus of memory and fear and sadness that it seems to be at the moment.