Reaching out to Ruby

There is a woman who used to be on the learning channel on TV named Ruby who has lost over 400 pounds but still needs to lose more.  She is an inspiring and amazing success story while being surprisingly open and honest about her continuing struggles, frailty, doubts and fears.  I’ve watched each hour hungrily as if gobbling up her experience will gird me in my own struggle.  Maybe it does. 

       Ruby talks about the beast inside her that she feels like she fights with in order to beat her own food addiction.  She must wonder if anyone can really understand how formidable the beast is.  I do.  I understand Ruby.

   

I know because I wrestle with the beast every single day.  I’ve seen it disguised as a sad, solemn child with eyes full of pain, a tear rolling down one cheek as she looks at me with such despair and desolation…she is so hungry and so broken…how can I deny her something to eat?  It would be monstrous to ignore such need.  “Please help me”, she begs…and I know the comfort that cookie or sandwich or whatever…will give her.  How do I refuse a hurting child begging for relief? 

And then she melts into that fascinating, compelling, slightly reckless and dangerous friend who challenges me to defy convention, live by my own rules and refuse someone else’s authority – “who are they to tell you what to do or how to live…they don’t know what you and I deal with” – she laughs with restrained fury and calls to me “ignore them, if you want to eat, let’s eat!?”  And I want to be brave the way she seems, and I want to dismiss those constant nagging “adult” restrictive voices and the constant control, and get wild with some French fries.  I’d be a revolutionary, she tries to convince me…not a failure…the failure would be to follow the rules of the controlling ones who lecture me and tell me I’m not good enough.  I really want to jump on the back of her motorcycle without a helmet and tell the world to go to hell.

       And then the beast melts into grandma…soft and pillowy, with talcum powder hugs that wrap around my aching, tired, punished body.  I soak up her comfort, and rest in her absolute faith in my beauty and perfection.  She urges me to eat – “you need a little something to eat…here…my precious, perfect little girl…eat…eat…”  I can relax because her permission overrules everyone else.  She’s the grandma and she is in charge.

       The beast is terrifying because she has endless weapons in her arsenal to defeat me…she knows what will work moment to moment and transforms and dances from one argument to another, alternately cajoling, giving permission, venting rage, exuding pain…she is the victim and the voice that never, ever leaves me alone.  She has a thousand faces, a thousand strategies, and moves from approach to approach with dizzying force and strategic, deadly accuracy.

       What chance do I have against such a skillful adversary?  I can never hope to convince her with a logical argument because she is better than me at pushing my emotional buttons…always one step ahead…so much more savagely honest and manipulative than I could ever consciously allow myself to be.  Her bottomless need for me to eat has been crafted and reinforced for decades…for generations…since time began.  And she confidently presumes triumph.

       For me to stand firm takes relentless defense, constant strong shields, and a level of emotional balance and fortitude only ever achieved by wise old Buddhist monks…certainly not something a traumatized, battered real-world 57 year old woman can conjur and sustain. 

The battles are endless but even worse than that they escalate without warning.  Suddenly a moment of weakness is detected by the beast and the focused, brutal pounding on the castle gates begins…I race to counter the assault, knowing nothing less than my life is at stake…but then she melts through the walls and materializes in front of me with those sad eyes…clutching a broken toy, dirty-faced, bent over and holding her belly and keening with pain.  How do I fight that? 

    

   Yeah…Ruby…I’ve met the beast.  I live with her every single moment of every single day.  And I can never, ever fill her up, satisfy her, or ignore her.  I don’t know the trick to permanently defeating her.  Or how to love and embrace her enough to soothe her panic and volcanic need.

      

And so, I continue on this endless quest. I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, aware that the enemy is me, the salvation is me, the cavalry over the horizon is me, the weapons fired are all me, and the holy grail is me.

Don't you dare take away my chocolate and ice cream...

There is a store about 15 minutes away from my house which sells homemade, handmade chocolates.  There’s a reason why they’d just been featured on the food network…they are just amazing.  As you open the door a breeze of sweet chocolate floats you inside.  The view is of endless cases of rich chocolate confections and jewel-like candies, in a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes.  As if all of this isn’t enough, they also offer ice creams during the summer including an apple-cranberry sorbet that is my particular favorite.  The flavor is like a first snow of sweet-tart apple cider melting on your tongue.  It’s remarkable.  

            Yes, I have diabetes.  But as long as I’m breathing I will find a way to keep that sorbet (and chocolate) in my life.  Having diabetes and wanting to live a long healthy life means that I can’t get a huge dish and eat it with abandon – like I want to.  And maybe I can’t get a box of their fabulous dark chocolates along with the sorbet and indulge in a sugar fest all in one night - like the old days.  But I can pick out a few chocolates and space them out over the next week, and I can bring home a small ½ cup portion of sorbet to enjoy tonight after dinner.   Planning for that sorbet, figuring out how to incorporate it into my meal plan and anticipating every ethereal spoonful is a pleasure that I give myself without guilt or reservation.

Periodically through the winter I think about that particular sorbet and anticipate the joy of that first spoonful on a sunny summer day.  A pale blush color scooped into its paper cup, translucent and icy, it’s unlike any other ice cream or sherbet I’ve ever had.   The stuff dreams are made of…literally.  A dream that effortlessly survives the long, cold New England winters.

 And finally today was that day.  The first day of summer, sunny and beautiful, it was the perfect day for a drive to Richardson’s.   I called ahead to be sure that they would have the sorbet.  If they didn’t I knew I’d be disappointed, but not as badly as arriving with that taste-memory in my mouth and finding in that moment that it had run out.  Better to know ahead of time.

You can probably imagine my dismay when the woman who answered explained that they no longer served apple-cranberry sorbet.  She explained that it just wasn’t popular enough.  Are people insane?  What’s wrong with everyone?  How could a flavor like that not jump off the shelves?  When I sighed regretfully she lowered her voice and whispered into the phone “have you tried Herrel’s in Northampton”?

“Why?” I asked. “Do they have that flavor too?”  Hope surged in my chest as I latched onto the possibility that the sorbet wasn’t an impossible dream.  “That’s where WE always got it from” she said in a low voice. 

It took a moment for this new information to sink in.  Oh wow.  Not only was the sorbet available to me, but I could go to the source, the original creator and get it there.  I quickly went on line for directions and a phone number for the store.  I called and was told that they had the apple-cranberry sorbet in stock today along with over 100 other ice cream choices.

Feeling like I’d just discovered King Tut’s treasure, I jumped in the car with an ice chest full of ice and drove to Northampton with Sharon.  As we drove I thought about the ice cream TV special I’d recorded on the DVR and we anticipated how much fun it would be to watch the show and taste a number of different flavors along with the beloved sorbet. 

I remember 30 years ago when we first met we’d go to Friendly’s and get giant banana splits called Jim Dandy’s.  Four scoops of ice cream with hot fudge, strawberry topping, marshmallow crème, bananas, nuts, whipped crème, sprinkles and a cherry on top.  They were decadent and delicious and one of our favorite indulgences.

There’s no way I can eat a Jim Dandy anymore.  I don’t even want to imagine how many carbs there are in such a giant and toxic dessert.  Thinking about it fills me with nostalgia and a wild blast of anger.  How can we as a society justify creating such self-destructive time bombs wrapped in Norman Rockwell innocence?   I feel like I’ve spent a lifetime being tricked and trapped and seduced, all the while being told that I’m massively guilty and responsible and the one to blame. 

But underneath, around and beyond the swirl of conflicted feelings, the untainted desire for ice cream lives on.  And finding a way to eat a small amount, as a planned part of my healthy meal plan successfully restores the purity, innocence and pleasure without any self-doubt or recrimination.  I can claim the right to ice cream pleasure as well as virtue and a feeling of self-control.  A win-win situation.

So we set off for Herrel’s with our ice chest and big smiles.  How many flavors will we get?  Can we get them to put them into individual cups so the flavors are separated for perfect tasting conditions?!  When we arrived we made a list of the flavors we wanted and happily they agreed to package them separately.   While I waited for our ice cream, Sharon went to get the car so we could get them into the cooler as quickly as possible.

I stood by the cash register while they scooped.  Looking around I watched the busy store and customers ordering their various mix-ins and sundaes.  As my gaze swung around I settled on a glass case up front.  Looking more closely I saw some specialty products available for sale.  A whole line of hot fudge sauces with various flavors.  Small bags of specialty chocolate designer sprinkles.  Oh my.  The sprinkles looked delicious.  The fudge sauces sounded decadent and luscious.  Coconut dark fudge?  Mmmm. 

Then I noticed the baked goods.  A nine-layer dark chocolate ganache torte cake.  Moist, fudgy and huge, it was like some sort of utopian cake of the Gods.  Next to it was a platter of gooey, dense, dark chocolate brownies covered with a soft, thick blanket of rich frosting.  In the front was a half of a chocolate chip cookie pie.  Made entirely of cookie dough, studded with large chunks of dark chocolate and topped with a shimmering sugar crust, it screamed “eat me”, “eat me now!”  My mouth watered as I studied the cake, the cookie pie, the brownies.  I could feel my heart beating faster and I could almost taste the chocolate melting in my mouth, the chewy cookie as I slowly bit down on its caramel, chocolaty goodness.  The melting explosion of flavor as the gooey brownie filled my mouth.  I could smell the sugar, the chocolate; feel the ganache coating my lips, tongue, and mouth.  

As I stood at the cash register, riveted by the treasure in that case, the sounds around me dulled into the background, the motions in the store slowed into a dream-like slow motion, and all that mattered was me and that case filled with the seductive promise of bliss.  To say that I wanted to bring it all home can’t ever capture the depth of my fascination, hunger, or fierce desire to immerse myself inside all of that creamy heaven so it was covering my face, my hands, filling my mouth, breathing it, tasting it, thrilling to it, becoming it.

With a jerk, I pulled away from the fantasy and paid for my order.  As I walked to the car outside I was a little dazed from balancing on that jagged edge.  Not that I would have bought anything.  Not that I would have actually thrown my health and caution away and actually indulged my darkest desire.   But just the intensity of that desire clawing inside me – the trembling depth of it – shook me up.  Where does that come from?

            It wasn’t the covering up of feelings that drove me to that wild, bestial, craven place.  It wasn’t a natural human appreciation of sugar that resulted in that walking dream sequence.  It was complicated, layered, and confusing.  And mostly…what I’m left with is the sheer force of it.  Like the power of a thousand suns exploding in my chest.

           

            So here I am now.  Trying to make sense of what just happened.  The ice cream sits safely in my freezer waiting for this evenings treat.  I will eat an appropriate amount and enjoy it appropriately.  I will feel proud of myself control and impressed with my adult, sane, measured choices.  As I have a right to be.  As a food addict, as someone who lives with the growling beast of excess inside, it’s nothing short of miraculous that I can harness the clawing compulsion for wild abandon and live safely on the sharp edge.

            But I’m still left with the shaken memory of that compelling dark thrill calling to me like an (almost) irresistible siren.  And left feeling unsatisfied, denied and cheated out of something I can never have.  Flames still licking around my suicidal fantasizing.  I don’t want to be someone who can have such a dark need for excess.  I don’t want to be someone who can feel so much for food.  I see the pathetic horror of my obsession and am mortified by myself.  Addiction is ugly, even when coated in chocolate and covered with sprinkles.   And no matter how many years I live in control, make good choices, get healthier physically and emotionally, that churning chaos inside will always lurk…dark and dangerous and hungry.

            I remember reading that Amy Winehouse died.  Succumbed finally to her addictions.  Everyone shook their heads – they saw it coming.  She was a train wreck and it was only a matter of time until her self-destructive drinking and drugging took her life.  They don’t see me the same way.  But Amy and I are kindred troubled spirits.  I fight the same demons she did.  And all I can say is that today, for today, I won the fight.  But Amy didn’t. 

            If I could wish for something it would be that we all didn’t have to fight so hard to live.  But maybe that’s what we’re meant to do.  Maybe it’s part of what makes life so very precious.  Because it’s worth fighting for.  Every soft summer day, every impossibly blue sky, every joyous shared drive to an ice cream shoppe, every moment shared with someone we love, it’s worth fighting for.  With everything I have and with everything I am…I want to live.

At least I still have two hands...

       Having Diabetes is like living in the Game of Thrones.  Epic, requiring heroism, shocking loss…a world where there is just so much damn drama and pain.  And it’s exhausting.  The relentless testing, watching, measuring, medicating, testing again, charting, tracking, adjusting, and testing again…it’s just massively draining.    

Trying to keep myself motivated, and positive, and on top of my own health, can just feel overwhelming.  Last night I cried and railed against the unfairness of having to cope with so much…my diabetes and my psoriatic arthritis – both requiring so much work and focus and maintenance.  I’m scared that if anything else happens or breaks or fails it will just be too much for me to cope with.  Sometimes what I already have to deal with is too much to cope with.

I think about the incredible freedom people without diabetes have and it almost seems beyond comprehension.  What must it be like to wake up and not even think about what is happening inside your body?  The sheer bliss of just eating what you want, when you want…no medications, no testing, no fears about going high, going low…wow.    It’s not fair.  It’s just not.

I’ve had a stomach bug for a couple of days and that just increases the need for tracking my blood glucose levels.  I took my morning long-acting insulin shot and then spent the next 24 hours chases falling blood sugar levels.  Nausea made it really quite disgusting to get food in me…I managed, but it took tea with sugar to get me through it.  I don’t have the luxury of just dealing with being sick – I have to also be monitoring and adjusting and bending and weaving to make sure I don’t go too high or too low.

Sometimes having diabetes is just exhausting.  If anyone is out there reading this, it sure would be nice to hear what you struggle with too?

Using our powerful minds for good!

We are brutal to ourselves.  Inside our own heads we beat ourselves up over a thousand different infractions and failures.  Didn’t stick to our diet, didn’t exercise today…or yesterday…or last week.  Things we didn’t do, or things we need to do and haven’t gotten to yet.  It takes a huge toll, maybe even bigger than we ever imagined.

Likewise, when we make the decision to shower ourselves with positive, self-affirming statements we have an equally powerful positive impact on ourselves, our feelings, our perspective and yes…even our bodies.

We have the capacity to literally alter our own brain structure because our brains don’t know the difference between 'imagination' and 'reality'. If we pretend to play a musical instrument, then a PET scan (positron emission tomography) is almost identical to one taken by the person that is actually playing the musical instrument.

So, we can pretend our way to anything.  Imagine it and it becomes concretized in our very cells.  It makes sense that if we dwell and focus on suffering that suffering is what gets concretized and overlaid on everything we are.  If we dwell and focus on our incredible strength, power, potential and dreams…then THAT is what we actual begin to create.

Deepak Copra, M.D. says, "We are the only creatures on the planet who can change our biology through our thoughts, feelings and intentions. Our cells are constantly eavesdropping on our thoughts and being changed by them.

We are approaching summer solstice.  It would be a great time to consider the enormous power we have and make the decision to use that power for good rather than evil.  Time to rescue ourselves from the tower.