Starving at a Feast

By G. Thomas

Author G. H. Thomas very poignantly portrays a person fighting for his life in his affliction with an overeating disorder. his readers will discover aspects of this acute health problem that they never thought about as well as how it affects the sufferer's psyche. That the agape love, to which everyone should aspire, will provide the path for the victim to move on toward overcoming this disorder is also movingly described. You cannot read this book without being moved by what you will l

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781640824799

Book preview

Foreword

I am publishing this book to hopefully acquaint the reader with some of the experiences of some of our fellow human beings who are dealing with, or have dealt with, the agony and mental anguish that comes with eating disorders. That such problems are often compounded by a descent into alcoholism is another facet of this affliction, of which most people are unaware.

It is my wish that all who read this book will become more enlightened regarding the suffering these people are enduring. Also, that the readers will become more aware of, and empathetic with, the tremendous compulsions from which these people are attempting to extricate themselves, as these readers’ progress through these pages.

Acknowledgments

There are many folks, too numerous to name, who have assisted me, been there for me, and never lost faith in me as I struggled through the years described in this book. The fact is that these folks are not as numerous as they once were.

A special thanks to my wife and children, who have been there for me and kept the faith throughout my long trek into a new life that is now allowing me to deal effectively with this disorder.

And finally, to my friends and fellow sufferers, getting together often and meeting monthly. We try to convince each other that wisdom is worth the acquisition, whether late in life or early, and that attempts should be made to dispense it when it appears you have a receptive audience that can be helped with that dispensation.

June of that Year

I feel that anyone who has never felt hunger couldn’t possibly understand me. It’s as simple as that.

My hunger has little to do with appetite, and more to do with pain. I want to extinguish the pain, but can’t do it without food as it’s the only thing that works. Even when I’ve eaten enough to vomit, I still want more and more and more.

There’s never enough and I’m never satisfied.

Some people force themselves to vomit, but I usually don’t have to. I eat until I throw up, and then eat again. I eat until I run out of money, and then the real pain sets in.

I wander the streets looking at all the stores, and I don’t care that I’m starving, grotesque and misshapen. But the stares, laughter, and looks of contempt do hurt as people don’t know the pull food has for me. They don’t know what it’s like to always be hungry and at a continuous feast, and try not to be sitting at the table surrounded by food. I’m obsessed with food and can’t think of anything else.

Children especially stare and ask their parents what I am because I’m a waddling, circus freak in dirty clothes looking for more food. I used to get angry when people stared at me. But something happened inside me, and now I don’t really care because my humanity is gone and I’m no longer accepted as fully human. The shame of being stared at vanishes once I lose myself in eating and forget for a moment that I’m supposed to be embarrassed.

This has been the story of my life to various degrees. My first memories are toys and food at Christmas. I forget what the toys were, but I do remember the turkey, the pies, and ice cream (there was always ice cream).

I thought my father was normal, until I later found out that he drank quite a bit (I drink too and probably got that from him). My mother and brother are also overeaters. It isn’t as bad and easier to disguise, but they always seemed to be eating. Sometimes I take perverse pleasure out of the realization that my problems are worse than theirs.

When I wander the streets and people stare, I pretend that I’m not just another standard, stupid human being. I’m unique and special because I feel what no one else feels. I feel great pain and shame, and I’m always hungry.

I wasn’t always a sideshow freak. Though I was fat as a child, fatter as an adolescent, and still fatter as a young adult, I wasn’t grotesque until my thirties, which is when I was fired from the police department and added another hundred pounds.

There’s no doubt that I’m special and unique because I now weigh about 600 pounds, a fact I take pride in because it feeds my ego. But I feel deep-to-the-bone shame that makes me want to die, and the only medicine that can treat it is food. The more I eat, the greater the shame I feel, so I have to eat even more to numb the shame. It’s a vicious cycle I can only handle with more food.

There’s also the isolation. I’ve been lucky to have a friend who understands the hunger I feel, and a sister who calls me, but there’s an aloneness that can’t be described because I’m a circus freak. Even though I want to believe I’m better than the entire human race, I have no one to touch me, no one to journey with, and I’m all alone.

Thank God for the curse of food. I can’t stop partaking in the feast, for if I do it will go on without me and will torment me to death.

Imagine you’re starving and there’s a feast all around you. You’re obsessing about food and can’t think of anything else. It’s hard to resist eating when you’re completely consumed with food, but it’s not possible because the feast always wins.

Out of Control

Food isn’t my only friend. Ten years ago, I hurt my back, and because of my weight, it’s never gotten better. All my joints hurt, I ache all over, and the pain is intense. When I stand, my knees crackle and resent the weight put on them. The only relief I feel is when I lie in bed eating, drinking, and watching a movie.

My pain is logical because I’m grossly overweight, so my doctor sometimes gives me pain pills and for a little while the pain is better. I feel lighter and am able to walk better, but it’s an illusion as nothing is really better and the pain always returns. If I become overconfident because of the pills and walk too much, I end up paying a steep price as there’s no free ride on this train of pain. So I hoard them like a miser, and look forward to the next opportunity to take one.

I try to be a decent person. But when the pain in both my back and my sense of self is too much to bear, then hopelessness overwhelms me and I want to die. I turn to food and alcohol for peace and escape, and to forget the pain and humiliation that has become my life. All people see is a freak, and there’s no place for me except in a circus.

Then there’s my close relationship with my good friend alcohol. When the oblivion due to food is at its peak, I’ll drink a toast and lose myself even more. There’s no point to just one toast, so it goes on and on until I fall sleep and escape the misery of my life.

Of course, I wake up and have to vomit. I have a pounding headache and my stomach feels like I swallowed acid. It’s difficult for me to bend my head down far enough to throw up into the toilet. Some misses going into the bowl, and end up in places too hard to get at to clean, so my apartment constantly stinks of cheap whiskey and puke.

This is usually when the real darkness begins to visit. The senselessness of my life, the lack of any hope, the memories of a life of humiliating failures, and the physical and spiritual pain is everywhere. The darkness is devoid of God or light or hope or humanity. It’s just darkness.

Like food, the thought of dying becomes an obsession that can’t be broken. I don’t want to live in pain anymore, but I’m afraid to die.

I can’t go forward or backward. I’m trapped, so of course the only answer is to escape into food. I swallow a handful of antacids and eat . . . and eat . . . and eat until I throw up again.

I still thi nk of dying, but I’m too afraid.

Desperate Measures

I’d probably weigh 800 pounds if I had more money for food. Disability pays the rent, and Medicaid allows me to see my doctor. I try to never eat in a restaurant because I can’t afford it, and I hate the stares and giggles from my fellow patrons. The little money I do have is spent on cheap groceries, and I often go to the missions to eat for free.

I don’t waste money on vegetables and only eat sweet fruit like peaches and plums, so I probably don’t get enough vitamins. There are times where I only have peanut butter and ice cream to eat. Sometimes I make coffee since it lessens the pain, so I pour my old friend the cheapest rye whiskey I can find—into the pot because it helps for a little while.

Every so often, the darkness hurts so much that I panic and strike out for relief. I’ll join a local weight loss club for the thirtieth time, and try to convince myself that this time I’ve got to change or I’ll die. I’ll diligently follow the plan for a week, maybe two. Then something happens—because it always does—and off