The Fat Kid
Let me start by saying that I’ve lost 54 lbs. This number can be a tad daunting because I’ve got a few friends who’d literally invert and develop into black holes if they lost that sort of weight. When I began this journey, I weighed an impressive 356 lbs (with a BMI of 51.1). So while the loss has been transformative and extremely noticeable, I do often find myself getting frustrated at the fact I’m still very much obese.
When you grow up fat you find yourself with an interesting assortment of role models: Santa Claus, Chris Farley, John Goodman (albeit sometimes, his weight fluxuates with the rising of the sun), John Belushi, former President William Howard Taft (thanks for the bathtub jokes, Mr. President), and of course the legendary Meatloaf. They are all, no pun intended, larger than life personalities. There’s something to be said about the need to overcompensate with personality when you’re obese. My love for performing arguably stems from it.
I’d reckon to say most fat jokes were originally created by fat people. Self-deprecation is an art. Often mastered by those who feel uncomfortable in their own skin. I’ve been a relentless critic of myself through the years. Nobody can make fun of you if you make the joke first. That’s what I’d tell myself at least. Like any fat kid, I grew up with my fair share of bullies. Thankfully the internet was just coming of age and I avoided the terrifying and cowardly anonymity of today’s trolls. Back when I was a kid, if somebody wanted to call you fat they did it to your face. Not that it felt very good either.
Plenty did, but I must say skinny middle schoolers are remarkably uncreative. “Fat Mike”, “Pillsbury Doughboy”, “Fatso”, were heard often in their vernacular. What I always found interesting was the fun assortment of names people who cared about me would call me, to politely acknowledge my weight. “Big-boned”, “Big Man”, “Jolly”, “Giant Teddy Bear”, “Big Guy”, and the list goes on. They’d love to remind me that my extra weight just meant there was “LOTS” to love. Even when well-intentioned, it never feels good to be equated to a giant stuffed animal.
Throughout the years, plenty of loved ones (and some very forward strangers) have expressed their concern with my weight. Usually it’d be upsetting to be confronted about a truth you’re uncomfortable with. On the other side, even as I passed 300 lbs I have some friends who refuse to verbally acknowledge that I’m fat. This is both incredibly kind and also at times a bit unproductive.
Older I’ve gotten the more I’ve learned to appreciate honesty — the good, bad, and the ugly. Usually it comes from a place of caring and love. Some will suggest their very own custom-made diets, others will point to Weight Watchers or some other obscure program their great aunt did. Some would volunteer to go to the gym with me, others would join in my dieting…I’ve always had an amazing support system. Yet it was always lacking the most important part: me.
Over the years I’ve lost and gained back an incredible amount of my weight. So much so that before I was even 19 years old, I’d overworked my gallbladder to where it decided to quit on me (happened the morning of the SATs, my teachers didn’t believe me). Certainly didn’t help while applying to colleges.
There were healthy times though, arguably the happiest of my life too. In 2005, my parent’s made the risky decision of sending their incredibly overweight, left/flat-footed, klutzy, motor skill-lacking son to attend Camp Keewaydin in Vermont. This historic canoe camp is known for its incredibly physically challenging trips, including an eighteen day trek to the great Canadian wilderness. Despite their initial fears, I didn’t return in a body bag…but rather came back in peak physical condition with a new respect for life and nature.
My last summer was in 2009, after years of building towards it I embarked on that eighteen day trip. I’d lost 45 lbs in a single summer and had never been more proud of myself. At the end of my final season, the staff at Keewaydin had done something incredibly unexpected. Each year they’d award campers for their strengths, presenting them with coveted awards. In the past, I’d only ever received them for my work in dramatics. You can imagine my surprise and the overwhelming emotion I felt when they handed me one for physical fitness. My weight was always a struggle and while I certainly was never physically fit, they saw how hard I worked to improve myself. Throughout this weight loss journey, I think of that award and how much it meant to me.
Like all good things, camp ended. In just a year or two, most of my weight had come back and from there it continued to multiply. So began half a decade of diets, random spurts of exercise, losing and gaining, losing and gaining…a never ending cycle that left me heavier and heavier with each attempt.
Reality is, my weight loss was never really just about diet or exercise. What do I mean? Well, let’s personify food. You’ve known it since childhood. You spend time with it each and every day. When you’re sad, it consoles you. When you’re happy, you celebrate with it. When you’re stressed, it de-stresses you. When you’re bored, you bond with it. Throughout your friendship you make memories with it, so much so that you become nostalgic and want to relive some of those lemon meringue memories again and again. Once you personify food, you begin to see what an unhealthy relationship you really have with it.
Throughout most of my life, I never did quite understand what food meant to me. Ichiban in Port Jeff Station would remind me of father/son days where we’d chow down on Chinese food together. Rocco’s in Mount Sinai would remind me of the delicious chicken and eggplant parmigiana meal deals we’d eat during the waning years of my Grandma’s annual Hanukkah get-together (not very Jewish I know), Salsa Salsa in Port Jeff would remind me of late night rehearsals at Port Jeff Drama Club, and Strathmore Bagels would remind me of the morning before a vacation when my parents would grab a dozen bagels for the road. Food, I had thought, was just part of the family.
It’d make sense, that my most considerable weight gains would occur after the loss of a loved one. In the process of grieving for the loss of my best friend, two grandmothers, coping with my dad’s second, third and fourth brain surgeries, producing a feature film, managing a cross-country move…it’s not all that surprising that I gained as much as did.
My “ah-hah” moment finally occurred while holding my baby niece. After a very stressful week of filming a preview of new TV series I’ve been developing, I found myself cradling this sweet tiny child. She was only a few months old and as I was rocking her I walked towards a mirror hanging on the wall. It always amuses me to see a baby react to their reflection.
Standing before me was a face I didn’t recognize. He was covered in sweat, his skin bright red from overheating, his breathing was loud and sporadic, he had multiple chins, and looked like a young man who wasn’t going to live very long. He was holding a beautiful healthy baby girl and it made me sad to think of all that I’d miss unless I made a drastic change. So that’s exactly what I did.
For too long I had planned to “start tomorrow”. In my mind, I couldn’t wait a minute longer. So the change was abrupt and immediate. It started in the kitchen, where I threw out all my open junk food. Everything that wasn’t opened I gave away. My menu would be simple: no sweets, no fried foods, no takeout, low starch, and no carbs. One promise I made to myself is that I’d find a healthy balance and relationship with potatoes, because I mean…this is potatoes we are talking about.
After months of procrastination I got on the phone and made an appointment with my doctor. When you’re obese, you tend to treat them as the messenger who delivers terrible news (think Leonidas and the poor fellow he kicked). Often blaming them rather than the real culprit. I’ve left many appointments utterly embarrassed or upset. Hard to forget the first time somebody tells you that you’re “morbidly obese”. Rough, right? That happened when I was just eighteen years old. After some blood work I discovered some of my fears were unfounded but others were not. My blood pressure was high, like insanely high. My cholesterol was high. My blood sugar was slightly elevated. Having not yet reached thirty, all of this was unacceptable.
So I began working harder. Daily walks replaced daily bouts of binge-eating. In the beginning I was pretty pathetic. Just going down the road for a five minute walk gave my back all sorts of aches and pains. My brother joined me on one occasion and couldn’t quite process just what a short distance I could manage — but each day I went further and each day I felt better. Just a few days ago I managed three miles.
My gross fast food meals were replaced with delicious home cooked dinners. Proudly made by me, not a microwave. Knowing myself, I quickly determined weekly cheat meals were just not compatible with my fragile transition. There were mistakes made along the way but each time I fell off the wagon, I did something I had never done before — I kept getting back on, refusing to accept a status quo of obesity.
For the first time in a long time, I found myself becoming social again. It is easy to hide your life away in your bedroom when you’re obese. It can be embarrassing when you’ve gained weight, or when your weight prevents you from participating in fun activities. There’s this great trampoline place in Mount Sinai that my friend’s used to beg me to go to. For my readers who might not frequent such venues, imagine an amusement park, where instead of floors…there was nothing but trampolines and constant physical activity. My friends were eager to go and so I relented and decided to join. It didn’t take long for me to realize how out-of-shape I’d become.
You can imagine my humiliation when I launched myself into this giant foam ball pit. In that moment I probably looked like a beautiful whale, hurling itself back into the ocean. As it would seem, whales are more majestic than me. Upon collision I sunk like a rock. Twenty minutes later and with the help of some friends, I survived what very well could have been death by foam pit. Comedy aside, my pride still hurts. After that I insisted we just frequent the neighboring diner. Each visit I’d request a table, fearing the humiliation of not fitting into a booth.
Flash forward to today, I’ve already started planning hikes and camping trips with friends. Even a backpacking trip to Europe next year. This wouldn’t be possible though if I hadn’t verbalized something we as people fail to do often enough: I forced myself to say that I love who I am. That I deserved to be healthy and happy. That this change wasn’t about vanity, it was about living life rather than dying as its spectator.
After consulting my doctor, doing an incredible amount of research, and attending multiple seminars I made the enormously big decision (pun intended) to pursue bariatric surgery. This wasn’t a decision I came to lightly nor do I think is the solution to all my problems. Reality is, I’ve known many who have failed even with weight loss surgery. In order to find success, you’ve got to recognize it as a tool. No one succeeds unless they really change their lifestyle, their diet, their physical activity, and most importantly their sense of self-worth.
In just twelve hours from now, I’ll have undergone the surgery. Prior to my procedure, I gave myself the goal of losing 30 lbs and truly transforming my lifestyle. More so than anything, I wanted to prove to myself that I’m capable of this change. Here I am just hours away and I’ve lost 54 lbs. I’m also proud to say that today I’ve got perfect blood pressure, blood sugar, and cholesterol…something I resolved entirely on my own.
Many have asked, and fairly so, why do the surgery if you’ve seen so much success? It is an unfortunate reality that most people in my weight class are very unlikely to lose the sort of weight I’d like to shed and maintain those results. In fact, I’m still over 140 lbs away from what would be considered the ideal weight for somebody my age and height.
With all that said, I don’t advocate bariatric surgery for everyone. There are many different ways to pursue weight loss and more importantly a healthy lifestyle. This is, in my mind, a drastic measure for myself and a preventive tool to assist me in my particular set of challenges related to binge-eating. There’s no good reason that my stomach should allow me to comfortably consume an entire large pizza pie. This procedure provides a limit on intake and an additional layer of accountability. My success still depends on making good decisions and treating my body right.
So here I am, on the tail end of a two week liquid diet. My meals have consisted of protein shakes and sugar-free jellos. My mood swings are legendary, to the point where I’d probably shank somebody for a taco or maim them for a margarita. My weight has dropped significantly, but there are so many victories beyond the numbers on the scale. No longer needing a seatbelt extender on an airplane, again fitting into roller coasters I once loved, looking in the mirror and seeing my perfectly chiseled chin. Well, maybe not quite yet…but you bet I’m going to get there!
I’m sharing my story not just to reflect on my own journey but because we live in a country where 93.3 million are affected by obesity, that’s 39.8% of our national population. People are suffering. With obesity comes dozens upon dozens of medical complications including depression, diabetes, cancer, high blood pressure, heart failure, and on and on.
For those struggling, you are not alone but this journey only can only begin when YOU are ready. This can’t just be a diet, it has to be a true change and an acceptance of self-worth. Once you are truly ready, don’t wait until tomorrow. Start right then and there. That decision won’t just allow you to live your life to the fullest, but it will save it altogether.
