Confessions of a Food Addict | Part I (Patreon)

Author’s Note: To include everything I want to this story and maintain its quality while working on the two primary stories of the month, I’ve decided to split it up into two parts. This first section in July is for everyone paying $12 a month. Section one includes an introduction and confessions 1-3 from our food addicted protagonist. The second section will be released in August for the same tier. Part two will consist of confessions 4-7.

Confessions of a Food Addict | Part I

Dear Diary…

That sounds too cheesy. I’m not a young girl writing about how much I want Darren or the drama surrounding my BFF. I’m a grown-ass man seeking help. I’m only trying this because my therapist thinks a diary for my thoughts and a separate food journal will help me overcome my addiction. I hope she’s right, but I’m afraid I’m too far gone. Dr. Marijanović thinks it’ll be a place for me to record events and honest feelings without criticism. 

Dr. Marijanović says writing can serve two purposes. First, writing is supposed to be therapeutic and productive. I’m not sure I agree, but I think we prefer a pen in my hand over a Snickers bar. Second, she calls it the beauty of not knowing. Instead of giving advice, she wants me to fill in the blanks about my life by reflecting on my experiences in hopes I can reflect and battle my problems head-on. Let me repeat that: I have to figure out the solutions to my problems. 

This conversation is precisely why I think therapy is a sham. What’s the point of paying someone to make you find out your own advice? I just want someone to tell me what the fuck to do. Okay, so, maybe writing fuck with a pen that glides on paper did make me feel just a little better. It’s like that perfect feeling when scissors glide perfectly on wrapping paper. Better yet, it’s like when you eat until you feel like your about to be sick and then try to reach your tiny, buried cock to masturbate, but then you’re too full and exhausted so you drift off to sleep with a full belly. 

I hate myself for writing that if I’m honest. I’m so fucked up. I’m so obese I can hardly walk without assistance, but that is what I choose to write? Let’s get back on track. Today, I wish to truly reflect on my patterns of thoughts and behaviors that do more harm than good. I’m calling these thoughts confessions because confessions are admissions that I once buried deep in my mind. I hope bringing these hidden offenses to light will foster productivity in helping me achieve my goals. I developed seven confessions as my attempt to name the problems or the struggles that I must overcome to lose weight and save my life.

Why seven? My rationale is going to sound silly. According to old superstitions, the word seven is bad luck, and breaking a mirror brings seven years of bad luck. However, the number seven is also symbolic in ways that I need right now. There are seven days in a week; seven days that  I can potentially fall of the wagon that I’ll need to persevere through to lose weight this time. I need to defeat one of the seven deadly sins that grips onto me: Gluttony.

This next part will sound even more ridiculous. Astrologers say the number seven is lucky for Cancer and Pisces. On a different note, I want to point out in the Tarot, seven is the card of the Chariot. If you don’t know, the card is about committing to hard work to overcome challenges. Essentially, the Number seven symbolizes perfection and safety. I know this all sounds made up. This is probably all made up, but at this point, I’ll try anything. That’s how fucking desperate I’ve become to shed this weight. Whatever. Let’s dive into my confessions. 

Confession #1: I weigh 743 pounds.

Let me repeat that: I weigh 743 pounds. That’s not big. It’s colossal.  I’ve been on several weight loss forums over the years, but this is my heaviest I’ve ever been. I’m afraid to put myself out there knowing that I have a lot more to lose than most people. Even someone only 100 pounds lighter would wonder how someone let themselves get so fat. I don’t want to be a spectacle anymore than I already am, which is why this number must stay here on these secret pages. 

I know from watching other obese people post, there are some weirdos out there who get interested in my size. They ask for pictures to make sure I’m real. They want to know the exact numbers. I often wonder if these faceless profiles are there to help or if they are chasers or feeders. I’ve also wondered if I should try to publicly post my decision to lose weight or keep it private. I’m worried about how many people I’d disappoint if I managed to balloon bigger. I’m ballooning bigger. 

I hope writing the terrifying number 743 is a step in the right direction. This is the first time I’ve admitted my exact weight in writing. I’m so ashamed, but bringing forth such a high number gives me a starting point to my weight loss journey. I only know how much I weigh these days because I maxed out the SCMXL700T bathroom scale with a 700 lb capacity. Instead, I forced myself to go to a truck stop to get weighed by an industrial scale meant for vehicles. 

Most people see my weight first, my body spilling out of tight shirts like a busted can of biscuit dough. However, I’m a big man in general, standing tall at over 6 feet and 3 inches. When I managed to get out in public, I’d notice people sneaking pictures of me. On rare occasions, strangers get brave enough to start conversations with me. These folks usually start friendly with small talk, but then the chat turns for the worst. I cringe whenever someone asks me how tall I am because the follow up includes the individual trying to guess my weight like they are at a carnival trying to win a prize. Then come questions about my health issues and even where the best places to eat are in town. 

I feel guilty for lying about my weight to everyone, but especially my parents. My height is probably the reason why it is so easy to lie to my family. They all think I’m at the border of 700. I’m too ashamed to let them know just how big I’ve gotten in the last year. I tell them I’m bouncing between 675 and 695. We all know 600 pounds is monumental, obesity docu-series weight. Yet, I still think that as long as they don’t know I’m over 700 pounds now, I’m less of a freak in their eyes.

Confession #2:  Mobility is challenging.

Moving is hard. I want to give up and lie in my bed all day. I’m about to give up. Fuck. I need to stop saying that, or I really will give up and eat my life away in a reinforced bed. I’m just in constant pain. Why wouldn’t mobility be painful while lugging around 743 pounds? No one can understand just how hard it is to do simple things like standing, bending over, or walking until they’ve walked a mile in my shoes. It’s just a figure of speech. I’ve, uh, not walked a mile in my shoes in a long time. My lived experience is still valid.

Most nights and weekends, I stay home. I rarely go out, but when I do, I swing by a drive-thru in my candy apple red Dodge Ram. My belly pushes against the steering wheel, making a fast-food run a dangerous adventure. I also always shock the employees when I order a family feast, but only ask for one of their largest size drinks. When they see me at the window, they understand why I only needed one drink; The family meal is just for me. When I return home, I get my mail from the mailbox. It’s my only chance to get mail as I would need to stop several times just to catch my breath. It’s easier this way. 

If I need anything else, I just get it delivered. More food? That’s what Grubhub, Postmates, Door Dash, and Uber Eats are for at this point. Every app is downloaded on my phone because then I maximize my options for food rotations. Groceries? I can use Instacart or use the store’s delivery service. I live 0.4 miles from a Kroger, but I still have groceries delivered. 

Why? I can’t walk very far, but I get judged when I sit in a mobility scooter. I get told being fat isn’t a disability, and I need to save it for the elderly. I’m sure they wouldn’t say that if they had to help pick me up if I collapsed while grocery shopping. That’s the reason why obese people stop going out and get bigger. We become terrified to leave our homes because of the judgment. Regardless, the downside to grocery delivery is that they always leave my bagged items at the bottom of the stairs instead of on the top stair. 

Imagine how much an obese person struggles to waddle on flat land. Do you think 743 pounds glides down the stairs with the elegance of a princess at the ball? No! Most of us believe a standard doctor’s office scale is too far off the ground. Think about how much energy it takes just to stand up at my size. When I sit up, my belly covers my knees and fights for space between my thighs. My stomach presses down over 500 pounds of just sagging adipose tissue on the lower half of my body. I mean, it’s incredible that I can rock myself back and forth to get up, even though it leaves me breathless. 

Getting up is a simple everyday task I struggle to complete, let alone having to walk the stairs? No thanks! Stairs are fucking brutal. I have moments of fear before I force myself to take the first step down. I’m wide with a thick, hanging gut. Surprise, I can’t see anything below me as my belly obstructs my vision. My foot hunts for the next wooden plank that is sure to creak under my weight. I’m terrified that one day my foot is going to go right through the weakening infrastructure. 

I pitifully attempt to go down another few steps. Usually, I whimper because everything hurts. My knees are shot. It started with small aches in the knee cap. Over time more and more weight put pressure on my knees, enforcing the idea that the bed could become my prison with one wrong move. If I slip or miss one step, it’s game over for me. The only way I can keep my balance is holding onto the rail for dear life with my white knuckles. Sometimes I hold on so tight my palms get sweaty, making me even more of a nervous wreck. I go through that much trouble for only five steps! I know I’m participating in negative self-talk, but god I’m pathetic. 

Confession #3: I don’t know what a portion is anymore. 

Do you know what shouts “doomed?” Considering a meal meant for a family as a regular meal. A giant stuffed crust pizza and a two-liter of soda from Pizza Hut? A regular meal. An entire bucket of KFC with two sides? A regular meal. The new At-Home Taco Bar from Taco Bell? You guessed it. That’s a regular meal for me. What else did you expect? I’m 743 pounds! 

I stuff myself until I’m about to burst multiple times per day. I make myself feel so bad I make myself a trash can and set it down by my bed as I digest just in case. I know it’s unhealthy, but I can’t help it. It’s a vicious cycle. Everyone has to eat to live, and I just can’t control myself when it comes time for a meal. Fat people know we’re fat; I know I take in way more calories than I burn. Everything I eat and drink is high in sugar, salt, and fat. Something, something, food pyramid that my former nutritionist advised. I don’t know. She said I should be eating plenty of food and veggies with a serving of wholegrain varieties at every meal. I can have some meat and dairy, but almost no fats. It’s pretty basic, but I struggle with it. 

The problem is everything terrible for you tastes the best and doesn’t fit into the categories needed for successful nutrition. Someone is lying if you ever hear them say, “I made the best green chile chicken burgers and a salad bar, with fresh fruit for dessert. So yummy and healthy!” I want burgers with loaded fries. I want a half-pound roast beef sandwich with a side of mozzarella sticks. I want fried Mac and cheese bites. I want a half-pound chicken bites box with a large cup of ranch dressing. Honestly, I’ve spent over $4,500 on fast food in the last four months. 

Oh, god. I’m starving just thinking about all the things I used to be able to eat before the diet. Maybe it would be okay for me to have a cheat day. I can’t concentrate. My hand is shaking. I need a snack. I just don’t think I can stop myself from salivating and craving all the deliciously fattening foods I wrote about above. The Grubhub app calls me. Let me have a quick meal before we continue!