Confessions of a Food Addict | Part II (Patreon)

Author’s Note: This story is the second section of Confessions for everyone paying $12 a month. Confessions 4-7 get a little darker discussing food addiction, obesity stereotypes, hygiene concerns, and masturbation issues.

Confessions of a Food Addict | Part II

Confession #4: Eating is my addiction.

In my last confession, I mentioned that eating is a vicious cycle and how much I can put away. This confession puts a name to the cycle I mentioned previously: Addiction. Food addiction operates on a similar wavelength as any other addiction. Brain-imaging technology reveals that the human brain gets pleasure from substances or engaging in behaviors that flood our minds with dopamine. Most people are aware of alcohol and drug abuse. Brains respond similarly to gambling, shopping, and sex. However, some of us even get that same response from food. 

When a food addict hits rock bottom, they end up at extreme weights, like me, at 743 pounds. I’m barely hanging on. Some of us might even get up to 800, 900, 1,000 pounds, and stuck in a bed under our blubber. Have you ever watched an obesity documentary or noticed an obese person in a scooter with a basket full of soda and cookies? That’s us, and we can’t help it! Let’s talk about how to spot a food addict on the telltale signs while I integrate examples of how my food addiction.  Each of these signs could almost be their journal entries.

First, it’s common for food addicts to have cravings. This is especially true if the cravings come after eating a filling meal. Cravings are not rational. I can eat a large meal, cramming food inside me until I feel sick, but a craving has the power, the audacity to override that full feeling. The body doesn’t need the extra nutrients. Often what we crave isn’t even healthy or rich in nutrients. The foods we crave revolve around our brains, begging for a dopamine release. My brain needs a surge of dopamine to feel pleasure. That might mean eating a cheesecake after dinner or ice cream in the morning. 

Second, food addicts eat more than intended. Duh. Some people can stop at one slice of chocolate cake or one bowl of Phish Food ice cream. Ice cream is one of my weaknesses because my body runs hot. I get overheated quickly, leaving ice cream as the cold treat that cools me down. God, have you ever purchased a party pail of Neapolitan ice cream? I can’t stop at one bowl. One bowl turns into two. Two bowls of ice cream easily become three and then four bowls. Then, by the end of the night, I’ve eaten the whole damn container. It’s all or nothing for the most extreme food addicts. Would you tell someone with alcoholism to drink in moderation? Food addicts can’t eat in moderation. That’s the whole reason for the word “addict.”

Third, when food addicts have cravings or binge their hearts out, they feel guilty doing it; I feel guilty about eating so much. The feeling during eating is better than sex. However, after the sleeve of Oreos are gone, I’m shattered. It feels like I’ve done something wrong, something against the law or even life-destroying. I guess that makes sense because being this size does destroy your life. I’m cheating myself. I feel so damn terrible, but for some reason, it’s not enough to get me to stop. The pattern repeats the next day, or sometimes even mere hours after the last binge. It’s not uncommon for me to hit up several fast food places and order more than one meal per restaurant. 

Finally, food addicts tend to hide their eating from others. It’s easier to eat in secret, so no one judges you, especially when they’ve witnessed you fail your diets repeatedly. I prefer to eat alone. I don’t do Sunday night dinners with my family, so they don’t see how much I eat. I still hold onto a secret habit I developed to hide my shameful eating even though I don’t need to do so anymore. I pay for everything via card so I can stash away cash for fast food, so I don’t leave a credit card trail.

Confession #5: I am a Stereotype.

I’m a disgrace to obese people everywhere. I fit most stereotypes about obesity. I’m sorry to my fellow big folks for continuing to perpetuate stereotypes that aren’t true for most of you. I’m part of the reason why you don’t get respect from thin people in a fat-phobic culture. I eat like a prized hog, I’m lazy as shit, and I smell bad. Fortunately, there are only a few people who know how bad it is because I never go anywhere. I don’t think I need to explain the comment about being a prized hog. Isn’t that what this whole diary is about? I mean, that’s not what it’s supposed to be. I don’t mean to turn it into a self-deprecating book of truths. My therapist would be pissed to see how I still talk about myself after all the work she did with me as a client. 

Regardless, I am lazy. This diary is the first thing I haven’t quit in awhile, but we are also not far into the entries yet. I give it a few days. I only do what I have to do anymore. My average step count, assuming my phone can be trusted, gets logged at less than 600 steps per day. I’m tired all the damn time. Even sitting here at my kitchen table, there is a stabbing pain in my back, and I’m out of breath. I’m hardly doing anything! The situation is terrible.

Most days, I’m not even at this table. I sit at my reinforced couch surrounded by pizza boxes, snack cake wrappers, and empty soda bottles. Most days, I watch television, but I do try to earn a paycheck. I’m an independent contractor with a company that assists high school students with their academics. The quality of work dramatically decreases the more time I spend eating on my couch. I’m scared of being fired, but it is what it is when I’d rather be consuming everything in sight. I’d sit here for the entire day if it weren’t for having to use the bathroom or acquire more sugary treats. I only clean once per week because it takes too much energy at my size. I’m afraid if someone entered my house, they’d think I deserve an America’s Fattest F*cks and Hoarders crossover episode. 

Sometimes my house smells bad because of the garbage. Most of the time, I smell bad. Sometimes my odors blend in, and other times I can smell myself. There’s just too many sweaty folds to reach by myself, but I feel like getting a caregiver is just giving up. I won’t allow a family member to care for me either. It’s just too dehumanizing to have another human being wipe your ass and bathe you. At the rate I’m going, I probably will need some assistance soon. It scares the shit out me, but the real question is, does it scare me enough to change?

Let’s talk about those challenges that no one wants to discuss. Using the toilet is an experience all on its own. I don’t want to switch to bariatric adult diapers, but even if I did want some type of cloth covering my ass, I can’t wipe by myself. Thus, I still use the toilet. I pray every day that I’m not too heavy to use the commode. If that thing breaks with me on top... I don’t want to think about it. After I’ve done my business, I have to clean myself using a bariatric wiping aid. I believe it doesn’t do a good job, so my solution is to shower.

My showers usually last 10 minutes, but with the amount of flesh I have, it should probably be longer to make sure I’m clean. My muscles ache, and I become breathless in the shower with every passing minute. I utilize a shower aid and a reinforced shower chair that I bought because standing is too difficult. I'm not sure how clean I am when this is all said and done. I'm also constantly worried about slipping. Since I live alone, a fall could be fatal, just like I wrote with my stairs predicament. I think there is something to be said about this: every facet of obesity connects. These are not multiple small struggles. Morbid obesity is one enormous catastrophic embodiment. That was horrifying to write. This diary is getting darker with every confession.

Confession #6: I can’t get off by myself.

Have you ever eaten something fattening while jerking off? I know it sounds odd, perhaps even disgusting. My guilty pleasure included eating while masturbating. As fucked up as it is, food is a pleasure. Sex is a pleasure. How could I not combine the two loves of my life? Cheetos were my favorite snack to eat. I don’t know why because it was awkward and hard to clean off my body. I’d edge myself while reaching for my tiny, buried dick. Whenever I finally climaxed, the entire bag would be empty, and orange dust covered my body. The processed cheese coated me like an investigator dusting me for fingerprints at a crime scene: The powdered flavor covered my chins, tits, belly, and fat pad. 

Getting off like that feels like so long ago. I’m no longer able to masturbate—Scratch that; I can masturbate, but often I find it dreadful. I borderline have Erectile Dysfunction. My doctor told me it’s because obesity decreases testosterone and damages essential blood vessels that the penis needs to stay hard. Even if I’m willing to deal with my “problem,” I’m just not sure it’s worth trying to masturbate anymore. I just want to be able to touch myself again. How can I, with my thick arms and pubic area packed with fat? I have to move my low hanging belly off to the side and strain myself to reach. Even when I get my belly out of the way, I can’t maneuver the fat drooping from my inflated thighs. If I’m lucky, I can hump my fat rolls, but it leaves me breathless and red in the face.

Sometimes when I’m sexually frustrated, my mind goes to a dark place. I get so desperate that I consider doing anything to get off, even if it means destroying my body more for someone else’s pleasure. Make no mistake. I talk a big game about needing to lose weight, but frequently I think that I won’t be able to save my life. I feel like I’m going to eat myself to death no matter how much I try to stop, so I might as well allow a feeder into my life to sexually pleasure me. I would probably be more comfortable in my body at this size if someone took care of me and loved all of me. It’s not the worst deal in the world. 

No! I can’t! I shouldn’t have written anything like that. Holding such a thought is ridiculous! Eating with all abandon for a feeder is fucked up. I’d end up immobile in a matter of weeks with encouragement. I am in a life or death situation with my weight. I want to live. I need to live. Living is more important than the pleasure I get from food and sex... or is it? Why am I struggling so hard with this? Something is wrong with me.

Confession #7: I want you to heed my warning!

I know that no one will read this. It’s my diary full of ramblings. Maybe I’m hoping that someone will find it if things go too far. Perhaps I’m hoping that acknowledging what’s at stake (my life) will get me to change once and for all. Yet, my biggest fear is that it’s too late for anything to be done. My second biggest fear is failure. Again. What I have to say is going to be counter-intuitive, but I don’t want to die because there’s so much left to eat! Knowing that there are so many foods I want to try or experience the flavor again are my reasons for living. 

I know what I just wrote sounds sad. I don’t have anything else positive going on in my life. I work from home, play Fortnite, sleep in a broken bed, and eat until I’m sick. That’s all I do every single day. I’m here to tell you (and myself) that there is another way. It is possible to lose weight. Many people lose hundreds of pounds. Sure, most people struggle to keep weight off for long periods and usually relapse, but it is possible. What else do you/I have to lose by trying? Is losing your/my life to obesity worth not trying at all? 

I understand weight piles on fast, and so it may be challenging to notice just how big you’re getting. I know this better than anyone. However, the reality is this much weight doesn’t occur overnight. Try to think about this much earlier when you’re 300 or 400 pounds. Intervene with yourself then before it’s a problem later. Before you’re 500 pounds, see a nutritionist, seek help from a therapist, undergo gastric bypass surgery, or whatever you need to do to keep the weight off your body. 

If my obesity kills me tomorrow, I want someone, anyone to know what it is like to be so enormous and the dangers of super morbid obesity. I plead you use my life as an example of what you must avoid at all costs. Beware obesity! Please, persevere and stay the fuck away from getting to 600 pounds, 700 pounds, or more. Nothing good will come of you when you’re this big.