Days of Candor: A Personal Journey (Part 1)

Dear Friends -

For several days, I've gotten ragged by various Shelfers to "update [my] blog." I haven't posted here in a while, partly because my mind has been stirring around about the blog and what to post next.

My mind works in a peculiar way, I think. I don't write things out on the computer, finding the right word, or the right phrase as I go along. Rather, I write in my mind, and when a composition is essentially finished, I sit down and let my mind dictate to my fingers. I write my articles and reviews and even briefs that way, and have for three decades. Such is the writing today. I've been thinking a lot about "Truth" for weeks now. Somewhere just South of Truth is the Land of Candor, a far harder place to experience intelligently or comfortably.

It is to the Land of Candor that I go today.

I have a mental picture of everyone in this pleasant place of ours. In my mind's eye, Kathryn is an exotic, alluring blonde in the Mae West tradition, sultry as she reclines on the recamier. Emma has bright eyes, and a knowing smile, the Mona Lisa of our group. Allan is tall and lanky, and flows when he moves, the Simon Kenton of Long Island. Well, I have a picture of each of you. There are only a few people here who I have seen - Pete, Doreen, Lubee, Robert, Spidey, and Orbie, for they have pictures on their blogs. I wonder, what mental picture do you (none of whom have met me in real life) have of me? In your minds, am I an aw-shucks looking country boy in chinos and a plaid shirt? A button-down tight-ass lawyerly-looking type? Am I handsome? Witty? Clear of eye, and steady of hand? And here, I smile - I can see so many different images of myself through my imagination of your eyes, and all of them are wholly flattering to me.

The Truth of course, is different. But the Truth is often hidden, and we keep it locked up tight. Only when we go to that Land of Candor can Truth roam around a bit.

Sometime shortly after this is published, I intend to post a picture of me. I confess, I can't promise when that will be: I am quite hopeless on the technical details in this electronic world. I am a fountain pen kind of guy in a digital dimension. So that will be, perhaps, your first visual hint of the physical being who is "Roger."

When you see me in real life, or even in a photo, the most striking impression is not of my manly and distinguished moustache, my square and forceful jaw, my alluring salt & pepper hair, or even my keen and twinkling eyes. The first striking impression is that I am fat. Not "stout," not "portly," not "solid," but fat. That is beyond doubt the first thing that people notice about the physical me.

And how fat? Now that is a curiousity. Our body type and our gross appearance are the most visible parts of us, the parts that you can see accurately from 50 yards away. And yet we guard the numbers, the quantification, quite jealously, as if by hiding the numbers, our images will somehow morph into something pleasanter and more pleasing, or that our bodies will become magically sleek in the corporeal world, becoming the look that we so desperately yearn for. How silly. And I smile - there is hesitancy in my fingers, as if Secrecy (the polar opposite of Candor) wants me back in her clutches.

The numbers: Height, 6' 2"; Weight 480 pounds (216 Kg).

That is, I bet, shocking and disgusting to you. Well, it's not shocking to me, I live it. But it is disgusting and loathsome, nevertheless.

But I smile again, and look for qualifiers. After all, I reason, to some I look about a hundred pounds lighter. (I drive "The Guesser" at the carnival berserk - I always win the teddy bear.) And in some respects, I am massively strong. (But, hey, if you are even minimally active at my weight, you can't haul around that weight without at least some muscles.) But the fact remains: I am grossly, disgustingly fat. I am a self-indulgent sinner, addicted to, of all things, food. Of course I am - Just ask anybody.

The process of addiction is something that I don't understand very well. If I did, I suppose I wouldn't be addicted. I quit drinking when I quit living alone, but that was maybeless of an addiction than a nightly holiday. For some reason, I found an ethereal quality that just let me lay aside the booze. True addiction, I am told, is where the sufferer (not victim, which implies no possibility of control) uses the object of the addiction to create a state which blanks out the harsh feelings and realities of his/her existence. I don't know for sure. But that rings true. When I am in the place where food is all that exists, nothing else intrudes, and life is good.

Come with me for a while, and visit my life, my life as a fat person. Oh, you'll find a much more complete and better written description in Living Large: A Big Man's Ideas on Weight, Success and Acceptance, by Mike Berman, the noted politcal strategist. But these are my poor attempts to describe my life.

I talk and post about the farm, and the outdoors generally. Oh, by the way, and this is off the subject, but there really is a black bear or two on the farm, and I have named him/her Bubba. (The name of the farm is Wishekwanwe Moquegke - Shawnee for "Wind Hills." It's near the proverbial head of the hollow, and is a small valley bounded on three sides by ridges.) One of my best friends (if I could figure out how to put a footnote in this damn thing, here is where I would put one - I have about 8 best friends, that is, loving friends so close to me that I would not think of "ranking" them in any sort of order. Of my blessing in having these people in my life, perhaps that will be another part of this Personal Journey of mine.), er, where was I? Oh, yes, one of my best friends is a judge and a woodsman extraordinaire, who compliments me now and then on my rudimentary woods skills. He says that I can name the species of a bird from its shadow on the ground. Well, I can't do that very often, but if the point is that I get out in the woods, and that I know which end of the binoculars to use, I'll take credit for that. I get great pleasure in walking in the woods on the farm, at the boy scout camp, and elsewhere. One thing that West Virginia has in abundance is places to walk in nature. In my life, of course, there are a lot of limitations on that. If you look at a topographical map of farm (the USGS publishes those), the highest point is at the northwest corner and is 1603 feet above sea level. The meadow and the old barn sit at about 1100 feet. The horizontal distance from the farm to the point is around 1000 feet. Do the math: It's a hell of a steep hill. It has been years since I have climbed that hill, and I honestly don't know if I could do it now if all of our lives depended on it. That saddens me, more than I can put into words. I'm restricted to the meadow and only partway up the hills, where I must sit and rest and recover my breath and slow my heart rate. And on the rare occasions that I flush a deer or a quail, I cannot chase them and enjoy the lush freedom of running in my woods.

My everyday life is like yours, or anyone's I suppose. Except that I have to constantly be aware, and make a continuous adaptation to the world of the 99% non-super-obese people. I am nervous around chairs. I look carefully, and decide if the chair looks strong enough to hold me. I'll often ask someone to switch chairs with me, and I'll make a little joke about "man sized men." A couple of years ago, my loving partner ordered me a special desk chair, one that is robust in the extreme. I was so touched that I wanted to cry. But that would be "the tears of a clown," and not to be seen in polite society. I am usually unable to use booths at restaurants, something that I bet you use absolutely without thinking about it. Today I had lunch with one of those best friends, a minister, at a little restaurant called the "Poky Dot." It's a remarkably retro place, with glaring pastels and a real juke box. Mostly, the seating is in booths, but we went extra early to get one of the tables. Well, we didn't go early enough. So I looked at the one vacant booth, measured the space with my eye, and decided that I could JUST make it. And I did. My friend said that I looked really uncomfortable there, which of course I was. But I told her, it's reality, it's what we have to do. A week ago, I was having dinner with my mother as we were on a shopping jaunt near the University. The greeter at Applebee's led us to a booth. I had to explain to her that booths just don't cut it for men my size. She was sooooo embarassed. So was I, but to show it would violate some obscure rule in my mind. I laughed, told her it was not a big deal (a lie, but one well intended) and asked if she could give us a table. Cars are another problem. Somehow, my pocket rocket fits me fine. Maybe there are a lot of fat German engineers, I don't know. But other cars don't make it. My son drives his Chrysler PT Cruiser, an economical but relatively safe car. I can't drive it. I don't fit. Gross? Yes, I think so. But it's the truth, my truth, my life. The thought of an airline trip is anathema to me. I am essentially barred from flying coach, or even from purchasing a single seat. Next week, I have a deposition in an important case in Philly. I've never been there, but according to Mapquest, it's a 7 hour drive. At my speed, I'm thinking 6-1/2 hours, tops. But it's still a long haul, and surely would be nice to have the option of hopping a plane. But that option just isn't there. What will I do if I ever have to go to L.A.? I honestly don't know, I just don't know. Stairs are another barrier to me. I've indicated elsewhere that we have a new office, which is located in a grand old, huge house. The downstairs is given over to conference rooms and interview rooms. Because our "working offices" are often overrun with files and paper, they are hidden in a spacious second floor, and there is a grand staircase decorated with large stained glass panels. (Someday soon, I'll try to post pictures.) It's an old house with high ceilings, so the staircase is quite long. When I need to go up the staircase, I take a deep breath, and go slowly, one step up, lock the knee, next step up, lock the knee, and keep on until I reach the top. Going down is also tricky. My center of gravity is pretty high, and the muscles which balance me are not proportionally as strong as yours, so I am at risk of falling. Walking in the winter is a similar problem, because my balance is WAY below "normal."

Life in my daily activity, in my profession, is touched by my obesity. In my work, I meet lots and lots of people in all sorts of settings. I like nothing more than standing in front of a jury when it is my client's life that is in issue, and I think that I do that well. But to get there, I have to prove to every new prosecutor, every new insurance company lawyer, that I am a fit opponent, and prove that I should be taken seriously. Remember the "jolly fat man"? He's a myth, but one who is widely accepted. Just standing is sometimes a problem, too. When a client is doing a "plea colloquy," he or she is having a really long talk with the judge. In our state courts, the clients must stand to do that, and it is only fitting that the lawyer stand, too. The judges I most frequently practice in front of know that that's just not always possible for me, and they let me sit. But when I do, I am sorely aware of my limitation.

There is a financial reality to super-obesity, too. I don't go to Wal*Mart clothes shopping, nor can I go to local clothing stores. I either shop online, or make a run to specialty stores in Pittsburgh, 100 miles away. Oh, and shoes, those are a problem, too. Allen Edmond makes a hell of a shoe, but it's not designed to take the kind of abuse I would give it. So, online I can find athletic-type shoes made for referees which are all black, and acceptable for all but jury trials. (My son calls them "old man shoes," and I think he's right.)

In my mental life, my emotional life, there are other costs. I am never invisible in the presence of others, I do not ever blend into a crowd. I can think of nothing more delicious than going to Wal*Mart and being unnoticed. Wherever I go, I see shock or distate in other people's eyes. Often, I hear derogatory comments, some intended for my ears and some not. Sigh - as if they think I don't know I'm fat. It is always instructive to meet people with whom I've interacted by email or phone - I have a bright and booming voice with a mild regional accent, and I don't know what people expect in the physical world after talking to me. Well, what they get is me. All of these reactions isolate me and drive my thoughts inward. I am the wallflower of wallflowers.

It is also a fair question to wonder about my love life. I won't go very far there. It's really strange - I have loved and been loved in many ways by remarkable women. Damn if I understand that.

There have been three times in my life that I have been genuinely fit. At age 18, I lost weight on a low-carbohydrate diet, and reached 180. I was strong, as 18 year olds generally are, was very active, and even ran some distance. It didn't last. Then, at 33, I went on one of the first of the fasting-type diets, and went down to 175. At that weight, I ran long distances, and thought (correctly, I think) that I looked pretty good. I will always remember running on a beach in North Carolina at that time. As I ran, I passed some attractive women, and they actually whistled at me. Wow, that was the first time that ever happened. Well, that period of fitness didn't last long, either. By the way, at that time, I was obsessing about weight, and I really think that I was actively mentally ill. (Oh, did I mention? I'm bipolar. LOL. Definitely I will visit there in another part of this Personal Journey of mine.) And at 46, I went on another fasting diet that lasted 13 months, and went from 450 down to 250. That wasn't nearly as low as I had gone before, but time in the weight room over the years let me carry that 250 pounds well. Again, it didn't last. Every time, I defeated myself. I had attacked the effect, weight loss, but was too fucking stupid to see the cause: addiction to food.

At various weights, for years I was able to work as a really busy volunteer paramedic. My weight in those years was in the high 200's, and low 300's. Rocky can tell you how grueling EMS work is - it takes strength and stamina. Strength, I had. Stamina, I barely had. Right now, I am going to a specialty gym, at 5:00 AM, three days a week. There, I'm slowly regaining some upper body strength and just a touch of stamina - nothing remarkable, nothing to brag about, no big change in body weight - just a little, just my way of trying to hang on until some ineffable quality that I'm seeking will appear in my life and again let me be normal and feel normal - if that ever comes.

Ah, what about the risk of mortality, that is something that I should be acutely attuned to from my EMS experience. I remember working a cardiac arrest on a 45 year old guy who weighed about 550. Rocky will tell you how absurdly difficult it is to get an IV in a super-obese person. Ultimately, I stuck him in the foot to work the arrest. Rocky can also tell you lots about carrying the super-obese down stairs, and how often she has to call an engine company to come and help with the lifting. There are sooooo many other examples of mortality of the super-obese that are commonly known. Remember John Candy? A wonderful, sensitive, positive guy - Dead at age 43 of a heart attack. There is another example closer to me. You probably have never heard of Herman Kahn. He was one of the 20th century's greatest scholars, and was the first scientific futurist. He is best known for writing the books, On Thermonuclear War, and Thinking About the Unthinkable. (Remember the doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction? That was Kahn's work.) He was even the inspiration for the "Dr. Strangelove" character in Stanley Kubrick's 1962 movie. And he was a fat guy who didn't or couldn't control that one part of his life. The result? Death of a heart attack at 61.

So, for Heaven's sake, why don't I "fix it"? Why don't I exercise will power, reduce my body weight to something healthy, and scrupulously maintain that? It's a fair question. I don't do it - there must be a reason. Is it the addiction? Lack of character? Comfort in loneliness and social isolation? Some "drama queen" quality? Honestly, I don't know. This should be the longest paragraph of this post, but it may be the shortest. I honestly don't know. I am looking for or waiting for some indescribable quality, the same quality that let me lay aside drinking. And I don't know how to find it, and I feel lost.

I haven't done this post for you - oh, you are my audience, you and some others to whom I've emailed this diatribe. But I haven't done it for you, or for them. I've done it for ME. As old as I am, I am still learning and trying to be a better person, a truer person. This writing tonight is just one step in living Truth, and becoming more congruent with it. Like Popeye, perhaps, I am who I am. And I have to live with that.

More later.

Mizpah!

Roger