My binge addiction is like a teenager who parties when the parents are away for the weekend. You know how it goes, the parents leave and say, “Now, don’t have a bunch of people over and absolutely NO PARTIES.” And the teenager says, “I know. I won’t. Gosh, don’t you trust me?”

So, the parents leave (thinking they’ll have to learn to trust their teenager eventually) and the kid is thinking, “OMG, I thought they’d NEVER leave. Now, let me send a Facebook Group Invitation to all 1500 of my closest friends…”

What happens while the parents are away is not pretty and definitely does not fall under the heading of “good, clean fun.”

Nope, when the parents return (early, usually) they are met with a scene straight out of Animal House: There are pizza boxes strewn everywhere, Doritos crunched into the carpet, and those red plastic “SOLO” cups with stale beer on every piece of furniture in sight. There are bottles of flat Coke, empty chip bags and paper plates with orange grease spots on them.

OH. MY. GOD. WHAT. HAPPENED. HERE???!!!

One thing is certain: The parents were not at home when the eating orgy ensued, and they DEFINITELY did not get to ‘enjoy’ the festivities…BUT, THEY WILL HAVE TO CLEAN UP AFTER IT.

I know, I know…fellow parents are out there saying, “Oh no. I’M not cleaning ANYTHING up. My KID is gonna to do THAT.” But, we all know that the kid is passed out on the futon in the den, and besides, he’ll deny everything, blame everyone, and do a lousy job of putting things back in order.

But, that’s not all: That antique that’s been in the family for generations? Broken. And the couch cushions? Torn. The carpet? Stained. Nothing is going to be the way it was…but it has to be returned to some semblance of order.

So, why am I telling you about a “party-while-the-parents-are-away” weekend? Because my stubbornly recalcitrant binge addiction is a lot like that teenager: IT WANTS TO PARTY EVEN THOUGH I TELL IT NOT TO.

Guess who gets to “come home” to home to the carnage?

Guess who gets to stumble across chalk outlines (where the box of Zingers WAS), clean Oreo cookie crumbs off the counter, and tear down the yellow police tape blocking the refrigerator door?

You guessed it: ME.

Bingeing gets the party and I get the hangover.

My Party-Girl-Binger wants me to believe we’ve had good times – BUT WE HAVEN’T AND THE PARTY IS OVER. The bingeing teenager is officially GROUNDED, and it’s time for the adult to hire a “house sitter” (more like a therapist, trained in addiction and recovery), clear out the pantry, and get back to an OA meeting.

Can anyone else relate?

Here is a Little Life Lesson for Living a Happier Bariatric After Life™

I have always hated my legs; they just aren’t good looking.  Sadly, I was not one of those women whose legs stayed skinny and shapely while the rest of me got bigger. Okay, that’s not entirely true: I had an hourglass figure…but all the sand ran to the bottom.

Anyway, in this episode, I figured out that it’s not okay to decide that, just because *I* don’t like something, *no one* else can like it either. When you set up boundaries, and make rules about how someone can love you, the real loser is YOU.

When I was little, people told me that I should be an artist, an illustrator, or a cartoonist when I grew up. I heard this all the time (probably because I was ALWAYS DRAWING something) and besides, it wasn’t a far-fetched idea. Didn’t all of us imagine we would grow up to do something “fun” …that we’d make a living doing something we love? I grew up in the early 70′s when kids dreamt of becoming an astronaut, airline pilot, or even president. Boy, times have changed…

Anyway, I spent my formative years drawing, sketching and coloring on whatever paper I could find. During the school year, I’d draw pictures of couples (John + Anna, John + Donna, John + Somebody New…), and at the end of the school year, I’d “doodle” in people’s yearbooks.

I left my mark EVERYWHERE, and became well-known for my cartoons.

And then I started junior high, (which ran from 7th to 9th grade.) This was the first time art became more than just something I could do after lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was an actual “elective” that I could take, and I got to do it EVERY DAY! This was heaven for me, and I loved the idea of it all. Of course, we explored entirely new media — things like pen and ink, watercolors and clay. Unfortunately, I soon figured out that I had two problems:

1. I wasn’t very good at many of the new media, and
2. there was a girl named Julie P. who WAS.

Trust me, she was an incredibly gifted artist. Which only meant one thing: C-O-M-P-E-T-I-T-I-O-N.

Okay, so there was someone BETTER than I was at art.  Actually, she was SO much better, she was voted “Most Artistic” in the 9th grade popularity poll.

I came in second.

You know what they say, you don’t win the silver, you lose the gold. So, I did what any honest, self-discriminating person would do: I quit dreaming of becoming an artist. After all, everyone *else* was better, so why should I pursue a career at it?

Right about now, I can hear some of you saying, “What? Why did she quit art? Why would she do that? Why didn’t she learn from Julie P. (and any of the other artists who were better?) It’s true…that would have been the smart thing, I’ll give you that, but in those days, I had zero self-confidence and a fragile ego, so admitting that someone was BETTER at something carried a very high price tag. Unfortunately, that price tag turned out to be my entire creative self, because over the course of the next 8 years (until about the age of 20), I continued to run into people who were better.

I got turned down for VAPA (Visual & Performing Arts) program in high school, I got turned down for a scholarship to Art Center, and I got turned down for a promotion in the creative department at the ad agency where I worked. Never mind that I should have taken those rejections as opportunities to become better at my craft. Never mind that I could have asked talented and successful artists for help…Just never mind.

I took those rejections personally, and they became nails in my creative coffin.

Until…one day…I just…stopped drawing.

So, what was the lesson in that creative carnage? Well, it sort of came to me the other day, when I learned (for the umpteenth time) that my success as a post-op is viewed by some with scorn and jealousy. In other words, my success somehow translates into their failure. Are you noting the parallels here? The only real difference is, now, *I* am Julie P. and those people who don’t think they are “good enough” are ME! Unfortunately, this isn’t about crayons and paper — this is about life. This is about health, happiness and healing.

Of course, I can’t blame others for looking at me with derision – it’s a practiced art form for some of us; we compare ourselves to others, usually, unfavorably. I spent YEARS believing I didn’t measure up; I put myself on the losing end of the comparison.

WELL, not anymore. I no longer compare myself to others who are living a successful Bariatric After Life™ because I realize that we all have different gifts…talents…strengths…we are all different people who can bring a great deal of wisdom to the world, if we just BELIEVE IN OURSELVES.

Alright, I don’t expect to be voted “Most Fabulous” anytime soon (because, last time I checked, there were no Bariatric Yearbooks — LOL), but that’s okay. I know that I must share my talents with others and, wherever I come up short, must look to those who are MORE SUCCESSFUL to learn how THEY have succeeded!

So what if it took me forty years to figure it all out…I may be a SLOW learner, but I’m a GOOD learner, and this lesson has been well- learned: I didn’t ask Julie P. for tips on how to become a better artist, but that won’t stop me from asking others how to become a better ME.

Do you see yourself in this lesson? Have you judged yourself poorly against others who might have shed more weight after surgery, or been more physically active? Have you decided you are a failure because you don’t wear a certain size, haven’t run a 5K, or you struggle with bingeing?

If there’s one message I can give you, it’s this: LEARN FROM OTHERS.

Don’t quit because they succeed.
Succeed because they don’t quit!

Several weeks back, my good friend (and business partner), Dr. Connie Stapleton, posted something called: “If 10 People Say You Have a Tail, You’d Better Turn Around and Check.” I thought it was a brilliant metaphor and was really open to the fact that, should anyone ever tell ME that I had a tail, I’d take it in stride and not be the least bit hurt. Uh, yeah…not so much. Watch this video to see the lesson I learned when I found out that I HAVE A TAIL.

When I was about three years old, my grandfather gave my brother and me a handful of sunflower seeds to plant in the backyard. He thought it would be a good learning opportunity for us, especially after my horrific experience with the tomato plants that got eaten by those scary, fat, caterpillars that looked like bright green grubs with little red feet and horns. Not that I remember them too clearly, or anything…

But, back to the happy part: We chose to plant our seeds in a place along the brick wall, just beyond the patio behind the house. As I recall, it wasn’t a very big area, but apparently, big enough to sprout some massive sunflowers. Now, in my mind, it only took a couple of days for them to grow, but I’m sure it took longer…like, at least a week. Anyway, they quickly overtook all 3 feet of me and grew to the height equivalent to the Coastal California Redwoods. Yes, I am certain of this fact. They were TALL. I adored those massive brown flower faces that craned to soak up the sun each day. They made me very happy and I felt quite accomplished at having grown something so beautiful. It had been my job to water them and weed them and till the soil with the little garden spade, and I took my tasks quite seriously.

But then…one day…while I was watering…I looked up and noticed something tragic. My happy sunflowers were now hanging their heads in shame. They were drooping like shower heads…and something strange had appeared in their faces. I was devastated because I knew that they were dying, so I immediately ran and got my big brother.

To my surprise he was not in the least bit shocked. On the contrary, he seemed…downright giddy as he grabbed the pair of red-handled lawn clippers and began to HACK MY SUNFLOWERS DOWN!

I was shattered and ran into the house crying.

Naturally, my mother responded by yelling at my brother (because he had obviously done something to hurt me. Again.)…until she saw exactly what I was crying about. Much to my dismay, she gently explained to me that this was the normal life cycle for sunflowers! According to her, sunflowers were just a fancy way to get sunflower SEEDS! I had to think about that for a long while.

So, (a full) two minutes later, I joined my brother at the dining room table to carefully pluck the seeds from the faces of my beloved (now dead) flowers. Once we had collected a very large pile, we spread them out on a foiled cookie sheet, salted them, and let them bake for awhile.

What emerged that day was one of the tastiest treats I’d ever eaten and I quickly forgot about my “old flower friends.”

Until today, when I remembered my backyard giants and how I could apply that lesson to my Bariatric After Life.™ (You knew it was coming.)

I believe that sometimes we have to die a little in order to come back as something better. For example, as I’ve learned in therapy, I had to give up long-held beliefs when I learned they weren’t true. Or, I had to let go of old friends in order to make new ones.

I also had to change my relationships. I had to change the way I interacted with my daughter and my mother and my grandmother.

With my daughter, it was challenging, because her “fat mom” had been replaced by a “skinny mom” and she was not happy about it. She felt threatened and cheated, which made for some trying times. They were particularly formative years – spanning from age 17 to age 20 – and in that (short) time, I had to learn to relate to her as a young woman, instead of a child. I had to embrace the fact that she is (wildly) independent, and must be free to make her own mistakes. I’ve had to realize that I’ve done my job of modeling “the good stuff” and it is now up to her to decide what she will use and what she will leave; which seeds she will plant, and which she will set aside.

With my mom, I learned to have compassion for things I could never know or understand. Two and a half years ago, she lost my dad after 47 years of marriage. I would have thought she’d be permanently wilted, but she proved herself to be made of stronger stuff than I ever imagined possible. She HAD BEEN a drooping sunflower, but NOW, she joyfully shares her seeds of hope and love with everyone who lives at her senior living complex. One of those “seeds” happens to be her little dog, Guido..who also spreads a little SOMETHING around the place…but, I digress…

With my grandma, I had to accept the fact that she could no longer crochet a doily or play penny bingo on Sunday afternoons, because senility had robbed her of her faculties. That was a hard transition to make, but 5 years ago, we were certain she was on death’s doorstep and called the priest to give her the final sacraments. We all prayed and said our goodbyes, and then we told her she could go in peace and we would understand. But something strange happened…she DID let go, but not to death. She let go of her FEARS and moved into a wonderful place where angels come to her everyday on earth. I believe that her sunflower died, but she continues to plant little seeds with the people at the home where she lives. She is a miracle at 99 — no doubt about it.

So you see, we all die a little, but we are reborn in the form of seeds that we lovingly share with others. Which is, (by the way), why I’m here. I now know that I am not meant to bloom as a single flower in a garden; I am here to plant seeds of personal growth in other people’s hearts.

The funny thing is, I am a terrible gardener, but fortunately, the people I help do their own growing and I just have to remind them to get plenty of water and nutrients!

When I was a little urchin, I loved riding my bike — especially on vacation. My dad would pack our bikes (mine and my big brother’s) and we were free to fly along the roads at the campgrounds. We typically camped in places like Big Sur or Big Basin — places with big trees and lots of greenery. But, sometimes, we’d camp by the beach, which oddly enough in southern California, does NOT mean you pitch your tent in the sand. No, lots of beach campgrounds here are actually set BACK from the surf and sand in manmade gravel wonderlands. I can still hear the sound the tires made as they slowly moved through the park to get to a site.

One particular summer’s day – I must have been about 6 — my brother and I were riding our bikes on the gravel path and my bike tire caught a big rock. DOWN I went. I’m cringing now at the mere thought of it. I landed on my knee and the blood began flowing immediately — almost as quickly as the tears. Fortunately, I was not that far from the RV, so I managed to hobble over for some urgent care from my mom. Only…my mom wasn’t in the motor home; my dad was. Well he, (being an ex-Navy man which, for some unknown reason qualified him to be a trauma medic) grabbed the first-aid kit and got to work on my knee. Now, I don’t know if you recall first aid kits back in the day, but ours included such things as:

• Gauze
• Band-Aids
• Unguentine
• Alcohol
• Peroxide
• Bactine (I loved the smell of that stuff)
• Ace Bandage
• Tongue Depressors
• Tweezers
• Nail Brush <– I am convinced it was a wire brush
• Smelling Salts

In other words, we were well-prepared for any emergency situation.

I sat down and, in between sobs, managed to sputter out the entire, tragic event to my dad who, by the way, seemed curiously disinterested in the part about my knee connecting with the gravel, and more interested in how he was going to extract said-gravel from my knee. I thought it would be okay to leave the little rocks in there, but he was adamant that this would prohibit healing.

So…after irrigating it with some *benign* fluid…acid, I think…he got down to the business of scrubbing my wound with a wire brush. I’m serious. This is how I remember it: Acid and a wire brush. Once my knee was suitably disinfected, it was time to wrap it up. Not wanting me to incur any sort of nasty infection, my dad (in his infinite wisdom) felt it best to completely immobilize my leg with a combination of gauze, tongue depressors and an ace bandage.

I looked like Captain Hook.

BUT, I was patched up, good to go and ready to ride my bike again. Not so easy, considering I couldn’t bend my knee.

A little aside: As a direct result of this incident, I incorrectly learned from my dad that “more is always better” and liberally applied this philosophy to all areas of my life. True.

Okay, back to the bike.

I think I managed to pedal an entire three rotations when…down I went. Again.

If you thought the waterworks were flowing after the FIRST fall, you can only imagine the second one. I now had gravel embedded clear down to my patella. I’m convinced of this. I probably STILL have gravel in there. All I know is, the first aid kit came back out…along with the acid and the wire brush…and I was bandaged from stem to stern and my bike riding days (at least for that trip) were over.

Now, why a I telling you about my double-knee injury? Well, a few days ago I was driving home from work, when it hit me: You never completely recover from a serious injury. There is always a scar.

In the case of my knee, I still bear the scars of that day…nearly 40 years ago. Granted, they have faded, and I can bend my knee without any difficulty now, but I will never forget the event. When I ride my bike the thought of falling and scraping my knee on the asphalt is still there…way in the back of my mind. In other words, I am affected.

Think about that: If a fall from my bike — well, two falls, really — can be that injurious to the body AND mind, imagine what abuse can do to a soul? What sort of injuries did I sustain repeatedly falling off of the diet wagon, instead of a bike?

What about traumatic events, like abuse and addiction? Yes, they leave scars, and those types of injuries affect a person’s ability to function “normally” ever again – if there is such a thing as “normal.”

In my Bariatric After Life,™ I think I have learned to function around my injuries and my addictions, but I do “favor” the old wounds. At this point, it’s out of habit, more than necessity, but like an old sports injury that flairs up when it rains, I do remember the pain.

Which brings me to the idea of recovery from morbid obesity. Talk about SCARS! My shrinkles tell the whole story. It’s true. Sometimes I am angered and disgusted by my loose skin, and I go to that dark place of pain where I blame myself for my condition. But, then…I remember that I can function just fine — yes, even with the shrinkles — and I put my clothes on and welcome the day with arms wide open.

Speaking of which, those arms went through hell to get where they are today. Yes, I said, “hell.” 2-1/2 years ago, I had reconstructive surgery to remove the “bat wings” that I couldn’t accept. That’s pretty major surgery, trust me, and I am left with scars…minor, really, considering the extent of the operation — but they are there, and you know what? There are nights where they just hurt, or they just itch (and I can’t find the place to scratch because the nerves are still a little scrambled.) It can be frustrating and sometimes, I just want to cry when i remember what I’ve gone through. But I don’t. Instead, I take a good look at my arms and my body and realize that I am one of the lucky ones. I can function normally. I don’t look disfigured to the world, and I am blessed — despite my injuries, or maybe because of them. Either way, I bear the scars — emotional and physical — of the ravages of my obesity, and I must never forget my past,

I have come a long way on my journey.

Yes, I was hurt…
…when kids said mean things about me
…when people judged me because of my weight
…when I judged myself because of my weight
…when I medicated the pain with food

But guess what? I have healed — even though I have scars.

My wounds — emotional, physical and spiritual — are like a roadmap from my past, but I don’t need to ever travel those roads again. The road ahead of me might be made of gravel, and I will probably fall and get scraped up again, but I have my first aid kit (with lots of gauze and an ace bandage), and I know that I have many loving people in my life who are willing to “scrub my wounds,” and set me back on the path of wellness.

Yes, sometimes it feels like they are using a wire brush and acid, but I now understand:  Healing Hurts.

I’ll leave you with this:

• Take time to heal
• Be kind to yourself
• Wounds leave scars

When our daughter was young, we began to notice a pattern where she would completely ignore warnings that something was amiss, and then be utterly shocked when everything went wrong.

[Note: She will be positively mortified that I'm telling you this, but it's important, and SOMEONE has to learn from her mistakes. Remember, daughter, your mama loves you ]

Okay, anyway…That’s when I coined the phrase “THE PLANE IS CRASHING SYNDROME.” For example, she would not turn in her homework assignments. Ever. And then she’d be shocked by her low grade. Or, she’d mistreat a friend for a really long time, and then be surprised when that friend told her off.

Hannah would say, “I can’t believe how low my grade is! I really thought I was going to get a C or a B…” and the teacher’s comment on the report card would say, “missing homework assignments.”

So, we’d say, “Hannah, why didn’t you turn in your homework assignments?” She’d give all sorts of answers, like: “I forgot.” or “I thought I did.” or (my personal favorite): “I DID TURN THEM IN!” Uh-huh. Right. The teacher just lost them. ALL of them. Or, with the friend who suddenly decided she was finished with the abuse (typically, this would happen on a camping trip or at a birthday party — you know, someplace super-appropriate for a meltdown.) Hannah never ceased to be caught COMPLETELY OFF-GUARD (after all, the revelation had came out of NOWHERE!)

MexiKen and I caught onto the pattern pretty quickly and we began to have conversations that sounded like this:

Me: “Hannah. You aren’t turning in your homework assignments and your grade is going to b WAY lower than you expected.”

Hannah: “Mom, don’t worry about it. I’ve got it covered. It’s fine.” (Insert eye-rolling and exasperated sighs here.)

Me: “Hannah. It is NOT fine. You do NOT have it covered. THE PLANE IS CRASHING. The cockpit warn sirens are sounding, every light on the instrumentation panel is on, you are in a nosedive, there is smoke in the cabin, and the engine fell off the wing. THINGS ARE NOT FINE.”

Hannah: “Yes they are fine. Life is good. Stop worrying about stuff…”

And then…the plane would crash and Hannah would get a horrible grade and she would come to us (disconsolate as ever): “I cannot believe I got an F! How did this happen? I NEVER SAW IT COMING.“

On the inside, I was screaming:

“YES!YouDidSeeItComingBecauseITOLDYouItWasComing!

Okay, I can already hear you grousing and feeling sorry for my child. It’s true: I am not an easy parent, but either she’s an underachiever or I’m an overdemander….

Anyway, on the outside, the conversation sounded like this:

Me: “Hannah. The plane crashed. I warned you that it was crashing. I warned you to put out the fires and take it off autopilot. I told you to grab the stick and pull UP.”

Hannah: “Yeah…I know…”

And the next day, she would *forget* to turn her homework in, and her plane would be in a fresh new nosedive.

• She got a speeding ticket that she didn’t pay: “Hannah. You MUST go to traffic school for this or it will go to warrant.” (The plane is crashing .)
• She got several parking tickets at school that she didn’t pay: “Hannah, if you KNOW that there is no parking there, why do you keep parking there and when are you going to pay the tickets, because they DOUBLE if you don’t pay them right away?” (The plane is crashing).

Guess what? Her tickets doubled…and her ticket got her in A HEAP OF TROUBLE (and cost a fortune) and…well…THE PLANE CRASHED.
Guess what else? Hannah was COMPLETELY SHOCKED.

MexiKen and I are secretly hoping that this recent scare has at least caused her to consider evasive maneuvers when her plane is crashing…but we aren’t sure. Yet. Ahhh, a parent’s work is never done…

Okay, so Hannah aside, how does this relate to the Bariatric After Life™? (Long row to hoe, wouldn’t you agree??)

Well. that’s simple, really: THE PLANE IS CRASHING SYNDROME happens when you start to regain weight, but do nothing about it. You ignore it and hope it will go away. (The plane is crashing). You stay away from the scale because you don’t want to know what it says. (The plane is crashing). You can’t fit into your clothes anymore because they are now too tight. (The plane is crashing.) You stop working out and measuring your food. You stop journaling and getting support from others.

YOUR.
PLANE.
IS.
CRASHING.

And one day…you wake up (20? 30? 40? 50 pounds later…?) and exclaim: OH MY GOD! I AM FAT! I HAVE REGAINED MY WEIGHT! WHY DIDN’T I SEE THIS COMING?!”

And that, my friends, is The Plane is Crashing Syndrome — in action.

SO, here are my (loaded) questions of the day:

• Is your plane crashing?
• Are you ignoring ALL of the warning signs?
• Do you see smoke?
• Are the sirens blaring?
• Are you feeling sluggish and yucky?
• Do you feel out of control?
• Are you still on auto-pilot?

If the answer is “yes,” (to any of the above) – take evasive action NOW and do NOT attempt a water landing. We all know how those usually turn out, and it’s not pretty.

Grab hold of the stick and pull back with all your might. [Okay, okay, you pilots out there will tell me that if you are in a death dive, you're supposed to either let go of the stick, or push it far forward, or something like that, but just work with me here. It's my analogy, and I'm going to fly my plane the way *I* want to ]

Has your oxygen mask dropped from the ceiling? Put it on.
Are you using your seat cushion as a flotation device? Grab it and hold on for dear life.
Is your life vest on (but not inflated until you leave the plane)? Be prepared to yank on that cord if necessary. Locate your nearest emergency exit, then remember that your life vest is equipped with a lighted beacon so that if…heaven forbid — your plane does make an unplanned water landing, those of us in the bariatric community WILL be able to find you and help get you to dry land.

You will survive this. I promise. As long as you pay attention.

Is your Bariatric After Life on course or do you need a little intervention from air traffic control? Let me know…

This originally appeared one year ago on GastricBypassBarbie.com.
I love going back and rereading some of my archives…just to see if I still feel the same way today. HINT: I DO!

Walking, Breathing, Climbing Stairs, and Eating


Sometimes, as I’m going about my day, something ordinary will happen, and I will see it through extraordinary eyes.

Today is no exception.

I was walking to my car and, as I stepped down the curb to enter the parking lot, I caught myself worrying that I might fall. When I didn’t fall, I wondered in amazement how it is that I manage to ambulate every day — up and down curbs, through parking lots, to the store — WITHOUT EVEN THINKING ABOUT IT. See, that’s the key to this little ordinary moment. I walk without thinking about it.

Okay, it’s true: Every once in awhile, I will trip (usually, it is over an imaginary speed bump in the carpet, but sometimes, there really is a crack or a rock or a tree root.) If it’s a really bad day, I will actually fall. Of course, before I land, I am already panicking about hitting the ground (which is the wrong thing to do), so it usually hurts more, because I have tensed up (I overthought it). The best falls are the ones that happen before I know it’s happening – LOL.

So, when that happens, do I just lay there and never ever get up again because I am convinced that I am not able to walk? No, I pick myself up (or accept a hand-up, if someone is around to see my clumsiness), dust myself off, and carry on. That’s how it works: I walk, I trip, I fall, I get up, then I walk some more — just a bit more carefully this time.

And then there are stairs. Now, stairs are a little more challenging for me, because stairs and I have a very bad history. I have fallen down more flights and steps than I care to remember. Fortunately that doesn’t keep me from climbing up and down them, now, I just don’t do it as frequently as I “walk.” That means I am “not as good at navigating stairs, as I am at walking.”

Now, if you talk to MexiKen about this, he will tell you that I’m not especially good at either thing, but I contend that I have improved since shedding over 160 pounds, so that is a major victory, but I digress.

Even though I may not navigate stairs that often, I usually do okay. That is, until I stop to think about each step. Then my rhythm gets all funky and I trip or miss the stair or something. (Thank goodness for handrails, that’s all I can say.) In the past, I avoided stairs, pretty much at all costs, but not anymore. Now I kinda view them as a challenge that I usually win.

Same with walking. I used to hate walking (in all forms, including, but not limited to: strolling, hiking, jogging or striding.) Not anymore. Now I actually relish the idea of taking a long walk on the beach or up a steep hill or something.

Okay, so what do walking and stair climbing have to do with the Bariatric After Life™? Well. I’m glad you asked and am thankful you have stuck with me this long.

Walking is something we do without thinking (unless we have extenuating circumstances). It’s like breathing. We don’t think about breathing, yet we do it. When we choke on something, we don’t just “stop breathing.” We clear the airway and keep breathing! Same with walking: If we trip, stumble or fall, we don’t stop walking forever; we get up and keep walking.So, I look at breathing and walking like I do eating properly and making smart food choices (ahhh, there’s the connection).

With eating, I have learned that if I think about it TOO much, I “stumble,” but if I do what I “know,” I am more successful. Now, I’m not advocating that you NOT think about what you are going to eat, anymore than I would suggest you go walking without a purpose, destination or direction (that would be like meandering…or grazing!)

What I’m saying is, I think there is a way to move the concept of healthy eating in the Bariatric After Life into the “involuntary” part of the brain, right alongside walking and breathing!

And what about those stairs? Well, in my case, since they are a bit challenging, I look at stairs like I do eating at a party or a restaurant — in other words, something I don’t do *as often* as walking, but something I need to be good at, in order to “get where I need to be.” So, stairs require a bit more thought — but not OVER-thought, or I will stumble and fall out of rhythm.

For example: When I see stairs, I do a quick assessment: How many flights are there? What shoes am I wearing? How much time do I have to get to my destination?

Same with eating “out.” Where are we going? What’s on the menu? What will I order? How much time will I have after we are seated? Once I get there, it’s time to move into the involuntary mode, so I’m not preoccupied with overthinking the process.

Since I walk, breathe and even climb stairs without THINKING about it, I believe that becoming a confident healthy eater can be handled the same way! When I occasionally trip, fall, or choke, I simply pick myself up, dust myself off, and take the next best step (or bite). Hey, everyone makes “missteps” in the Bariatric After Life. It’s what you do next that matters most.

Gosh! I got all of this from not tripping when I stepped off the curb in high heels. Imagine how profound I am when I tie my shoes (and don’t pass out from lack of oxygen.)

Does this make sense? It’s okay if it doesn’t, but to me, the parallels are kinda cool.

We hear it all the time: Life is about choices.

In my case, perhaps the biggest CHOICE of my life was the one I made when I CHOSE to have gastric bypass surgery in 2007. At the time, I didn’t really know that I was choosing more than just surgery or weight loss; I was choosing a complete and total lifestyle change, as well as emotional upheaval that would expose a food addiction and require intensive therapy.

I can already hear you asking, “Okay, so if you knew then what you know now, would you still make the same CHOICE to have surgery?”

• Absolutely
• Unequivocally
• Certifiably
• 100% YES

“Even if you KNEW it was going to be this hard?”

(See above answers and add exclamation points)

So, I CHOSE to enter the Bariatric After Life™, and then I CHOSE to start a blog…and then I CHOSE to start a Youtube Channel (remember Gastric Bypass Barbie?) and then I CHOSE to start a Facebook page. Of course, since I’m “all about excess,” I also chose to attend Obesity Related conferences around the country and become a motivational speaker. All of those things are commitments that take time…time (it might and HAS been argued) that I really don’t have.

But I am PASSIONATE about my Bariatric After Life, and I am PASSIONATE to help others thrive and ACCEPT the CHOICE they also made when they had surgery. Interestingly…I don’t view my commitment to inspire, motivate and educate others as a choice at all. At least, not a choice *I* made. No. I feel that the choice was made for me…on some deep level that is super hard to explain (so I won’t even try, LOL).

Alright, so recapping, I made a choice to have surgery, and then I (did or didn’t) CHOOSE to share my Bariatric After Life with the world. Got it.

But, then I CHOSE to return to graduate school.

Oh boy…Now, there’s a choice I’m still questioning. But that is not exactly the reason for my post today.

Since I CHOSE all of these things, I have NO RIGHT to complain to anyone about the time that they take. I am not entitled to lament that I “have no life” and don’t get to “relax and enjoy my weekends with MexiKen.” It is not okay for me to snipe and whine about how “tough my life is,” or how “nobody understands.”

You know what? It’s not anyone else’s job to understand, tolerate, or indulge the choices I make. While it IS super important for my family to support me, even they can’t entirely grasp the true meaning (or wisdom?) of my choices…but they love me, and do their very best to be patient while I CHOOSE to chain myself to my computer — LOL.

So, the point is, I hear a lot of complaints from a lot of people — the very same people who claim that life is about choices — and it’s withering.

You know what? Life IS about choices, but it’s YOUR choice to live with those choices; it is not my responsibility to make you feel better about your burdens, because you know what? I’m going to tell you the same thing I tell myself: If you don’t like the choices you made, change what you can and accept the rest.

Does this sound harsh and uncompassionate? It shouldn’t. It SHOULD sound like someone who supports anyone who lives up to their own promises.

If you CHOSE to have weight loss surgery, then you CHOSE to live with all of the consequences. Anything that you add to that super-teeny-bariatric-sized plate is up to you, and if you find you’ve piled too much on it, then it might be time to take some off. But, please…don’t tell me how miserable you are about what’s on thta plate; scoop some off and enjoy what’s left.

Life IS a choice. So is a positive attitude. I CHOOSE both…even on those days when life has piled a bunch of lemons on my plate.

CHOOSE LIFE, people.

I now return you to the celebration of your BARIATRIC AFTER LIFE!

• I should and ought to do this.
• This is the right thing for me to do.
• If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.
• Nothing worthwhile is ever easy.
• Don’t give up on something because it is challenging
• This will make you a better person
• It’s worth the sacrifice

Ever heard yourself uttering any of those statements? Ever heard yourself utter those statements to JUSTIFY doing something that you clearly don’t have time to do?

I returned to graduate school about a month ago. Anyone who knows my schedule would say this is a pretty crazy idea. Heck, I think it’s pretty crazy idea, but (wait for it)…I didn’t feel that I had a choice. Not if I wanted to do what I need to do with my future. I guess you could say that I view graduate school as a necessary (and unbelievably expensive) evil. It’s a justified source of stress. It’s a priority. So…it’s right for me to devote 10-15 hours a week on homework and study. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself, especially when I say things like, “But, I didn’t have a choice…”

But, in the grand scheme of things, is it THAT big a commitment? 10-15 hours a week? Well..there *is* that 40-hour per week job. But…no problem.

40 hour job = 15 hour school work = 55 hours per week.

OOOPS Forgot about my blogging. Okay, I don’t blog everyday, and when I DO write something, it’s like…an hour commitment. Maybe two.

40 +15 + 2 = 57 hours

And then there’s my work with Obesity Help. I’m attending all three of the events this year (beginning next month in Seattle), and I’m the keynote speaker for that one, so…let me see…I need to finish my talk…create the Power Point, develop the interactive materials and get them produced. Okay…so…20 hours…spread out…over 2 weeks.

So… 40 15+ + 2 + 10 = 67 hours

Did I mention my work on A Post-Op & A Doc? Yeah. It’s a new thing that I’ve been working on with Dr. Connie Stapleton since last year. We’re still developing content, but the logo is designed and the Facebook page is up. I try to add content to that as frequently as possible. I dunno…20 minutes a day?

…which brings up the whole “Facebook/Twitter/Social Media” thing. Yeah, that takes time. Easily 2 hours a day.

Okay: 40 + 15 + 2 + 10 + .5 + 12 = 79.5

Shoot. I forgot the OAC. That’s important because it’s advocacy. No one would argue that this is a priority. So…maybe an hour a week researching, reposting, tweeting, etc….

Hmmm…40 +15 + 2 + 10 + .5 + 12 + 1 = 80.5

Whoopsie! Healthy Everyday Life Products (HELP). Gosh, I almost overlooked that one. There’s the site development, and all the writing the goes into it, and working with the web designer, and creating collateral, the Facebook page, staying in touch with the right people, editing videos….hmmm….

Gee…that takes a lot of time. Easily 5 hours a week.

40 +15 + 2 + 10 + .5 + 12 + 1 = 85.5

Then, of course, there’s all of the other stuff that I have to manage. Like…spending time with MexiKen, working our, eating right, relaxing…Uh-oh. A lot of that is suffering. Big time. And, crud. I forgot the whole “house situation,” — you know, the bad news about how we’re having to sell it, and the bank is being cranky, and the buyers are getting impatient, and everyone wants more financial information….? Yeah, that takes a toll.

What are we up to there? 90 hours or something? I DO need to sleep. And don’t even TALK to me about television or books that I need to read “just for fun.”

I think I am sensing a problem here.

Is the price tag too high for all of this stuff? It’s all so important. It’s all relevant and really matters. But, how do I juggle everything? How do I give everything the attention it needs? How do I determine how much attention makes sense? Am I focusing too much on one thing, and ignoring another?

Between travel, study, work, and support, I am starting to believe that I have spread myself too thin. And yet, how can I truly say “no” to any of it? It’s all important. It all needs to happen in order for OTHER things to happen.

My very best friend on the planet  said it best (during my one time per month phone call): “It’s like labor and you’re in transition. The contractions are coming at you hard and fast. One every minute. And you don’t have time to recover in between the pains. You’re starting to complain and say things like, ‘I can’t do this. I don’t have the energy. I’m not going to make it.’ But, you DO make it, and you end up delivering a child. Somehow, some way, birth happens, whether you did it ‘perfectly’ or not; whether you had the energy or not. It’s the same with you: You’ll earn your degree, and you’ll give your talk, you’ll attend those events and write your blog; you give support, and you’ll take care of yourself. Why? Because you don’t have a choice. And no, it’s not going to be easy OR pretty.”

How right she is. This is not pretty, or easy, but it will get done.

But…I feel really guilty sometimes, especially when friends call and say, “Let’s get together! When are you available?” And I say, “2017.” They laugh…but it’s only because they don’t know that I’m serious.

Sigh.

So, here’s it is: Am I doing the right thing? When I earn my degree, what will my life look like by the time I’m there? Will my poor husband be able to hold on for 5 years (or whatever it will be, since I can only do one class at a time)? Will all of the things I hold dear and consider to be significant, eventually atrophy and fall apart due to lack of attention? Only I can answer that question, but it won’t be today.

Ironically, when I just went back and read what I’d written, I noticed that I left a BUNCH of junk off of the list. Mostly because it’s kinda secret (LOL), but also because I don’t want to sound like a martyr. But…I thought THIS much was worth writing, because…everyone has doubts sometimes, and everyone has to remind themselves of why they are doing what they are doing. And then, we all have to answer the most important question of all: WHAT MATTERS MOST AND IS THIS IT?

Sorry kids. No answers from me today. Just some…reflection on a busy Saturday.

I need a vacation…but…I don’t have time! LOL. Off to write another paper on something riveting (and theoretical)…