Trying to Breathe

I know I’m not supposed to say this, or dignify “shooters” with their names, or regard them as worthy of consideration. And I know I’ll get some flak for this. BUT, I’m a mom and stepmom of four, all of whom were 18, or 24, or 27, or 30 at one time, and some of whom struggled to come out into the light and get to where they are today. So when I look at these [mostly, not all] young people who choose a path of violence, my heart cracks open—again—and I think like a mom.

When I think of my own kids at these ages, they were ABSOLUTELY still kids. They were making stupid choices, rash decisions, and every time one of them hit bottom, they BELIEVED that was it—no good would ever come again. They skateboarded down cement stairways (who wouldn’t break a wrist/ankle?!?), they lived in a car 400 miles from home, they had surprise babies, they thought about suicide.

So when I see another kid "shooter's" face in the news, usually the angriest, ugliest picture the media can find of them, I want to hug them, though I know that’s not the answer. I want to talk them down, though I know it would have been too little, too late before they ever stormed the school/nightclub/massage parlour. I want to comfort their families, though I know some of their families raised those kids in violence or dismissal or ignore-ance. I want to (and do) cry for them and their sulky, or defiant, or curly-headed, pimply, awkward baby faces.

IT ISN’T EITHER/OR, and this might be one of the biggest stumbling blocks to finding a national solution to this steadily-escalating tragedy. It’s not US vs THEM. We are ALL us. We are ALL them. I don’t disrespect or love or ache for these kids’ victims any less because I also feel compassion for those who see violent explosions as their best option in life (and death).

They say the human brain, especially the decision-making prefrontal cortex, isn’t fully capable of long-term consequential thinking until around age 25. This means many kids can’t understand that what they do now will have consequences—sometimes irreversible—in the future. They do know right from wrong, no question, but they don’t always understand that this wrong thing won’t just be “done” when it’s over, that the ripples could spread and continue for a very long time, and that there won’t be any coming back from it.

I think we have to stop kidding ourselves by demonizing “shooters.” These kids and young adults who go on violent rampages aren’t evil, even though they commit evil acts. They aren’t soulless psychopaths. They aren’t trying to “stand for something,” “make a statement,” or get revenge for gender discrimination, bullying, or bad parenting. They’re in pain or they’re mentally ill or they’re indoctrinated, and they’re committing suicide, like so many other teens and young adults today. They know their actions won’t end well; they just don’t understand how permanent that ending will be (for more on this epidemic, check out https://www.uclahealth.org/news/suicide-rate-highest-among-teens-and-young-adults).

Anyway, this latest school shooting in Tennessee makes it hard for me to breathe. The three students killed were the same age as two of my granddaughters, Ezri and Hazel. I don’t have answers. All I know is that we need to find the balls and human decency to control access to guns. We won't stop them all, but we can make it HARDER. But even that won’t solve the problem. We also need to figure out why so many kids (and that’s what they are, I know from watching four of them grow up, and now six grandkids) feel their only road to relief or recognition is dying.

Let’s talk about diets. Because honest, they crack me up.

When I was a kid, my family teased me about how SMALL I was. They called me Lilli, short for Lilliputian. My mom took pictures of me in boot boxes. I can still remember at 14, my brother called me fat pig, as evil brothers are wont to do. I was horrified and immediately weighed myself. 73 lbs. Ah, the good old days…

I'm planning to get back to this weight.

But I’ve struggled with my weight ever since. I can look back and clearly see the gradual pileup that started not long after those early waif days. I first got pregnant at 20 and gained an amazing amount of weight—it was the brief period in history when “natural” pregnancy meant you don’t track or worry about your weight. Just eat your bulgur and black beans (and Hostess cupcakes, Butterfingers, backalley McDonald’s fries, Goodrich Butterscotch malts, etc.) whenever baby makes you hungry. Then, I had two more pregnancies, each adding to the packing-on.

My eventual divorce added more. A rough perimenopause and depression diagnosis in my 40s added more. A stroke at 56 meant a smorgasbord of meds for the first time, and—you guessed it—med-induced poundage. The stroke impaired my mobility for a few years, so little or no exercise, and yep, more weight. Then came the inevitable Type 2 diabetes diagnosis after 10 years of being “pre-diabetic.” And yes, I’m an emotional eater and will admit I have eaten my way through it all.

Too bad this ideal body type didn't stick

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It wasn’t all just foraging, stuffing, binging, and reckless eating, though. Starting in my 30s, I’ve also tried every diet, “lifestyle choice,” and “eating plan” known to humankind: KETO, WW, cabbage soup, Mediterranean, Atkins, macrobiotic (sprouts and brown rice for a month), Eat Like a Bear (fast all day, bigass salad for dinner), Whole 30, Medifast, Profile, vegetarian, clean, dirty, Paleo, and plain old fasting (which I like to call starvation).

I’ve tried the prescription weight loss/diabetes meds. At one point, I consulted a bariatric surgeon, fully ready to go under the knife and hack my stomach into a tiny shrunken ball, but he said I wasn’t fat enough…yet. I could come back in 6 months and try again. I’m telling you, my diet ladder has been a comical Escher painting, where I just keep ending up back where I started.

Sometimes I worked out, sometimes I didn’t. I walked. I did yoga. I rode bikes. I swam. Sometimes I took supplements, sometimes I didn’t. I’ve counted points, calories, carbs, sugars, I’ve eaten “green” foods and avoided “red.” I’ve jabbed myself daily to check my ketones. I currently jab myself weekly with a new wonder drug for diabetes that’s supposed to also be a trendy weight-loss drug. I’ve lost a pound. But it IS keeping my glucose under 110.

I’ve been to an endocrinologist, I’ve done metabolism testing, I’ve had acupuncture, I’ve practiced using the law of expectation (The Secret), meditation, visualization. I’ve used food journals, wall charts, self-rewards, kitchen scales to measure portions. I’ve plastered my house with weight-positive affirmations. I’ve cleaned out my pantry, fridge, and freezer so many times and given away so much food, my kids are probably stocked up for life. I haven’t tried hypnosis, but my friend did and found it unhelpful—just before her bariatric surgery.

Throughout this decades-long obsession with what goes in my mouth, well-intentioned friends, family, and others seem unperturbed by what comes OUT of theirs. Like the total stranger in Walmart who accosted me recently in the Slim Fast aisle with her “just eat less and exercise more” dribble. Gosh, I’ve never thought of that before, thanks!

“Just be mindful and think about what you eat,” someone else told me. So, I just need to think MORE about my weight and eating habits than the 24/7/365 I already spend thinking about it? Gee, thanks! Most of these do-gooders have never struggled with weight. Most of them will go home and eat 6 slices of toast piled with gooey, sugar-laden jelly. O gawd, the carbs! Dear, dear skinny people: We fat people think about our fat all the time, whether we’ll admit it or not. Every time we eat, pass a mirror, go to the doctor and have to step on a scale, try on clothes. ALL. THE. FECKING. TIME.

One of my theories about my weight dilemma is genetics. It’s no coincidence, I believe, that at 50, I was shaped exactly like my mother at 50, or my maternal grandmother at 50. I was positively svelte compared to my paternal grandmother at 50. My mother used to joke that the women in my family are “keepers,” which meant we like to hold on tight to our fat.

This HAS to work, right?

Here’s an interesting one: a psychic once told me I was being influenced in this life by a past life in ancient China where, as a man, I gave away everything I had in order to care for the poor in my village, and I eventually starved to death. So maybe my present-life self has just been saying, nope, never again.

Another theory of mine is that my body decided long ago, probably at birth or before, what it wanted for its ideal adult weight, then it got me there. No matter what I did, my body took a straight and steady path to its ideal weight. And by gum, it’s determined to stay there.

I’ve been at roughly the same weight now for about the last 7 or 8 years, during which I’ve dieted, taken up kayaking, tried a program of daily, long “good old Irish walks” (if you ask Irish folks for directions, they’ll say, aw, it’s just a 10-minute walk, no matter how far the destination), and put in miles and many stairs just doing daily laundry and housework.

I’m currently back on the KETO wagon for a number of reasons, and I feel so carnivorous, I think I might be growing fangs and fur. But I’m doing it again because the science makes sense to me—your body will burn carbs if it can. If you don’t give your body any carbs, it will burn fat (including the fat you’re already storing on your lovely, ample butt and hips). If you give it both, it will burn the carbs and store every bit of fat you eat (for later, when you might have to run from a saber tooth tiger). So, you can’t SORT OF do KETO. You either kick the carbs or you don’t.

Also, I get some pretty instant gratification. It only takes about a month on KETO for me to see lower A1C and glucose, better cholesterol numbers, a fabulous drop in triglycerides, and more energy. Unlike many KETO fans, though, I don’t lose much weight, although my daily calories seldom go over 1200.

Spring is coming. Ray heard robins this week, which he says means one more snow, then green grass! I will sashay my fat arse out there soon and resume my good old Irish walks. We’ll haul out the kayaks. I’ll pack buttered turkey legs, grassfed beef jerky, and cream cheese dip (you need to eat LOTS of fat on KETO) in my backpack. I’ll go to the beach in a swimsuit. I’ll cherish and admire and respect my fat family and friends. I won’t tell them how great they’ll feel if they lose weight. I won’t tell the ones who do lose weight how beautiful/handsome/fit they look (with its unspoken you looked like total sheit before). And I will keep trying to love this wonderful, lumpy, magical, very large body I’m in.