Being bigger than Homer Simpson

Growing up in the 90s meant growing up with the Simpsons. I still remember watching it for the first time on BBC One, shortly after The Muppets, and quoting it over and over again. One of my favorite episodes that always sticks in my mind is King Size Homer, where he tries to weigh over 300 pounds in order to claim a disability and work from home. He succeeds, ends up gaining 76 pounds to weigh 315 pounds, and becomes a real whale man.

To think that someone would deliberately let themselves go this far. How physically painful and repulsive it looked. It was ridiculous.

On January 10, 2021, I weighed 155 kg.

Like I said last week, I've always been an eater, and taking a drug used to help chronically underweight people regain their appetite hasn't really helped . But that's an explanation, not an excuse. I ate, and I ate, and I ate. And I liked it.

My favorites are always changing. Sometimes salty, sometimes sweet. There was a good time when I was addicted to Tesco's Cream Filled Bramley Apple Turnovers. Always just a one-off, something cheap to stave off hunger.

Always a lie.

It's not like I don't exercise. Although I don't exercise as much as I did when I was preparing for my wedding last year (cardio six days a week, first thing; weights four times), I hit the free weights three times a week, jog or I spend half an hour on the rower three times a week, walk my dog ​​twice a day, and aim to do two or three short yoga sessions a day. I love the feeling of a good pump, the satisfied exhaustion after pushing yourself to the absolute limit, with nothing left to give. All this.

But even though I like exercise, I like food more, and the worse my mental state is, the more I need it. It's compulsive, and once it starts, it doesn't stop until I physically can't eat and feel even worse than when I started.

I remember once having a stressful day. I ended up shoving my way through a pack of 12 Walkers crisps. It started with just a couple, then just one more, and one more after that. There is a tipping point where it seems like leaving such a small remainder feels pointless. And so I end, realizing what I've done. Then the shame begins.

It's easy to suggest "Stop eating so much", but it's harder to do. It's not just mental, but physical. I feel this; the rumbling in my stomach, the slight tingle in my body, the weakness, the production of saliva in my mouth growing with anticipation. Removing temptation only makes it worse, especially now that a) I have the means to get what I want and b) I have the ability to do it.

Just because something is hard doesn't mean it can't be done.

Weighing 315 pounds is incredibly uncomfortable. The long walks leave you sweaty and out of breath, the stairs get tough, the knees and back hurt all the time, and the intimacy, well, I'll leave that there. Finding new clothes that fit you is a nightmare (although Jacamo does a great job of catering to large and large crowds, especially for men's clothing). Looking in the mirror is just a painful reminder of how far I let myself go.

Today I'm down to 266 pounds, and while I'm still heavier than Homer Simpson's usual weight in the 240-pound range, that's progress. Slow, steady and gradual progress.

Some days I feel like I will never stop being morbidly obese. I've been overweight for so long that I feel like it's a fundamental, unchanging part of me. But everything is impermanent. Everything changes. Everything ends.

I will be at a healthy weight (more) if I keep trying. And who knows?

I might even end up feeling good about myself.

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