I really want to exist on that plane where the big picture exists. Unfortunately the mundane is where I reside today. The absolute bleakness that is my medical condition has driven me to the point of banana-splithood. Coming out of the arthritis doctor and calling about having a weight loss surgery made me alternately angry and fearful. Many would say that one begets the other, but I am much more comfortable with separating the two states of being in that I have reactions to both that manifest both separately and in concert. Having the disease of addiction has let me know, through the gift of recovery, the path I will usually take in a given situation. Chief amongst the blemish’s exhibited though and by my psyche is obsession followed closely by compulsion. Each a bothersome symptom of a greater malady while at the same time being, in and of themselves, devastating. Medicine can not give respite, and the patient direction I might seek from others on the road to recovery proves at its best irksome, and at its worst a major pain in the ass.
Going back to the desire to think great thoughts, I realized the events of the day made me strongly yearn for relief in the most unhealthy of manners. The first visit with the doctor treating my arthritis elicited a decision to go under the knife and receive bariatric assistance for the ever expanding universe that is my girth, and corpulence. I phoned my health care insurer who informed me that I would have to perform like a circus seal if I wish to have this drastic procedure. Weight loss programs, treatment from a psychologist, and several correspondences for various purveyors of the Hippocratic arts were among the actions that I must accomplish before they would pay the eighty percent payment which I have contractually engaged them to provide. The last smidgen of information they would require is an affidavit that I have ceased the annoying habit of increasing in size. I am perplexed with this last requirement. The entire purpose of having surgery of this sort is to cease the annoying habit of increasing my size. When am I supposed to be able to provide such enlightenment? Before or after my morbid obesity puts me in front of St Peter at the Pearly Gates?
Now before the naysayers begin, I will speak plainly to those who read this. I am not feeling sorry for myself. Any one who has followed this blog for a while has read the other posts where I have reported on the difficulties of my size. Some reading this will probably stop reading and not open this page any more when notified. The hindrances of my immensity come in more then one area. First, there are the physical realities of not being able to perform functions the more svelte of the population can execute with ease. Then there is the attitude of many of those selfsame svelte sons of bitches who will not want to listen to the whining of a fat man.
This is my problem; I am not the jolly old fat man, nor am I a shrinking violet where it comes to being told that I lack self control. I have a condition that can be treated, except the treatment is mired in bureaucracy and fiscal posturing on the part of a company that is denying me services that I pay them to provide. I am tired of living in a world where the color of my skin is protected by the constitution that I served to protect when I was a soldier, and the size of my body is not. It is not politically correct to allow fat people protection under the law. Not when the First Lady of the country has demonized being obese, and the rest of the drones who are fascinated by her follow suit.
Do not get me wrong. I am extremely impressed by the First lady for her intelligence and caring manner. I openly voiced my support for her husband and continue to, even when he screws up like he did when he fired the commanding general in Afghanistan for exercising his supposed right to free speech. (Although, I do recognize that a serving soldier gives up his constitutional right to speak his opinion freely when he takes his entrance oath)
What I really take exception to, is my own reaction to the events of this day. I discovered the difficulty with having this weight reducing procedure, and instantly went in search of the biggest banana split I could find. Not the healthiest thing to do would be the first protest coming from the sylphlike inhabitants of the world who believe that the fat man should shut up and go on a diet. Then again, I do not give a good rat’s ass what the skinny bastards think. I got hit with obsession right in the face, and I had to take action before the action turned into a compulsion. Thank God for my phone and my home group. (Those who don’t know what a home group is, can Google it) I did not get the banana split and I did not overeat at all as a result of my anger and frustration. I got mad. Yet another issue in my life that can do as much harm as the fifty pound banana split I desired can.
What is the answer? It was suggested to me that I write about my feelings. There is power in the pen (Keyboard?) my brothers and sisters in recovery tell me. A friend told me that I might find the answer. Did I? Well for the love of Jesus, Mary, and holy St. Joseph, I do not know. If that piece of information was readily handy, then I wouldn’t be sitting at my keyboard at midnight cussing people out. Protesting the inequity I face as a person of girth (That sounds pretty sexy…Person of Girth…hmmm…perhaps I will start another blog) is what the muse in me has produced today. As much as I am a recovering person, I am, and shall always be, a writer. That is the purpose of this blog. To let the universe, and any other interested parties know that I am a wordsmith. I would like to do nothing else and regardless of whether I find fame and fortune as a scribe, or even make a living at it. I am a writer and this is what I wrote today. Peace