The Story of Josh Part Forty Seven: I am a Self Hating Fatty

We are sitting out on the deck sipping iced tea and watching the dog chase the squirrels when Joe’s mom and dad ask what we would like to have for dinner. They are all throwing out ideas but I stay quiet. When they decide on Italian I secretly sigh with relief.

Joe’s dad notices.

After Joe and his mom leave the room his dad asks me why I didn’t give any suggestions. I tell him that I like just about everything and that since I don’t know what they like I figured I would just let them decide. He looks me right in the eyes and then tells me he knows that’s crap.

When I do not say anything I response he tells me that he knows I have the same love hate relationship with food that he has with booze. The only difference he tells me is that he can do his damndest to make sure that he never takes a drink again but I need to eat to live.

I nod with my eyes downcast.

Tell me about it he says.

As always this is first and foremost a therapy session and the doctor is in. This is a hard one people, because unlike some of the shit I have disgorged in these essays this one is my fault.


I eat.

That sounds like the most obvious thing in the world when I say it but the reality is that for thirty six years I have been almost entirely defined by the fact that I eat. I have touched on this facet of my life here and there during these writings but I have refused to look it right in the fucking eyes and tell it like it is. In a very real and a very sick way I feel like I am about to beat my oldest friend to death or die trying myself.

That may not be very far from the truth.

I have not been well lately and I think my weight and my diet have to bare almost 100% of the blame. I weigh as of a week ago 306 pounds I am now less than ten pounds from the maximum weight I have ever achieved. I am barely five foot nine (you metric mother fuckers can figure that one for yourselves) and I am closer to forty than to thirty. I have six kids ranging in ages from about to be three to twenty four. I have severe type two diabetes that is being managed but only with medication and not with much in the way of logical dietary controls. I have been experiencing numbness in areas of my body and I have been having palpitations and shortness of breath as of late.

And still I eat.

When I say I eat I mean I fucking eat. If there is food to be consumed I consume it. I do not mean that I take food from the mouths of my children, I am a fatty not a fucking monster, but when they have had theirs I will almost always make sure that there are no leftovers. At night I will get up and do the foods dance, anything left over in the oven or the microwave or the refrigerator will be devoured in a scene worthy of a Romero flick. It is a nasty disgusting process that makes me feel like I am flying while I am doing it then sends me to the pits of shame when I am done.

And yet I still eat.

Almost every day I will stop on my way to work and get fast food. A couple of burgers, a large fry, and a large coke with maybe some chicken thrown in for good measure are how I brace myself for work. Nobody knows I do this, nobody knows that I spend this money that should be saved, and nobody knows how much I hate myself for this behavior. I feel tired, greasy, and nasty all night while I am at work but I still eat the food that I have at work for breaks and dinners on top of this binge. Then when I get home I eat a full meal right before going to bed … then I get up and do the foods dance again.

And yet despite all this I still eat.

I can tell you the stories of my childhood where I was the sad little fat kid and food was one of the only things that made me feel good, true. I could tell you that I used to fear that if I didn’t eat as much as I could as fast as I could or there would be no food for me, true. I could tell you that I just love to fucking eat, true.

None of that matters.

I am a grown ass man with a family and responsibilities. I am tired of always being tired, I am tired of always being or getting sick, I am tired of constantly being a human methane generator, and I am tired of producing stool that would offend the lords of the underworld.

And yet still like a complete moron I eat and eat and fucking EAT!

I have begun so many diets that I can’t even remember them all. I am so tired of hearing how some people just found it so easy to lose weight, all they did was stop eating.

Fuck you.

Here is MY plan it is a simple one that is going to harder than anything I have ever done before. This is the first step but I am no longer stupid enough to think I can change everything at once.

First, no more pop (or soda or whatever the hell you call it in the strange foreign place you live) and that means no diet pop either.

Second, no more fast food. This one simple and makes me want to cry.

Third, no more giant meals when I get home from work. Just something simple and lighter.

So that is all I have. I have also decided to start posting my weight every week when I get a scale. I have found this has helped keep me honest with my writing when I post a word count.


It’s hard to give up something that you have found comfort in Joe’s dad says. Then he squeezes my shoulder. I know you can do it he says and walks away.

That is the end of today’s session.