Scissor Sister Therapy

I wouldn't call myself a conceited person although many of those loved ones closet to me might. I've never really had that sinking case of bad self esteem. It is because of this I was not worried about that classic French attitude toward Americans especially fat Americans. Yes, I was pretty full of myself but soon I would have that level of esteem put to the test.

I arrived in France fat, gay. and American. I was in fact a walking incarnation of the trifecta of hate for the common Frenchie (they hate being called Frenchie's by the way). In the beginning this wasn't a problem for me largely due to the fact that I didn't understand a word of French. When someone stopped me on the street to pour out some a verbal onslaught of mystery words, I naturally assumed they wanted to know how I maintained such beautiful skin, or perhaps they wanted to learn more about America. I smiled and waived politely as if I was Tom Cruise on the red carpet. Wow, these people really noticed me.

Months later I started to understand a little of what they were saying. Well, I was wrong. They definitely were not wanting skin care advice. Sure, they may have thought I was like Tom Cruise but only after the crazy couch jumping Oprah scientology days. They hated me! Im not talking about your garden variety I hate brussel sprouts hate but some kind of deep rooted guttural carnival freak crazy kind of hate. Everyone has heard that the French are famous for being rude, well in my opinion rude would be a serious upgrade as to how I would describe them. Mean, cruel, and hateful are some of the first few words to come to mind. Every single time I walk out of my house I am treated to some sort of streaming insult without fail. Every Single Time! Fat Pig (in French of course grosse cochonne) and disgusting American are their favorites but Ive heard much worse. They throw rocks, sand, and dirt when they can and one time I was bombed with a condom full of piss while walking around the lake. Wow, they really really hate me.

Months later my built up esteem had had all it could take and I was starting to crack. My doctors had me on 2 antidepressants as well as medicine for acute anxiety. I had to get medicated out of my gourd to leave my house for anything. Til this one day I was walking into Auchan (the grocery store) and I was wearing my iPod. The Scissor Sister song "I Don't Feel Like Dancing" was just coming on. I turned the song up and was flooded with the most amazing memories of my nephew Matt and his lover Tommy (my nephew in law). I know it sounds absurd but it felt like they were there with me. I cranked the volume up to its max and continued about my shopping. One woman stopped to give me mind about something but I could not hear a word. In my mind I was happy and dancing. I was bouncing along with Tommy hugging me from the side and Matthew out in from with his sardonic wit carving the French fucks into Swiss cheese.

I needed the Scissor Sisters to go shopping for the next few months. More importantly I needed the love and loving memories of my nephews to help sustain me both then and now. Sometimes you truly do have to be at you lowest to see who is sitting there next to you telling you to get back up. All you have to do....is get back up!

I can happily go out and about anywhere I choose in France. Now that Im mastering the language I find they are no match for me. Not to mention a good screamy meamy translates into just about any language. Once again I am on top of my game as it comes to self esteem. It's hard but it's totally manageable, but if you need some help just tap into the Scissor Sisters.

Heavy Duty Milestones

While watching the Biggest Loser today I was inspired by the young chubby kid from the orange team with the super nappy white fro to make a blog entry. He spent a few moments talking about how he reacted when he learn he was over 300 lbs. for the first time. Of course as soon as I got the gist of what he was going to be talking about my mind stopped paying attention to him and wandered back to me and how I felt the fist time I learned I was over 300 lbs. After all...I am...me.



300 lbs.

Unlike orange fro guy I learned I was over 300 lbs for the first time in jr. high. My closest frenemy Jeff Van Hoose and I were clearly the two fattest kids in school. Im not sure what caused us to challenge one another to a weigh off but I suspect it was one of our classic passive aggressive jabs at proving I was better than him. Ohh, or the other way around. I went first. I stepped on the bathroom scale and it read 301 lbs. Holy Hound Dog! Seriously? Christ on a cracker, how could this be. I literally hopped off the scale looking over at a very smug and smirking Jeff Van Hoose. It was now his turn to step up onto this hash mistress of truth. 316 lbs. OMG! I knew it! I knew he was fatter than me. Who's smirking now Bitch! My shock of weighing 301 lbs was completely assuaged by the fact good ole Jeffy was fatter. I'd like to say im ashamed of my reaction but that's the way the cookie crumbled...what was left of it that is.



400 lbs.

It took me from 7th grade (13) until I was 28 to pack on another 100 lbs. My galpal Cody and I decided we were going to visit the good folks down at Weight Watchers. I should probably mention that the final straw on the back of this camel of motivation was a visit we made to the White Castle drive-thru the night before. The equation went a little like this, 2 chubby folk + 1 Ford Taurus + $20.05 at the White Castle drive-thru = shame, regret, and a promise to go to Weight Watchers in lieu of what would have been an inevitable screamy meamy that would most likely have required medical attention. Cody weighed in, the WW gal smiled politely wrote down the numbers in Cody's little diary. Cody stepped aside and I stepped up on the scale. The scale read "error". The WW gal was so confused. She quickly gave me the that reassuring, this will be just be a minute finger, and called one of the more veteran WW mavens over to give this "error" a good lookin' in to. Rita (or whatever her name was, I generally assign the name Rita to ladies with that deep guttural raspy voice who obviously lost their weight by taking up smoking 2 packs a day.) whispered a few words into our WW gals ear obviously giving her guidance as to the "error". "could you come down here" nice, gentle WW gal fragily asked as she pointed over to the end of the counter. I stepped down to see Rita pulling out this much bigger scale and blowing dust from it. She sat it on the floor, plugged it in, and hastily adjusted a small electronic readout device. I guess they had a special scale for distinguished lard asses like myself that exceeded the delicate limits of the regular scales. I stepped up and weighed. After some slight eye bulging by both nice gal and Rita, nice gal wrote down my weight in my diary and passed it over to me. 422 lbs. Hmmmm. Oh well, so i've gained 100 ish pounds in the past 15 years. Oh well. It was also in this time period I discovered the whole chub and chaser community and at 422 lbs, I was this community's star.



500 lbs.

I had been living in New Hampshire a few years. I think I was probably 31 or maybe 32. My chubby galpal Will and I decided to go on the Atkins diet. The one obstacle we needed to overcome to initiate this event was a weigh in. I immediately thought of Weight Watchers and Rita's relic scale for the super fat folk. Maybe they had one here in NH. A quick call later and I had my answer and out big Atkins debut was going to start once we went to WW and weighed in. We got to WW where our consultant Marian met us with eager delight and with what actually seemed to be a sincere desire to help. No need for her to dust off the big boy scale because she had it all ready to go. I stepped up and the scale spit out 538 lbs. I honestly have no idea why I had no reaction of shame or moral outrage. I was excited to try this Atkins diet everyone was raging about but in all sincere honestly it didn't seem to make a huge impact on me mentally. I was still receiving so much attention from guys. I felt...well...okay physically, and I though I looked great. Will and I did Start the Atkins diet for exactly one week. Jump starting each day with a few pounds of bacon and eating endless amounts of lunch meant and cheese produced an actual 4 lb weight loss for both of us during our wonderous week. It took about 10 minutes after weighing in that we both had a butt shit crazy screamy meamy break down for carbs. The last thing I remembered about the Adkins diet was Will stirring in his third can of corn into a punch bowl of mashed potatoes saying "ooooh gurrl, try some of this!!"

600 lbs. (yeah that's right 600 lbs.)

Life seemed more fucked up than ever. I was now 38 and had been diagnosed with a brain tumor, moved to France to battle it, was announced to be in remission, teetered on the edge of a broken relationship, felt like shit physically and emotionally, but my skin looked great. I decided on my birthday that year to really begin to make something of this second chance on life I had been given. Right away I started dieting and exercising. A few months later I would be going to America to break the yolk of this new grand plan I had just hatched. I needed to know exactly what I weighed so Cody, her mom Michele, and I headed to a familiar old weigh in haunt they knew in the basement of Alton Memorial hospital's laundry department. I stepped on the this huge scale and waited for the needle to move. Unbeknown to me this particular scale had been outfitted with a digital read out, so it took Cody nudging me and pointing to the left where I could read in bold red numbers 603lbs. I don't remember what happened next because I was too numb. We pulled up in Cody's driveway and Michele got out and went inside as she was on her cell phone. At this moment the normal reaction of having gained so much weight that I had managed to evade my whole life hit me with full and complete splendor. Official breakdown commenced. I cried, I bawled, I pleaded to find reason not to call it a life and give up. Fuck! I could loose 400 lbs and still technically be overweight. What the fuck?!?!? Why did this just now all seem so wrong? Who can move this mountain? I could not remember a time in recent memory that I just wanted to lay down and never wake up. This is when Cody chimed in. She said a lot of the normal motivational mumbo jumbo we've all heard, but what she said that made a defining difference in that moment was remarkable. She grabbed my arm, looked in the face, and said "I can feel it in my bones that this is NOT our time to say good bye. we both have so much more to do with our lives, and YOU are the only person I know who can do this".

### lbs.

I'm scared. I'm actually frightened about my future, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that I was meant for more out of this life. Ive already defied the odds in the grandest of ways possible and I will again. This is not my wishful imagination rearing it's usual head, rather my intelligent, practical self speaking. I have amazing friends and family that truly love and support me. Most importantly....I have a plan.

Communist Chinese Water Aerobics

This morning I woke up at damn near the crack of dawn, 10:30am or so, and had me a hearty bowl of Quaker Oatmeal's weight control maple flavored instant oatmeal. I was first turned on to this product by Bob and Jillian from the Biggest Loser. Jam packed with fiber and protein while remaining low in sugar meant that a bowl of this scientifically designed yet 'completely natural' cereal should help nourish me as well as help me feel full for hours. In all honestly the product seems to really live up to Bob and Jillian's claims, however the one screaming drawback is the obvious artificial maple flavoring that only our planets finest scientists could have created, stays with you and the area it was prepared in for about...oh...let's say 12-18 hours. In addition to the house having that freshly poured Mrs. Buttersworth aroma all day, each time you burp, hiccup, blow your nose, move a bowl, or pee, you get to enjoy the deliciousness of your morning delight all over again.

Hours later still satisfied from my maple flavored oatmeal I stared reluctance and inactivation down in the face and went to the noon time water aerobics class at the YMCA. I specifically waited for this class as I've witnessed the instructor and class participants before and deemed it perfect for both my laziness and knee injured level. Half of these old ladies had to be lowered into the pool by the lifeguard using the automated seat lift chair. One after another the luscious ladies of noon time water aerobics were slowly lowered into the pool. It was like watching donuts being mechanically lowered into a cup of coffee in slow motion. The final generian had been lowered into the pool when in a swift and indescribable motion a woman who would later be revealed as our instructor spraing from the water to the pool deck like Posiedon or should I say Posiedon'ette.

"Oh rercome radies and you (I guess that meant me) to my crass" You've probably guessed by now she was Asian. "Ret's get started" as she torpedoed into the water like a Russian submarine. The pool was all a gasp by the regulars as they were unfamiliar with this instructor. She put her goggles on which now made her look super Asian. I mean like crazy communist China leader Asian.

I enjoyed the first few minutes while we warmed up , but than like any good heat seeking missile she honed in on me and taught the class four inches from my face. "Rift your Regs higher!!!!" "Move your regs faster!!" "fasTER" "fASTER" "FASTER!!!!!!!!" OMG, I had not moved this fast and hard since the McRib came back. This woman was relentless! Shouting and moving with precise military like efficiency. It was my considered opinion that she was fresh off the boat from the red army. A harsh communist Chinese leader who was bitter as she had been sent to America to evade the bad press of that little Tieneman Square incident. Why me? Why was I the focus of all her energetic energy? I decided it was because I fat, a man, or the only one under 70.

Whew! Thirty minutes had past and aquatic boot camp was over. I could only float there I was in a stressed state of shock and exhaustion. I needed to go to the bathroom but I couldn't have moved yet, so I simply laid back and floated while I enjoyed some sweet release. A moment later one of my 75 y/o year old classmates spurts out, "I smell pancakes".

Damn you Quaker Oatmeal and your stupid maple flavoring!!!

Beauty Should Be Free! Dammit!

It didn't take too long after my diagnosis to recognize clear and visible issues with my skin care. It wasn't so much the chemotherapy, the radiation, or the tumor itself, as much as it was a lack of finances to continue my well established skin care regime. You see, vanity ran deep in my family and being the 'gay one', I was perhaps the vainest of all, although this fact could be hotly debated by my sister Diana. Diana was so captivated by the powerful call to beauty she enlisted to a two year tour at the Academy for Beauty Culture in Belleville, Illinois. Thanks to Diana's selfless act of dedication, our world would have one more soldier in the fight against ugly. She paid her dues at a few different JC Penney's here and there after piddling away her talents with many home perms as a kitchen beautician. She is now the very proud owner a successful salon of her very own. Check her out, It's the Aspen Edge Salon in Pueblo West, Colorado. I'm super proud of my big sis.

I am the first to give mother nature. genetics, or whatever you want to call it props for my nice skin. I know that when it comes to natural skin, my brothers, sister, and I kind of hit the cosmic lottery. We were four beautiful babies that were the fruit of two very beautiful parents. All of our births were proud proud moments for the eugenics argument, but such natural beauty can have some expensive maintenance responsibilities. God forbid I ever have to walk a mile in my mothers sensible shoe footsteps with all of those Milk of Magnesia facials, Preparation H under eye treatments, and Arm & Hammer teeth whiteners. That was a different time and generation. Just like iPods and the Internet she didn't have modern science on her side. She took to her beauty naturally and instinctively, the same way homely forest creatures would.

Pretty soon my trips to the Clinique counter were hijacked by chemo cabs and doctors visits. The beautiful glistening bottles of liquid beauty on my vanity were evicted and squatted upon by prescription iron tablets, anti nausea pills, and so many other ugly drab orange reminders of death in child proof caps. With everything I was already losing, my job, my boyfriend. my house, why did I have to sit helpless and watch my amazing skin betray me.

I found many outreach programs that helped those struggling with cancer. There were programs to help with housing and food expenses. Other programs that helped to pay for medication and transportation to and from doctor visits. I even found one organization that helped women struggling with the loss of hair from chemo by providing them with free wigs. (I stress women here as they never even gave me a chance) All of my exhausted research came up dry when looking for that special good Samaritan who understood how just a little Lancome or Clinique could make a profound difference in my self esteem. As I enjoyed the last tiny little pump of Fruition I realized that I would have to lower my standards and try Oil of Olay or whatever mayonnaise they were hawking as skin care at Wal-Mart.

I spent the better half of an afternoon finding the strength and courage to drive to Wal-Mart and allow my new dawn of skin care to begin. I was in the health and beauty aisle about 2 minutes before I shouted out in dumbfounded exasperation. $29.99?!?!?! Thirty bucks for a loving spoonful from the cesspool of skincare?!?!?! How dare they! How can this be?? In a moment of blinding insanity fueled by a "God, why me?" attitude, I turned my head from side to side and then up to the heavens (well, the ceiling to look for security cameras) and took the jar of Oil of Olay and put it in my pocket. I went through the check out aisle with my legitimate purchases, after all im not a thief, and headed for the door. Beads of sweat soaked my forehead as I slowly stepped through the little security barrier. I was beginning to hyperventilate when the tunnel vision of nearly passing out provided me with a reminding glimpse of the bright yellow tag reading "$29.99". At the moment my fucked up sense of entitlement gave me the courage to sublimely smirk at the 85 y/o greeter and proudly (and quickly) walk out the door. The lack of any beeping alarm sounded like, to me anyway, a new era in skin care had in fact began. Beauty Should Be Free! Dammit!!

Im not recommending all of you go out and steal yourselves some beauty cream, but I do however challenge all of you to keep in mind the little things that make us feel human when faced with something as insurmountable as cancer.

My Beatiful Pink Renault Twingo

Oooooh La La. I was in France but a few weeks when I realized that I was not exactly the back packing train riding type. I would often times overload my backpack with food as I was paranoid at the though of having to actually stop at a French restaurant. The additional cargo weighed me down even further making walking and hiking from my small little flat to the various train stations a seemingly impossible task. Impossible as seen through my eyes anyway. So...I was going to require some mode of transportation of my own.

I went first to a small farm house advertising what looked like a kind of scooter. It was sort of like a Vespa but actually had bicycle type petals include, im supposing for thin folk or overly ambitious chubbies. I've never really been the overly ambitious type and so when I learned that you actually had to pedal the hybrid vehicle from time to time, I thanked them kindly, finished eating the baguette I think they were offing me, and waddled on my merry way.

My French was still limited to basic 'hello's', 'high there's', 'good bye's' and 'une Big Mac menu s'il vous plaît, sans cornichon avec frites et une coka light'...you know...the very basics. Thanks to this basic understanding of the French language I was able to find what would become my new car.

I was sitting there at McDo's (what the French call McDonald's) just finishing up my Big Mac when I spotted an older Arab man placing a sign reading "a vendre" (for sale) on a...well...less than fortunate looking car that somewhat resembled the business end of a tube of pink lip stick from any MAC counter. I ran out (who am I kidding), I walked out in a mad waddle until I managed to get his attention which face it...wasn't hard. After all, I am...me. Much like Lewis & Clark did when negotiating with the Native Americans I skillfully utilized a combination of broken French phrases, my own version of sign language, and a very elaborate game of charades to find out how much he wanted for the car. 1500 euros. Hmmmm, was 1500 euros a good price for a 1994 pink Renault Twingo. Honestly I had no clue but I actually fit in the car. I guess I should say I mostly fit. I kind of looked like a rogue muffin popping out of it's tin and trying to make a break for it.

I had the money so I grabbed his hand and shook it feverishly while i said Oui Oui Oui! ca voiture pour moi! (this car for me) He gave me that scared yet exhausted look that most French people give me and said d'accord. The nice Arab man then handed me his goat that was on a leash and pointed at his house and made an elaborate charade motion of a man writing on papers. While he was gone i talk to d'accord the goat. I wasn't sure if d'accord meant goat or if that was in fact the goats name.

He returned after some moments with two sets of keys and a lavender folder full of paperwork. I gave him the money and he showed me about 6 areas when i needed to sign. He then continued to ramble on for about 10 minutes in French of course before he reach inside my new Twingo, turned the ignition, opened the door for me so i could hop on in. I said good bye to Ahmood (his name) and to d'accord, shut the door, looked down and thought....shit....I have no idea how to drive a stick. I knew how to drive one in theory but not in practice. I game myself a firm pep talk and after only stalling 6 times I was able to get her into 2nd gear and drove home. I drove and I drove and I drove, as home was 75km away and i wasn't confident enough to go higher than 2nd gear. I finally made it home and was so so so proud of my 1994 pink Renault Twingo.

Oh! I later learn that d'accord means Okay.

Fucking Pig?!?!

Today I was walking past the check out aisles at walmart with a cart full of groceries courtesy of my Link card and I spotted a large poster on the wall featuring two people with Down's Syndrome. I did not have to read anything on the poster to realize it was yet one more attempt to remind us shopping drones of Cultmart how exalting the leaders of our commercial religion were as it pertains to the simple folk.

Approximately two feet lower and four feet to the left of the poster sat a 300 pound'ish middle aged Down's Syndrome man. Initially I thought he was one of the models from the poster as I unfortunately find that most Down's afflicted folk look alike. In my confusion I stood there for a few extra moments to compare and contrast 'bench guy Down's' with the guy in the poster. The similarity was striking as my eyes shifted from bench to poster, bench to poster, bench to poster, until my fixated fascination was suddenly halted when 'benchie' opened his mouth and said to me...."Fucking Pig"

I slowly walked on knowing for sure that 'benchie' was not the guy from the poster.

Paris?!?! The Eve Of Departure

It was very early the morning of April 8, 2006. The weather, as is so often does in the Midwest, had a manic bipolar episode and sent howls of freezing cold wind throughout the upstairs of my gal pal Cody's house. I was laying in Cody's warm and freakishly comfortable bed under a cozy duvet wishing for something silly like sleep to wash over me. It wasn't long before Cody and her freezing ass toes came running into her bedroom and hopped in bed with me. She had yielded her bed of plenty to me all the while trying to make due in her sisters cold and drafty shrine of teen spirit bedroom. The naturally occurring heat provided by my chub oven did not disappoint according to the looks of relief that poured over Cody's face and her eyes actually fluttered like glittering cherries on a slot machine as her freezing ass dragon lady claws or toes or whatever they were sought warmth in random pockets of leg fat. The eve of the greatest departure of my life had just officially turned into a good old fashion slumber party.

We talked and talked and talked. We sang and sang and sang. We laughed and laughed and laughed. I'm sure if i had hair she would have braided it. Eventually Cody drifted off into sleep in the middle of one of my stories that I'm sure she had heard before but like a true friend always pretended she was hearing it for the first time. The sun was starting to rear it's ugly head just enough that I could see it was almost time for me to hop in the shower, get dressed, and run through my final mental checklist before embarking on such a monumental trip.

I'm not sure if i ever told Cody how grateful I was that that evening was so cold she was forced to find warmth close to me. Just moments before she hopped into bed with me my mind had turned to a very dark place. Something greater than fear was literally taking my breathe away. Dread had all but settled in and my tears did not fail to fail me. In that moment I knew I existed if for no other reason than because I was truly afraid. Cody, for at least a few hours, unknowingly calmed my fears and made me feel like I was still alive.

Demanding An Alternative

Most would think that at 640lbs, 38, gay, broke, broken, uninsured, dispirited, virtually unemployed, living with my dad, taking 7 medications a day, and unable to perform some of the most basic hygiene actions, that my life is hopeless or the very least useless. Most days I would agree with most people...Just not today!

Today is the day I start sharing with whomever dares to read, listen, or experience, exactly how not hopeless and how not useless I am. For no other reason than because like every human being, I exist. Today I exist to stand up, if only in my mind, and demand and alternative. How I exist, how I've existed is why today is the day a new order of hope, compassion, understanding, and above all choices will begin for me and hopefully for many others.

I have so much to tell of how I got to where I am but more importantly about where I am going. My blog posts will be in no chronological order, but when i remember to I'll throw in some approximate dates to give a frame of reference. I'm not a writer, I can't spell, and I'm not even sure I know what syntax is, so please be patient with my words.

As you read....I give you complete permission to laugh, cry, shout, scream, or pray. I however do not give you permission to judge! Because after all this blog is about my story of survival. So before you scratch that itching need to judge, ask yourself...What lengths you would go to...to stay alive.