Читать книгу Weightless - Gregg McBride - Страница 15
ОглавлениеLife as a young adult is trying for anyone. But imagine weighing over 300 pounds at eighteen years of age.
I was terrified of college. This represented more than just leaving home. It was also my first time back in the United States after living overseas for six-plus years. And again, neither of my parents accompanied me on my trip to begin my collegiate years.
The flight itself was harrowing, not because of any turbulence or other force of nature, that is unless you counted my massive belly as one.
Upon seating myself on the plane, I realized that the seat belt did not reach around my body because of my enormous stomach. I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I tell a flight attendant? Should I get off the plane? I decided to strategically place a jacket over my lap to make it appear as though the seat belt was indeed fastened underneath. It was one of many little secrets I used to fool the world into thinking I was a normal size.
Or so I thought.
In South Florida I took an airport shuttle to Lynn University, a ritzy little private school in Boca Raton. The campus was immaculate, as were the bevy of model-like students. I scanned the crowd for anyone who might be bigger than I was. Nada. I was king of the fat kids. In fact, I was the only fat kid.
Florida’s hot sun made matters worse. There’s nothing more devastating than having to make your first attempt at looking cool in front of new people wearing Sears shorts and T-shirts for the “big and tall”—all while sweating profusely.
Let me tell you something. No one knows how to make clothes for the obese male. The crotches hang down at the knees and the polyester shirts hug every inch of a fleshy belly. The Fashion Police would have hauled me off had they been around at the time.
It was okay, though. I knew the tactic many overweight people adopt—become the class clown. I was given this opportunity in the school’s theater program, which I was majoring in, and quickly got accepted in via my role as “the funny fat kid.”
It was in Boca Raton that I implemented a brilliant plan: If you don’t look like a model, hang around kids who do. I subconsciously sought out and befriended every “beautiful” person on campus. Little did I realize I was shunning the other “real-life” kids—in other words, I was doing to them exactly what I felt like everyone had always done to me.
I became friends with Kathi-Jo DeMilia and Doreen DeNigris—two of the most sought after beauties at school. This made me “cool” in everyone’s eyes—especially my own. No one thought I could actually be dating either of those gorgeous ladies, but still, people wondered, “Why are those hot girls hanging out with him?”
I now had friends and earned accolades by standing out—in terms of talent and literally—in Lynn’s theater program, but I still resorted to my secret food addiction when no one was looking. I maintained the same pattern I’d started with my parents, even though they were thousands of miles away. I never let anyone see me eat. Not breakfast. Not lunch. Not dinner. Not in-between meal snacks. Even though my meals were paid for as part of my tuition, and despite the fact that our campus was isolated and I didn’t have a car, I never once ate at the college cafeteria.
Instead, I ordered food from the school’s snack bar and took it back to my room and gorged myself, or I ordered from the local pizza delivery and did the same.
College Gregg’s Typical Binge
1 large Italian Submarine Sandwich with Everything
1 large Philly-Style Cheese-Steak Sandwich
4 bags of Barbecue Potato Chips
3 large Lemonades
4 large Chocolate Chip Cookies
6 packs of Bubble Yum Watermelon Flavored Gum
My roommate, George, who was there on a student visa from Singapore, worked quite a bit and usually wasn’t around. Whenever he was, I would take my food to a stall in the dormitory’s giant communal bathroom. I wonder to this day if people using the bathroom realized where the smell of food was coming from. There I would sit—yes, on the toilet—stuffing food down my throat and using toilet paper for napkins. It was quite glamorous.
I was sure that no one knew I ate. I was convinced I was fooling everyone.
The ultimate milestone in making everyone realize I was “foxy for a fat kid” was when I became roommates with the best looking guy on campus, a model from Kentucky named Tom. At last, I thought, I was one of the beautiful people. And despite my delusional thinking, a strange thing occurred: With those new friends, I became surprisingly more active and even—dare I say—happy.
Then something even more surprising, something quite wonderful, happened. Without dieting, without monitoring my weight, without even consciously exercising, I began to shed weight.
I went from a 3XXX (“tent size” to the uninitiated) to a regular XL. For the first time in my life I was able to wear a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, the unofficial school uniform for any guy who deemed himself worthy at Lynn University.
Of course, Ralph Lauren polo shirts required major bucks, something I had little of. My mother rarely sent me money. I couldn’t even afford shampoo most of the time. That’s when I started shoplifting—from one manifestation of addiction to the next.
Committed to “fitting in” no matter what, I was determined to “own” some Ralph Lauren polo shirts of my own, and I did it the only way I knew how, via the “five finger discount.” I’m not sure if that temporary bout of shoplifting was just immature kid stuff or another way of crying out for help.
Either way, help never came.
I thought I was happy. And in a way I was. Except for the times when I’d visit either of my parents. That was something I had to do because Lynn University, being a private college, would shut down for school breaks. No students were allowed to be on campus during those breaks, much less reside in the dorms.
My dad was now working as a civilian and living in Boston, married to Bonnie the flight attendant, who was pregnant with my half-sister, Nicole. Once Nicole was born, anytime during my visits when the four of us were out in public, people would assume that Bonnie and I were the couple and that Dad was the grandfather to my baby sister.
Dad was never thrilled with my visits, and Bonnie was even less excited. I was desperate to become a “member” of their family, but they wanted little to do with me.
One Thanksgiving break, Dad didn’t want to pay for my transportation to Boston from Florida. He suggested that I hitchhike.
At first I thought Dad was joking around. When it became evident that he wasn’t, I was horrified, given that hitchhiking 1,500 miles from South Florida to Boston would be pretty risky for all sorts of reasons. I wondered if my dad had even considered the danger involved. Whether he had or hadn’t, his suggestion remained very unsettling.
Visiting my mom was even weirder. Lori had been suffering from Mom’s direct abuse since I wasn’t around to shield her anymore, and she had run away from home. I learned that Lori was eventually placed with a foster family in the greater Wiesbaden area in Germany.
The story my mother told was that Lori had turned to drugs and had become a terror to live with. Lori’s version was more chilling; tales of my mother flying into uncontrollable rages and hunting Lori down when she would try to escape, at one point even attempting to run her down with a car.
Since I was staying with Mom while visiting, Lori chose not to see me, which I understood. But that meant it was just me, alone with my mom, which presented numerous challenges. The main one was that my mom continued to be embarrassed by my size. I had plateaued at XL and was now starting to gain weight again. Even if we were just running to the grocery store, she would suggest I not go, or if I did, she would want me to dress as nicely as possible, so as to look more “presentable.”
Whenever we ran into someone she knew, she wouldn’t introduce me.
I didn’t care. For the most part we were getting along. I didn’t mind corroborating her lies, like her continued lowering of her age over the summer, as long as she showed me a bit of affection from time to time.
And most of that affection came in the form of edible goods. She kept a full pantry of food for me whenever I was “home” in Germany during school breaks. It was as if she was willing to play along with my sickness as long as I was willing to play along with hers. I ate like a king. Actually, like a big fat king and his entire court. Forget ballooning back into a size 2XX. I was now bordering on 3XXX territory again. Don’t let the “triple X” fool you. Nothing about my girth was sexy.
In the spring of my sophomore year at Lynn University my mother stopped writing, stopped calling, and stopped sending money. I was broke and started bouncing checks in order to get by. Finally, I called my dad to ask for help. I learned that he was sending my mom almost $300 per month for my individual, court-ordered child support. Only she wasn’t sending me a cent of it. Thankfully, after checking with his divorce attorney, my father started funneling the settlement earmarked for my well-being directly to me.
My mother was furious and begged Dad to change his mind, telling him I would waste the money on drugs; apparently at that point both my sister and I were both drug addicts.
I will admit to being addicted, just not to drugs. Sure, I smoked a joint in college every now and then. I got my “first high” in the middle of a stage production—not a good thing, albeit a funny one. I got the giggles so bad I soon had everyone on stage laughing hysterically, all while in the middle of a “serious” play written by Mr. King, the head of the drama department, who wasn’t the slightest bit amused by my villainous character coming down with a case of the giggles in the middle of Act I.
But even so, my addiction wasn’t to drugs. It was to cheese, to pizza, to burgers, all eaten quietly while no one was looking. I would wait for my roommate to fall asleep in our tiny dorm room before partaking of snacks of any sorts. I would then take out the wrappers from the trash before dawn to hide all proof of my binge.
I put on even more weight. Was it being added to keep my parents away? If so, it worked. I was no longer invited “home” to Germany by my mom, and Bonnie wanted nothing to do with me, either. This meant my father also stopped inviting me to his place in Boston for school breaks.
There was just one problem: the campus would still close down, as did the dorms. So I began spending holidays and school breaks sleeping in public places like airports or bus terminals, or with the occasional kind soul who would let me sleep on the floor in their home. One such person was the head of the drama department, Mr. King.
I know this sounds so melodramatic, but I’m truly surprised I did not end up in more serious trouble with as many nights as I spent sleeping—or trying to sleep—in public places.
However, if the opportunity arose, I’d avoid sleeping in public places by becoming an intrusive guest to any Good Samaritan who had room on his or her living room floor for me to crash. This mostly equated to kindhearted teachers or college administrators (people I barely knew) since none of my friends at school lived locally and would return to their homes in other states whenever the campus was shut down.
STUDENT BODIES
When it was time to transfer up to Florida State University and I needed a rental car to transport my belongings, I had to ask the head of the athletic department to let me use her credit card in order to rent the car. I had no idea that you couldn’t rent a car with just cash. I was stuck at the rental car lot without any other options.
Florida State University was an environment like no other. And Tallahassee was nothing like Boca Raton. Compared to Lynn University’s easily accessible student population of 500, FSU touted over 22,000 students.
Finding the attractive people to befriend in order to fool the world, in my mind, into accepting me as a “normal person” was going to be difficult.
Initially, I thought I had lucked out when Tom (my great-looking roomie) and Kathi-Jo (one of the sought-after beauties) had transferred to FSU, as well. But both were quickly scooped up by fraternities and sororities, neither of which wanted anyone fat as a member.
It’s humiliating to hear people mock your weight, sometimes when standing right next to you. Didn’t they know that a human being lived beneath those layers of fat? Weren’t they aware that a heart beat under the blubber? What that cruel Greek population at FSU couldn’t see was how terribly small I felt despite my size. My armor of humor crumbled here as I tried to find my place in strange and unfriendly surroundings.
I was majoring in Communications with a minor in Theater, and so I thought I could make a decent impression with my old tricks of being the class clown with a decent singing voice. However, there were over 3,000 of us trying to get noticed within the FSU School of Theatre. The vehicle I was sure would allow me to get noticed in a good way was the school’s Mainstage production of The Boy Friend. For the first time, I found the auditioning process daunting.
I needed a standout role in order to “win over” the audience as well as my new classmates, but most of the roles in that musical were for fit young men. Those weighing in at just under 400 pounds need not apply. I was fortunate to get cast in the small role of the Garçon (the waiter), an honor given the amount of people who were auditioning and my being new in the program, I was told.
How was I going to make an impression with only five minutes of stage time?
None of the cool kids in the theater department wanted anything to do with me. There were other class clowns already taking center stage—thin and attractive class clowns.
Being depressed about my weight, I did the only thing I knew how to do . . . eat.
I sat in my room and counted the minutes until 4:00 p.m. every day, when the local pizza and sandwich delivery places started delivering to the campus (heaven forbid I walk to any of those places). Every day at 4:01 p.m., I would order a truckload of food.
I’d make sure to order enough food for four, and also enough drinks for four—thinking the delivery driver would then assume it wasn’t all for me—as if the delivery drivers cared. I put on more weight very quickly.
How quickly? I soon weighed over 400 pounds. The only clothes that fit were two pairs of sweat pants and a couple of oversized shirts. The sweat pants were awful, but nobody made jeans in my size.
Dormitory Gregg’s Typical Binge
1 large Pizza with Everything
1 large Italian Hoagie with Everything
1 large bag of Barbecue Potato Chips
A variety of Candy Bars from the vending machines
1 large carton of Chocolate Milk
6-pack of Pepsi
I was now so fat my penis was literally retracted into my pelvis (due to my enormous stomach that engulfed my groin). I resorted to stuffing a sock or two into my crotch so the world would know I was male. I also maintained the beard I had grown during my last year at Lynn University.
I tried desperately to be “foxy for a fat kid,” but it wasn’t working anymore. I was huge. I was sweaty. I felt ugly. Therefore I was ugly. At least in my mind.
After six months I managed to land a “beautiful-person” friend in Tallahassee. She was a short, voluptuous bombshell named Elizabeth, with big brown hair, big blue eyes, and big, curvy breasts. Bigger than my big “man” breasts, in fact. Men would walk into walls staring at her chest.
Elizabeth had the personality of a saint and a maniac rolled into one. She was never embarrassed to be seen with me; I knew people were impressed when they saw me with her. Despite my initial selfish reason for befriending her, a genuine friendship blossomed between us.
But I continued to eat. Oh sure, I tried to diet. For about eight hours every Monday. And sometimes on Tuesday. Often on Wednesday. Never on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, though. That was too close to the following Monday, any dieter’s favorite day to “start.” I tried every diet known at the time—multiple times.
College-Aged Gregg’s Attempted Diet Plans
The Atkins Diet
Ayds Reducing Plan Vitamin and Mineral Candy
The Cabbage Soup Diet
Dexatrim
Diet Pills (both prescribed and over-the-counter)
The Grapefruit Diet
Optifast
The Rice Diet
The Scarsdale Diet
Slim-Fast
I even went to Overeaters Anonymous a few times, but found the small group of people were too familiar with each other and that I, as an outsider, wasn’t really welcome. Today I know that was my reflection on one particular group and that I could have tried another group at another meeting time or day. But I didn’t.
No matter what diet I began, regardless of the day I began it, after about eight hours I’d drive up to a drive-through window in my used Chevy Chevette and order enough food for a medium-sized family.
Then I’d return to my private living space where I would force the food down until it hurt. If there was anything left over, I would throw it away, convinced I would successfully begin my diet the following day.
Gregg’s Typical Drive-Through Binge
MENU I
2 Quarter Pounders
1 Big Mac with extra Sauce
1 Filet-O-Fish Sandwich (to eat in the car on the way home)
2 large French Fries
1 box Mini Chocolate Chip Cookies
2 large Chocolate Shakes
4 Diet Cokes
MENU II
2 Double-Patty Whoppers with Extra Mayonnaise
2 large orders of Onion Rings
1 large order of French Fries
1 Chicken Sandwich
1 regular Cheeseburger (to eat in the car on the way home)
2 Chocolate Shakes
4 Diet Cokes
MENU III
1 whole Barbecued Chicken
1 large order Barbecued Spare Ribs
1 large order of Mashed Potatoes
1 large order of Biscuits
1 large order of Coleslaw
3 pieces of Mud Pie
4 Diet Cokes
I found that Elizabeth had an addiction, too, just not to food, though we joked that our version of sex was sharing the chocolate fudge cake at Jerry’s Diner.
Elizabeth’s addiction was to committed men. Whether it was the married, engaged, or simply having a steady girlfriend, these committed men would constantly turn their attention to her; and Elizabeth found this attention difficult to resist. Between my obesity and her dalliances we often found ourselves very alone. Luckily we got to spend that “alone time” together.
Elizabeth was a truly kindhearted soul. And she had a roommate, Gwen, who was very obese. Like me, Gwen was constantly dieting and bingeing and she was also the “funny girl.” Once she tried to join the Navy because she liked their uniforms. I guess she didn’t realize white garments weren’t the best fashion choice for the normal-size-challenged.
The Navy wouldn’t let Gwen join because of her weight.
Elizabeth, Gwen, and I became quite the threesome. As a member of this jolly trio I was looking forward to the time my mom’s boyfriend-of-the-minute, John, was coming to town to visit me for a few days. I decided the four of us would go out for dinner.
Little did I know that all through dinner, John was coming onto Elizabeth by playing “footsie” under the table and that he even propositioned her later that night over the phone. Elizabeth hadn’t wanted to tell me—but she finally did.
I was disgusted with John. But it got worse.
The next day, John and I were at brunch by ourselves. I was not bringing up the fact that I knew he was making passes at Elizabeth, but in an attempt to make him uncomfortable, I kept the topic of conversation on my mom.
Only my strategy backfired when the discomfort turned out to be my own thanks to John talking about how my mom loved me just like I was her own child—as if I weren’t adopted.
I couldn’t believe it. My mom was still telling people I wasn’t her real son. I pretended that I suddenly felt ill and told John that I had to leave the restaurant. As soon as I was alone, I called Elizabeth. She consoled me as best she could.
Later that night Elizabeth and I got together, over dinner, to discuss the problems with my mother, my belly, and Elizabeth’s love life.
Meanwhile, Gwen, who was nowhere near as large as I was, still struggled with her weight, and finally announced that she was going to take drastic measures and have her stomach stapled.
Everyone in Gwen’s life, including Elizabeth, thought it was a wonderful idea. I was the only one who didn’t. I felt like it was unnatural to have a metal puncture put into your stomach in order to stop eating so much.
