The Weight Of It All (Part 1)

From my earliest memory I never liked school. The time commitment always bothered me. Being forced to give up a minimum of eight hours of my day (not including any after school related activities), five days a week, was too much time for me to willingly want to give up. From the time I was a child, I dreamed up all the things I’d much rather do with my time. I absolutely took my freedom to heart completely.

I used to bring my remote-controlled cars to class in kindergarten because I believed I had the right to have play time while in class. On one instance in particular, I didn’t even wait for recess. I nonchalantly unzipped my neon colored book bag and proceeded to drive my toy car around the class until the teacher grabbed the controller from me–much to my disappointment. It wasn’t until after I did it that I realized why no other student did such a thing. The good ole days.

I never did agree with voluntarily placing yourself in this confined space filled with other people your age that you’re coerced to acquaint yourself with lest you be deemed socially defective. Am I the only person that hates to be forced to conform to society’s perception of what’s acceptable? I’ve always preferred to blaze my own path. I do not mind following others to an extent. Following can be a good thing. It allows you to get yourself started and prevent yourself from making those early mistakes that come with not having any set experience in something. But after you gain a foothold in the subject you are pursuing, I think it’s more than acceptable to start experimenting with how you want to run things. That is how I always felt about myself in relation to a stifling classroom environment. Being in a class with 30 other people where all we really do is follow the leader (the teacher) never suited me. Through it all, I was never a class disruptor. I never got in any kind of trouble or suspensions. I suppressed everything I felt in the rooms of my mind. Silently. While in class anyway.

It’s not all bad though. There is a lot of good to be uncovered. I say it like that, because I had to look for aspects that I found agreeable. Probably the best aspect, even more so than the learning, are the friendships that are made. The wealth of opportunity that exists in developing both verbal and non-verbal communication skills is not to be ignored. Being in close proximity to so many people of varying backgrounds and beliefs is probably the most interesting facet of all my years spent in a class. I used to love sitting back and listening to all the open dialogue that took place between the other students and the teacher. I spent this time developing my power of information absorption. I really learned self-awareness and drew out the corresponding correlations between open communication, and the ability to problem solve. It is assets such as these which one can continually build upon and take with them wherever they go.

I may be wrong, but I like to think that what benefitted me most was studying those subjects I didn’t like. That formulated my boundaries. If you know what you like and don’t like, you learn more about yourself. Seeking one’s self is another key takeaway that I grabbed from class. At a time in my life where I was under great emotional duress (due to the breakup of my parents), school did serve as a much-needed distraction. Though I would have preferred many more hours spent inside of a book rather than a class, the form, rigid as it is, did, provide me consistency and structure.

Studying mandatory subjects like foreign languages or biology or chemistry made me very uncomfortable, because at least during my teen years, I had no interest in them. The significance of this is I was forced to go to those places inside myself I feared the most. School teaches you to dig deep and truly “go there” inside yourself because you’re forced to do a lot of things you don’t want to do. When I studied something I couldn’t stand, it was always hard for me to concentrate efficiently. If only I had known then what I know now–the power of asking questions. Things like, “What about this class or subject matter drives you the craziest? Is there any way you can turn this around to your favor?” When you pose yourself a question, you will invariably get a response. That’s the miracle of the mind. Sometimes to solve a problem, reinventing the wheel is not what is needed. It is not always about creating a new path. If you can bend, twist, or turn the problem at hand, that alone can be enough. This is actually one of the techniques I used to change my image. Allow me to explain.

As you are aware of, as you grow older, things begin to change inside you. Certain priorities begin to take shape. You start paying attention to things that subsequently weren’t of importance. In this particular example, for myself, I’m referring to my looks. I found myself looking in the mirror more. I cannot say precisely what prompted this, but I remember the most noticeable influence of it from the most unlikely of places: the men’s bathroom. When I transitioned into high school, the guys in the bathroom did things I never used to see in middle school bathrooms. Things like: combing their hair or fixing their shirt collars. I saw guys, many of them popular, and older than me, actively paying attention to their appearance in the mirror. They took time to fix themselves up between class making themselves more attractive to the fairer sex. This behavior was quite peculiar to me as a ninth grader, because I never had a male figure tell me about things such as this. The more I saw this, the more things started to change inside myself.

This was something new and exciting because it was totally foreign. Changes were occurring that made me want to do what they were doing. I wanted to feel “inclusion.” Up to high school, I would dress for class and then leave the house never once checking the mirror. As a pre-teen, going to the bathroom and checking my appearance in the mirror never crossed my mind. The only time I really used a mirror was while brushing my teeth. Clean white teeth have always been a priority of mine–my mother saw to that early on.

Speaking of mom, she always kept me in the nicest designerclothes available. Even before I began paying attention to the mirror, nothing in my closet was “off brand.” She and my dad spared no expense making sure I wore nothing less than Polo Ralph Lauren, or Nautica, or Tommy Hilfiger. Back in the late 90’s, this was the style in my upper-middle class environment, so I always looked the part as one of the popular kids, even though I never was one.

Around the time these changes started, another weight began to form inside myself. It is something that had been there for years. I only kept it off to the margins because there was enough on my plate. As I looked at other guys looking in the mirror, it made me intensely introspective, and sharpened my self-awareness regarding my physical look. A new link was developed in my pursuit to find out what it meant to become a man. In my inductive ways, any time a new indicator was discovered, a trigger was formed. A new lever would be constructed. And plans would be drawn up so that I could execute a program of steps that my mind would instinctively follow.

It was also around this time when I frequented the local newsstand. I began to show an interest in men’s grooming & fashion. The paragon source of information for me in that area would be GQ Magazine–More on that to come.

At that time, I began to come to grips with something that had been bothering me. I previously hadn’t taken any action to change things. Even though immediate physical action on my part to force drastic change did not follow until almost my senior year, new ideas began to take shape.

One of these ideas being that I was highly insecure. Unbeknownst to me, for years, I was uncertain about myself because deep down, I despised myself. This carried through over to my neat appearance. I used clothes as my “mask” to hide my insecurities. It dawned on me that not only did I hate how I looked, I hated how I felt about myself. The burden of carrying extra weight constantly reminded me that I ate more than I needed to. All the food insulated me from my ongoing depression.

I justified it in my mind telling myself that as soon as I stopped being depressed, I would eat better and increase my daily physical activity beyond one period of gym class. Thing is, that day never came, because I failed to take appropriate action. I liked the idea of being lighter and less round, but that by itself wasn’t enough. Not yet. I wanted to do something about it, but I was not yet ready to put in the work. I had not yet hit bottom. I was walking closer toward the edge and would stare down to the bottom when I finally got there, before a stiff breeze would knock me down to my knees forcing me to change.

I sat back, ate some more, and waited a few years, before seeing the absolute need to force out a change. I progressed from a 5th grader carrying a few extra pounds to a Junior in High School with an ever-expanding waistline of 38″ and climbing. The size 38″ jeans I wore to class were so snug that my waist had marks from the waistband. Climbing sets of steps with a bookbag full of oversize textbooks became an exercise in attrition. Knee and ankle pain had begun to make steady appearances. I just did not want to stop eating. Nothing could dull the emotional pain I was enduring, but food came close to filling that prescription. I knew full well I was eating too much. I snacked often and kept a sugar laden beverage in my hand. Things were quickly getting worse.

Beginning in my Sophomore year, it was getting harder to breathe ascending the steps to my classes. I dismissed those discomforts as a consequence of carrying an excessively heavy book bag and pre-class jitters (particularly on the day of an exam), but that’s not what it was at all. In conjunction with my severe allergies, I was developing asthma, and pre-cursors to diabetes. During a routine check-up when my physician shared the results of some tests with me, I waved it off. I still hadn’t had enough. As my waist continued to expand I noticed a commensurate increase with my physical discomfort. I say physical, primarily, because as much as I despised my appearance, I had not yet hit rock bottom. There would come a time when I would look at what I’d become and say enough is enough, but I was not yet there.

No matter how depressed I was, I could have a party in my mouth anytime I wanted. The United States is incredible. I am blessed to have been born and raised in a country where food is so easily accessible, that it takes real will power not to succumb completely to its intoxicating allure. People don’t really sit and think… no matter where you live in the U.S., you are never more than a few minutes away from clean, fresh, delicious food! We literally don’t even have to cook! I used to go into a grocery store as a kid and look at all the food as if it was my duty to eat it all. The taste buds of my eyes made love (and still do!) to everything in the dessert aisle. Each trans-fatty paradise more alluring than the last. We can’t let any of this saturated goodness go to waste!

Now, I never grew to a point where I could take down an an entire store, but I tried to take out more than a couple Chinese Buffets. This really is all a miracle. We don’t have to grow anything. We don’t have to water or plant anything. The only indignity most of us suffer from is choosing what to eat and then waiting for it to cook. And even that is a joyous sense of anticipation. I don’t know how more of us aren’t fat.

The problem for me was I did not eat to live. I lived to eat.

This all took place before I had any concept of calories, carbs, fats, etc. I exempted myself from reading anything having to do with health and nutrition because deep down I knew I was breaking every law having to do with being salubrious. Like Fleetwood Mac, I told myself sweet little lies. Things like: I was a growing boy that needed to eat and eat a lot. This is how I rationalized it to myself. It was an easy painless lie, or so I told myself.

How she did it I do not know, but every night after work, my mother found the relentless reserve of energy to cook the best homemade meals–from pot roast to southern fried chicken and macaroni & cheese. On those nights when she didn’t feel like cooking, the drive-thru was the failsafe. I never waited though. Nothing prevented me from over eating during snack time, which happened to be several times a day. In my mind, the drive-thru was a place of worship, and the dinner table was the altar. Vegetables were eaten purely out of obligation. My mother always prepared generous amounts of cabbage, greens, mixed vegetables–everything was fresh. But fruits were out of the question. Why would I want to eat fruits when I could eat fruit flavored candy? Mom implored me for years to eat my oranges and apples, but I could hardly bring myself to do so. They were too basic, plain, and boring tasting. Now, I did gorge myself on orange and apple fruit juices as they were filled with sugar, which made them taste more like candy, and less like the fruits on which they’re based. Natural food just didn’t engage my taste buds like junk food. In theory, I like the idea of eating healthier. But I loved the idea of pouring gravy on my biscuits even more.

My daily ritual was coming home from school and getting my favorite mug of milk before filling it with chocolate chip cookies or lemon cookies. Sugar had a way of temporarily calming my anxiety, so I used it as emotional stress relief.

Food went from being a source of nutrition and nourishment to being a fun activity. It became a friend.

Something that I could always count on with unbeatable reliability because it’s so convenient. And unlike living breathing friends, food can’t talk. Food can’t give an opinion. It was my party and the venue was my mouth and the after party my belly. With the easy-going nature of such an arrangement, is there any wonder why there are so many people struggling with their weight, and therefore their health? I was in a relationship with food. If that’s not bad enough, I was in relationships with the most unhealthy foods!

I had developed emotional attachments to my favorite foods because the most important pre-requisite of all was taste. The only fruit I was snacking on was of the artificial variety, as in fruit flavored candies. Once I got home, I kept a fruit drink or a soda in my hand. If it had copious amounts of sugar in it, I drank it. I never drank water. I avoided water, vegetables, fresh fruits, and whole grains like the plague. As far as whole food went, it was all about red meat and fast-digesting starches. After that came the post-dinner/pre-bedtime snack. It was common for me to buy a box of honey buns, and snack on a couple of those a day, washing them down with a 20oz soda. I’d have one of each after dinner. At the time it tasted so good, but now, I wouldn’t touch my old eating habits with a ten-foot fork.

I was chemically and emotionally addicted. I truly loved sugar, and my body reflected that. Food was my refuge. My crutch. Developing emotional ties to my favorite foods made the links all the harder to break. Over my middle/high school years, it was not long before I grew out of my clothes. I wasn’t growing “up.” I was growing out. I was moving into the Large, and eventually, the Extra-Large Men’s clothes. By the time I reached the 11th grade, I was a size 38 waist at my current height of 5’6″. As my senior year approached, I began to imagine how much better I would feel about myself if I slimmed down. I began to formulate how I really wanted to look. As my Junior year progressed, the imagining would happen more and more frequently. Change was afoot. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had almost had enough.

During the summer after the 11th grade, I had my wake-up call. I had grown out to the heaviest weight of my life. Things started out innocuously enough. I did not know I was in for a major shift. If was an exciting Saturday morning for me. I packed my bag the night before. We were going to see grandma! My mother would make the drive throughout our school year too, but it was always better when school was out. With no homework to do or exams to prepare for, I could cut loose and do what I wanted whether it was play one of the videogame systems I brought with me or listen to grandma’s timeless stories about the good ol’ days way back when. She lived about 90 miles southeast of Durham, NC in a small town called Mount Olive (home of Mt. Olive Pickles). Traffic on a Saturday morning in the piedmont section of NC on I-40 eastbound was almost always nonexistent. On average, the trip would take about 90 minutes to make from our home in Durham.

Another benefit of this drive would be to stop by a favorite McDonald’s on the way in the town of Fuquay Varina, right off the interstate. This particular McDonald’s served among the finest fries I’ve ever tasted in my life every time we stopped by there on the way to grandma’s. As you can tell, there was much for me to look forward to. My mother’s mother always looked forward to having us over for the weekend. I always enjoyed her company, her good cooking, and her wisdom about life. Unfortunately, my grandfather passed away not too long before I was born. I would listen with compassioned focus whenever she told me anything having to do with her beloved Connie. Her love for him was as timeless as it was impenetrable. Not a day passes where I don’t find myself regretting that I failed to meet and know this remarkable man.

Upon arrival, I had a ritual I engaged in. Even as a child of elementary age I always did this. After hugging my grandma, I would go to a bedroom and sit my bags down on the floor. Soon as that was finished, if I didn’t have to use the bathroom first, I would step on her scale and weigh myself. I remember stepping on her scale when I weighed less than 50 lbs. This was a habit for me because I was always curious about what the number would say this time. Despite not making any dietary changes, I began to pay attention to these numbers on the scale the older I got. My self-awareness was beginning to bloom more and more.

I never made a true effort to lose weight but I faithfully kept tabs on my weight every time I went to grandma’s. I remember reaching the 140’s then the 150’s and 160’s and so on. Through the years, I kept getting heavier and heavier, but I never did anything about it, other than consume more food. My clothes were getting tighter and my thighs became more intimate with one another as in the constant chafing that happened with every step I took, particularly walking up stairs. Still, I wasn’t ready to let food go. I wanted to be slim, but the benefit of good tasting food outweighed the innumerable health benefits on the other side.

This time, when I stepped on the scale, something happened. I weighed myself dozens of times prior to that day, but I never elicited the reaction from myself I was about to experience. It was visceral. It had a shape and weight of its’ own. Things were different this time. A flash of white paper appeared in my head. I remember seeing a white room with a white desk, piled high with thousands of pieces of blank paper. It is as if a light switch came on inside my head, lighting up an undiscovered pathway of change. I was having one of those life changing moments again, but this one was for the better, because it was coming from within.

When I stepped on the scale, I remember it just kept moving up higher and higher. This was one of those analog scales where the numbers would read more like a speedometer than a scale and boy!… was I speeding! Put the ticket on the dash and haul him in! The scale was a relic, but it was an accurate one. I just kept thinking to myself, when was it going to stop? It felt like the longest couple of seconds of my life. When it sped pass 200 lbs. I felt my heart flicker before my eyes. Then the needle rebounded back in the other direction and slowed to a crawl just short of 190 lbs. After my heart tumbled to the pit of my stomach, it finally stopped at 189 lbs.

I do not know what I expected to see or feel before I stepped on that scale. But seeing it… that number just appeared so massive to me. It felt gigantic. My mind saw it as a big mountain covering up the rays of the sun. I was confused. Befuddled. I felt ashamed. All these feelings were rushing to me at once. I do not even remember if I told my family what I weighted. I probably didn’t, because they were not the type to ask. This feeling of urgency washed over my mind. When I saw that number, I had enough. I knew I had to change. Within seconds, I knew I desperately needed to rebuild myself, from my mental health, to my physical health, to my self-esteem, self-confidence, etc. This was not a spark. This was an explosion. For the first time in a longtime, I felt my metabolism active. It literally ignited.

I became extremely hot. I now know it was adrenaline surging through my body. I was so ready to make a change that I was burning calories just standing there looking at that number.

I was seventeen then. Not yet fully grown, but no longer the eleven-year-old without the ways and means I once was. A mental change took immediate effect. That day marked the beginning of the biggest lifestyle change of my life. This entire weight loss process was birthed inside my mind. For all the miracle diets and exercise programs and rapid weight loss pills and creams–all that means nothing if your mind is not locked in and fully committed. The mind must be completely engaged and married to the purpose of YOU getting your body under your order. All that paper sitting on the desk that I visualized was being used now. I began printing that scale on the paper and seeing the number go from 189 to 185 to 181 to 177 and on and on… down! It was just like flicking a light switch. I decided that there was absolutely no way I would live to eat anymore. There was too much pain and embarrassment and shame to be associated with further inaction.

I would use all this white paper I printed and change my life. Permanently.

To be continued…

–Daniel Cousin

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