As the 70s became the 80s, my folks split. It started shortly after. I gained weight. Moderately at first, more later. I was always a big dude, so I was able to ‘wear it’ well enough. I was skilled at making people laugh, which masked its presence further. As my teens became my 20’s, I went from chubby to fat. Injuries and insecurity limited my movement. The pressure to achieve, drinking and smoking gave me other things to focus on. By the time I was deep into my 30s and my second professional career, I weighed over 350 lbs.
As 40 approached, my daily routine included walking from South Station to my office in Downtown Crossing. I walked fast, like city people learn is necessary. It was raining and cold even though it was mid-May. The building adjacent to mine was covered in mirrored glass and as I hurried past, I caught a glimpse of myself. More than a glimpse. It felt like slow motion. Out of breath from the 1/2 mile walk. Slouching forward from the weight of my belly. Sweating, even though it was cool. Unhappy.
Later that morning, at my desk, I read about the passing of Ronnie James Dio. The diminutive singer was a figurative giant in my world. His music with Rainbow, Black Sabbath and his solo catalog resonated with me more than most others. He held a firm spot on my musical Mount Rushmore, then and now.
A few weeks earlier, Peter Steele, singer and bassist for Type O Negative had also passed away. Counterpoint to Dio, Steele was literally larger than life. Though his music didn’t have the same depth of impact on me, he was super young. Only 48.
The 1-2 punch of their deaths, hit me hard. Dio was the crushing right hook that levels you unconscious, after being stunned by a taut, unexpected jab.
Between the visual of my hulking figure and the death of these two musicians, a Spider-Man like metamorphosis took place within me. I made an instant decision to change my lifestyle. I’d done it dozens of times before. Losing weight, only to gain back more. Joining a gym, only to quit. See-sawing between rigorous dieting and uncontrolled swaths of self-abuse.
That decision was 10 years ago today.
In the ensuing decade my struggle continued. I started slow, with simple walking and switching to black coffee. I’ve had periods of intense training and also lazy periods, some lasting months. But the changes took hold. I’m different now. The swings are milder and narrower. My body and mind are stronger. I became a runner at age 42. I became a decent cook, and learned that preparing food with love is one path to satiety. I’ve learned about the miracles of my body. I’ve learned how my mind works. I can recognize its machinations, patterns and habitual reactivity. I’ve cultivated new, better habits.
I’ll never be super fit or even svelte. I also understand there is no finish line. I’ll be conscious of my weight and most likely struggle each and every day until I’m gone.
In the last few months we’ve experienced change as a society that feels unprecedented. Seemingly out of nowhere, everything is different. But in reality, impermanence is the foundation of all things.
Though it feels jarring, the truth is this type of fundamental change is around every corner and available to all of us in each and every moment. We can make new decisions anytime we decide. Because of that, I understand no matter what happens during my struggle, I’m never more than one decision away from being a healthy eater again.
It’s a hidden truth. It’s beauty and freedom lurking just below the surface. Like the lotus, initially concealed by mud.
Like a rainbow in the dark.
