The Internal Politics of Failure as characterized by A Giant Shitsack Of Inedible Crap

This is a bag from one of last week's food benders. Here's the thing... I don't even like Taco John's.

Chapter 2: largely because I am encouraged and emboldened by the responses to chapter 1. In fact, the love and support that came pouring through the internets was truly overwhelming... I found my eyes full of water, which seemed odd to me until I remembered that I am a soft-hearted sentimental slob who regularly weeps at commercials. God forbid I should "accidentally" watch Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Anyway, thank you to all of my dear friends and family. Welcome aboard.

Since yesterday was a really good day eating-wise (I'm feeling a bit like Weight-Loss Superman), I think I can safely delve into the times that aren't so good without charging full-tilt-boogie into the depression and self-loathing that, for me, often accompany failure.

First of all, I have found that I needed to clearly define what failure really means. In past attempts to change my behaviors in positive ways, any deviation from the new course, any return to the habits I was trying to eliminate, I considered a "failure." And that was it. Game over, man, game over. Clearly, since I could not stay the course, I was doomed forever to be whatever it was that I was trying not to be... drunk, high, fat, stupid, ugly... whatever. So, when I was defining failure as the end of an attempt at something better, it allowed me to continue the unhealthy behavior unabated... and gave me the perfect way to rationalize it to myself. "You cannot stop. You have tried to stop, and look what happened. You failed. You failed again. Ergo, you are a useless piece of crap with no hope of redemption. Quod erat demonstrandum, Watson. Now go get us a crate of burritos."

I joke about it, because from a sober perspective... well, that kind of circular, self-defeating thinking sounds completely insane. But that really is the way I thought. I could continue to do the terrible things to myself that I had always done, and all I had to do was be miserable and hate myself. Eventually, though, I could simply no longer live that way. I don't want to hate myself. I don't want to be miserable. And, somewhere deep down under all the layers of shit, all the shields built of comfortable anguish, there is a human being with all of the desirable, redemptive qualities that I love and admire in other people. In recent years, it has become time to really let him out. It was time, and is time, to be the man that I always wanted to be... but was too terrified.

Oh, boy. That last sentence brought back a memory of one of the many summers I spent in Atlanta with my grandfather, Newt. He and my grandmother Sarah had the best house in the world, and in that house was a magical collection of Pogo comics. Grandpa and I read them together, and I read them alone, over and over again. In the strip that comes to mind now, Pogo the possum had come upon a young raccoon. The poor thing had created a huge mess, but only with the best of intentions... helping his mother to do the laundry, maybe. I don't remember. Anyway, in the last panel, the tearful young raccoon said to Pogo, "I just want to be the best kind of man that a rackety-coon chile can be." That statement resonated deeply with Grandpa, and with me. He would say it to me many times throughout my youth, and even into my adulthood. "Just be the best kind of man that a rackety-coon chile can be." Oh, HELL. There's that damnable eye-water again. I better get back on track before this whole thing goes off the rails.

SO! It is necessary for me to redefine failure, because it is going to happen. I am not going to saunter up to the plate and knock one out of the park every time I come up to bat. What I have to do now is to let that be all right with me. But not too all right. There's balance involved. A failure, defined as a return to a habit that I find undesirable, must be considered part of the journey. Not the end of it. That sounds pretty simple and straightforward, right? Seriously, though, I feel as though I've discovered some great secret, this huge amazing thing... I want to shout it from rooftops. I sense you out there, you people who maybe aren't as internally trashed as I have been. You are smiling patiently, and saying "Yes, Steve. Yes, we knew that. Everybody knew that." Well, goody gumdrops. I didn't. But I do now... and that's some useful knowledge, let me tell you.

Now that we understand failure as just a rocky bit of road instead of a headlong plunge off of the Cliffs of Insanity, I want to talk specifically about how I fail. My road gets rocky at night. I discovered after becoming sober that I am a morning person. Who knew? I am at my best and strongest in the morning, and can continue along a fine path in a clean and well-lighted place well into the evening. It's after the sun goes down that things tend to get a bit hinky with me. That is when the stress of the day works its way to the surface, when my feet hurt and my back hurts and my bursitis is flaring up and my nose itches and that guy just cut me off and you get the idea. Also, I tend to spend my nights alone. Sometimes it takes hours after work or a meeting until I'm ready to go to sleep... and that's too much time. In the 12-step program that I use to stay sober, there are a lot of sayings designed to keep us mindful. One that applies here is, "When you're alone in your head, you're in a bad neighborhood." That is certainly true for me, especially at night. So, to medicate myself and escape from the discomfort that I feel at night, here is what I like to do: go get way too much quasi-food from Taco John's or McDonald's and just plow into it. Now, the crazy thing is this: I don't really even like that food. The food that I really like is healthy food. I ate tofu wraps yesterday, and Odwalla Superfood juice, and it was crazy good. Delicious. What I do is lust after fast food. I like it in secret, snuck into the house and consumed in quiet, sick joy. So what I want to do, and have been trying to do, is be mindful of what's really going on when I yield to those compulsions. I want to study what I think and feel in those times, and afterwards, so that I can decrease the frequency of the binges over time. Clearly, because I still engage in that behavior, some facet of it still works for me. Some need or desire is still being fulfilled, albeit unhealthily. If I can identify the specific desire that I'm quelling with awful food, maybe I can find a healthy alternative some of the time.

I will be mindful. When I eat in an unhealthy way, I will do so with intention and honesty. I will understand that I am not worthless because of it. I will know why I don't want to continue eating that way, what the consequences will be and (very importantly) what good things will come when I decide to engage in healthy behavior instead. And, as an added measure of accountability, I will tell everyone reading this about it when I decide to fang down an entire rucksack full of tacos de la basura. To finish this already absurdly long-winded chapter, I leave you with a quote that I thought was by Goethe, but may actually be by W. H. Murray and inspired by Goethe... whatever. It's cool and inspirational. Here it go:

Until one is committed there is always hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issue from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would come his way. Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, magic and power in it. Begin it now.

Steve "Big Daddy" Hodgson

February the second, 2010

305.6 pounds