I was at work, in a call center, answering sales and customer service phone calls. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving 2009. As usual for a holiday, there was food in the break room. I ate a little more of the chips and onion dip than I should have. I also did not know how long the dip had been sitting out when I began eating. It had been awhile. By the time I got home that night, I felt horrible. Sort of Nauseous, but not throwing up. I had pain all over my gut. I thought it would pass in 24 hours like those kind of things usually do for me but by Saturday, I still felt bad.
And this was different. I felt like something was really wrong. Now, I am a hypochondriac so my wife was reassuring in a condescending sort of way that I would be fine. As a couple of days passed the only reason I did not feel horrible was that I had not eaten much at all. Not even on Thanksgiving day. I had lost my appetite.
My weight was somewhere a little over 260 pounds. At 47, I was beyond out of shape. I would get winded carrying the laundry up the stairs. I was taking two blood pressure medicines, and one for cholesterol as well as acid reflux. I was a mess. I finally had come to the point where my anxiety over my health outweighed my tendency to use food as an antidepressant.
More to come.
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