I had fully intended to open with a line akin to “And that was when I decided that perhaps it wasn’t the smartest course of action to kill myself.”

But that’s hyperbole, right?

It’s not like I had ever given serious thought to one of dozens of ways that I could end their life, from pills and guns to maybe a local bridge or a quick cut in the bath. Nope. I had definitely not thought of a single one of those avenues as a means of prematurely shuffling off.

Instead, I got clever.

Because, you know, I can be clever.

Already, you doubt.

But seriously.

Right proper clever, even.

Not content with an accelerated exit, I determined my option would be to drag it out for my entire life, from which I would systematically trim the end, all the while making sure that the time I had left was filled with embarrassment, regret, and a necessary aversion to doing the things I genuinely wanted to do.

I don’t drink.

I don’t smoke.

I just eat.

Oh, and I don’t exercise.

I’ve always loathed the phrase “morbidly obese”, though as a term to describe a condition, it is brutally blunt and entirely accurate. And for nearly my entire life, I have been wholly within its definition.

As a kid, I was the heavyweight one trying to be an invisible extrovert. Armored with self-deprecation, my desire has always been to make the conversation about the other person – for fear it might swing back and, perish forbid, uncover the black hole I allowed to exist at my core.

And as the years went by, I just got bigger. Working from home over the internet is brilliant for that. You get comfortable, you get sedentary, you work long hours, and you rationalize away the time you’re not taking to prevent the creeping death that awaits a life of poor choices.

It’s so much easier to slide down that path when my genetics decided that I’d avoid high blood pressure. And diabetes. And many of the other crippling ailments one invites as a morbidly obese person. Who wasn’t big boned. And didn’t have a slow metabolism.

And then you get A HEALTH SCARE.

A health scare is a brilliant thing. It’s the body’s shot across the bow. An unconscious intervention from an aggrieved, and completely fed up, you.

So as I lay on the bed in an emergency room nearly two years ago, I had time to reflect – in between frequent visits from medical professionals whose demeanor never betrayed the pity and disgust in their eyes – on just why I was in the rather uncomfortable position of being me.

And it was because I was an asshole.

An entirely self-delusional asshole.

Which is a good starting point, really.

And then I started taking baby steps to try and extricate myself from that place.

But, you know, sometimes it takes a good, long while to come back from that place, and it wasn’t until a year ago that I determined a few things…

Surgery was not an option, because what does that address exactly? Not the fundamental psychology that got me to this place.

And that was – Hey, you ignorant asshole! Eat less. Exercise more.

What. A. Fucking. Revolutionary. Idea.

(Fear not – I’ll write the book soon.)

And so I started doing that. I won’t bother you with the details of such a complicated methodology, but since determining said methodology was sound, I’ve dropped over 150 pounds, and am slowly but surely turning into a human being. Singular.

Oh, and I was shocked to find that I had collarbones.

Collarbones!

How pathetic is that? Not only that I got to the point where I lost my collarbones, but that I would also treat their appearance like a personal audience with JD Salinger?

Anyone who’s bothered reading this little missive is most likely someone I consider a friend, and possibly one that I’ve met in person.

Your restraint is incredible. I’ll leave it at that.

I’ve been avoiding writing this even though I know I desperately needed to share it.

I slowly poisoned myself in silence for my entire life. But now, more than a few people that profess to care for me know I’m working to fix up this dilapidated property. So there’s no going back without engendering a fair amount of personal shame.

And there’s nothing a fat man fears more than shame.

Maybe a cross-country flight.

This missive is a jumble, and not in any way, shape, fashion, or form suffering from a lick of polish. I’m writing it as fast as I can, because it’s so very easy not to write it. Please forgive its sloppiness and half-baked confessional.

But hey! I am changing things. And the good news is that I find the process easy, because every so often, an irrational animal can comprehend common sense.

And I’ve also promised myself that I’m going to travel this year. All over the fucking place. And see you all.

And ride Space Mountain at Disneyland for my birthday.

Unless I get hit by a bus.

-Ken

Comments: 3 Comments