Finding it difficult to speak

So I had committed to leading the Thursday evening of the daily group meetings I attend.

The meetings start at 5:30; I was across town and made sure to leave the school I was at early enough to make the meeting on time.

They did not count on a forty-minute commute to my meeting and were three minutes late; they had passed the lead to someone else (which is expected for meetings that start ritualistically on time).

It bothered me that I missed the lead; I take pride in my commitment and the fact that I am never late; I broke two of those things this evening, and it hit me hard.

I am never late for work and always honor my commitments to the schools and the corp office, so it is an incredible letdown when I cannot have the same treatment in my personal life.

Eighteen years, Two months, Twenty-four days...

...ago, I weighed 300. I was confronted with a tough question and went through with a major weight loss, and within a year, I lost close to 100 hundred pounds,

But close to the 100th pound, I wavered and fell into oblivion.

Four years, Eight months, and Eight days...

...ago, I weighed myself and topped off at close to 425 pounds.

It was New Year's Eve of 2008, and I made a vow to lose 100 pounds by the following recent years.

That year I met a girl, fell in love when on adventures, lost the girl to another man, and hit my goal by the end of the year.

I continued to lose at least 25 more pounds by March, but three major life-changing events caused me to stumble badly.

The third of which was moving out here to Arizona.

One year, Six Months, and Thirty Days ...

...ago, I weighed myself and came in at 400 pounds even, realizing I went back too many steps, again, in too short of a time.

So I tried again; I tried hard but could not keep at it.

Four Months and Thirty Days...

...ago I tried again, with some help from a friend.

These past four months, I loved and lost again; I struggled and fell hard a couple of times and finally realized that I had an eating disorder.

I have lost 53 pounds so far, and right now, I am fighting hard to keep it off; I am fighting hard to keep losing.

I wish I could laugh in the mirror again, I wish I had adventures with that special person waiting for me again, and I wish I had a friend by my side to encourage me as I encourage them...

But this time, I need to learn to do it independently.

At this point, the only option I have is either I lose 100 more pounds by this time next year, or I am dead.

God grants me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Chi Chis

I will always remember that small restaurant at the mall's top level.  It stood out because it was one of the last t shops on its floor; the others were just the maximum levels of the large department stores, Sears and Macys.  It was a Mexican Chain, popular at the time, and the food was decent, portions large.  But the one aspect of this non-disclosed restaurant is the memories it held of my family who frequenitment.

I am sure I had many pleasant moments growing up with my stepfather. However, most of them have faded into the recess of my mind; only one remains more prominent than any other, most likely the fondest of them all.

I was ten or eleven then; the atmosphere was festive as my mother, brother, and newly indoctrinated stepfather sat at a large table with several close friends from our church family.  Looking around the table with a broad grin, I look at our dear family friend, Donny, sitting in the far corner.  He is a lean black man, a little slow mentally, but with a huge heart to make up for that incapacity.  We have taken this man in on many occasions; he is in his early twenties at that time, unwanted by his mother.  Donny tended to couch surf as others of our congregation also took him in; he never was a burden and never overstayed his welcome.

He sat alongside my brother, who, whenever the black man was around my brother was glued to his side.  I can trace back my brother’s love of music to their friendship, and because of Donny’s impairment, he related to us on our level as preteens.

Across from Donny and my brother was another longtime family friend, Michael Lee.  Michael was an amazing artist; he was showing off his illustrations of Spiderman as both my brother and Donny looked over with childlike wonder.  Later he produced an uncanny sketch of Donny that captured his likeness remarkably. 

Looking past the others, they escaped my mind except for Wesley, who sat beside my stepfather, enraptured in their conversation.  The table held a little more than ten.

Me, I sat in the center, as I always tended to do, wanting to be a part of every conversation.

We celebrated the union between my mother and stepfather; my mother was so happy, so much in love, and unbeknownst to us, pregnant with our baby brother.

The wedding was tiny and took place in our home church no more than the people who sat at that table witnessed the marriage.  My little brother and I stood beside the groom; my uncle was the best man.  Our pastor, who presided over the ceremony, also made a brief cameo at the dinner and then left home to be with his family.

I remember looking at everyone there; a couple of our eyes met others enraptured in their microcosm.   And my eyes fell upon him; in a way, I was in love too, in love with the idea of having a father, a man to complete our circle.  Someone to make the person who bent over backward to make us happy, to make her happy too.

I look into his eyes with innocence. I never knew upon the very man to steal my innocence away.  The man who became my torturer, the man who would beat me senseless for the slightest discretion.  The man who condemned me for talking to girls, the man who pinned me down and punched me repeatedly whenever he suspected that I might be going out to meet a girl.  The man who beat me for things I deserved and beat me for something I didn’t.  The man who stabbed me with a fork and walked away for talking after bedtime, where I had to pull the utensil meant for eating out of my leg quietly not to occur further punishment.  The man who did this time and time again as my precious baby brother watched from his top bunk, a boy of barely 3 or 4, who to this day remembers what was done to his two older siblings.

For now, I am close to forty years old and afraid to get close to a girl, afraid to get close to children, a fear that I, too might hurt the ones I love.  A fear that I might accidentally break a precious little child.  A fear that I may become the man who tormented me. 

I know I am a good man; some may say I am a ‘great’ man, but once, so was he.