I feel like I’ve had my batteries charged for life. I’ve lost five pounds in the last four days. Life is fabulous when I’m in control of me.
I had been slowly climbing back up the hell scale. A few pounds here and there, the old lose-two, gain-three routine. I had gained back nineteen of the fifty-four pounds I’d lost. I felt so out of control, the best description of the feeling is one of drowning.
I did almost drown once, on a popular but dangerous beach near Sydney, Australia. I was helpless, vulnerable to the vicious current that attacked my body and slowly pulled me under, sucking the air out of my lungs, the life out of my body. I couldn’t touch bottom, and couldn’t keep afloat. As I gasped and choked, I thought, “This is it. It’s all over. I can’t make it to the surface for one more breath.” Allen was by my side, but he could barely keep himself afloat.
“Please, I need only one good breath, just one gulp of life-sustaining air!” I pleaded silently. I was terrified. I was more than terrified. When you are as desperate for air as I was at that point, even terror is an understatement. Your whole being strains to do one thing—to live. I thought of my sister Joyce. She, too, had known the terror, the desperation. She drowned when she was fifteen. Ironically, I remembered in those moments that I am her namesake. I was named for Joyce Marie. And Joyce Marie had drowned. I clawed at the waves. I had… to get juét one… more… breath!
And then, before I saw them, there they were. Angels of mercy. Two big, strong lifeguards—one at each elbow—pushing me up as each wave tried to crash over me. Pushing me ever forward toward shore. Moments later, as I lay on the velvety warm sand, all my feelings were acutely magnified. The sand was softer. The ocean was bluer. The clouds were fluffier. Life was dearer. I shall never forget lying on the shores of Bondi Beach, feeling thankful to be alive.
In a few minutes, when my emotions were back to normal, I was able to contemplate my brush with death. I hadn’t known I’d been in danger until it was too late. I hadn’t even known. I hadn’t seen the sign right there on the beach. A clear-cut warning: BEWARE OF UNDERTOW! DO NOT SWIM BETWEEN TWO POSTS! Not seeing the sign did not erase the danger. The danger was always there. The consequences were just as deadly.
Many times since that scary day, I have thought, “How many signs in our lives do we so blithely pass by? How many warnings do we blindly skip around, then go on our merry little way?” Whether or not we see the signs, the danger is no less real.
For me, being obese evokes the same terror as drowning. When I can’t get control, when I eat everything in sight and then think of what else there possibly is to cook or buy—when I can’t touch bottom—it’s then that I feel the waves crashing over me again, and I find it difficult to breathe.
“What will I do? My clothes are getting tight. People are noticing the gain. I can’t be another statistic, another nameless face on the blubber express!”