Saturday
Jul232011
Meet My Sobriety Belly. Her Name Is Esther.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
When I began my first year of sobriety ever in my adult life eleven months ago, I told myself that I would not spend this first year dropping everything that I use to soothe my furrowed brow. Dropping alcohol and pot are one thing, but my ice cream, my cookies, my tortilla chips with salsa, my chocolate-dipped donuts filled with Boston cream? Those were staying, and in greater numbers. I was going to get sober, not self-flagellate for bad behaviour. The rest of my better health could come later when I had shored up greater internal resources.
Well, the first year is nearly up, and the results are in. In short, I'm still sober, and I'm decidedly fatter.
I haven't gone so far as to fully outgrow my pants, but I have gone far enough that my double-chin shows up every time I move my head.
I'm not feeling the double chin part so much what with all these actresses and models with nothing but shadows beneath their jawlines, as though their necks are stuck into their heads like candied apples on sticks.
Mmmmm, caaandiieed aaapples.
Uncharacteristically for me, though, I am barely fazed by my newfound puffiness. In fact, I kind of like it for now.
Eleven months into my sobriety, I am still possessed of the powerful urge to suckle at three bottles of wine in a row, and I am a regular old lush in my dream life. In my dreams, I get sloppy, falling-off-my-chair drunk and have sloppy drunk sex and eat sloppy drunk food. My dreams insist on sticking to realistic scripts, though, and so I also get to experience sloppy drunk hangovers before I wake up. Jerks.
I won't lie that I often hate saying no. After I got over the hump of an early buzz when everyone still irritated the hell out of me and fell into the warm river of inebriation, I felt brilliant. I wasn't brilliant, but I felt brilliant. It felt good to feel brilliant, that particular flavour of brilliant that came with my favourite hoppy beverage and a crew of fellow pub dogs you could set your watch by.
The rest of the time I felt like absolute, unadulterated shit, though. I felt like physical, spiritual, and psychological feculence. I didn't love myself, and I certainly didn't trust myself. What I dragged around with me when I wasn't drinking was leftovers.
I sat down on the edge of my bed in my underwear the other day, and I noticed that my belly was sitting on my thighs. Not a whole lot of it, but just enough that I would really notice, was flopped there, and I started going down that familiar path on which I chastise myself for being weak and probably ugly, and then I laughed at myself, because this was what I had to worry about? A little belly fat?
As far as I'm concerned, that handful of belly (or two generous handfuls, because who am I kidding here) is a sign of what saved me through this last winter while I learned how to live it sober for the first time in my adult life. Seriously. My comfort foods brought me through some very low moments since last August, and on more than a few occasions they were what kept me from running out to a local dive and sucking back some liquor where no one I knew could see me do it.
If chocolate ice cream saved me from being the middle-aged lady perched on a sticky stool staring down a neon Molson's sign, then I'm thankful.
When I quit getting drunk and stoned, I gave myself a free pass for a year to self-medicate with food, to take this thing in stages so that I would be less likely to have a knee-jerk response involving a sad plunge into several pint glasses of cloyingly yeasty, cheap draft. My year is almost up, and I'm ready for the next phase of my life, one in which I eat more greens and maybe even do some of that *gasp* yoga that you've all been going on about for years.
Still, though, despite the fact that I am going to work to lose her, she feels like a badge of honour. Esther is bearing the first year of my sobriety.
That's right. Her name is Esther. She feels like that little, old, grandmotherly type who insists that you need cookies. Were she not merely an anthropomorphized pocket of stored fat, she would say things like How are you ever going to find a man without a little meat on your bones? while dishing extra potatoes onto my plate.
Please note the treasure trail and surgery-scarred belly button: this belly's been around, and she likes it.
Right now, Esther is saying YOU'VE COME THIS FAR.
I'm going to miss my little Esther when she's gone. Plus, who's going to talk me into eating greens? My pinky finger? My elbow? Greens got nothing on Esther's sweet pudding.
Well, the first year is nearly up, and the results are in. In short, I'm still sober, and I'm decidedly fatter.
I haven't gone so far as to fully outgrow my pants, but I have gone far enough that my double-chin shows up every time I move my head.
I'm not feeling the double chin part so much what with all these actresses and models with nothing but shadows beneath their jawlines, as though their necks are stuck into their heads like candied apples on sticks.
Mmmmm, caaandiieed aaapples.
Uncharacteristically for me, though, I am barely fazed by my newfound puffiness. In fact, I kind of like it for now.
Eleven months into my sobriety, I am still possessed of the powerful urge to suckle at three bottles of wine in a row, and I am a regular old lush in my dream life. In my dreams, I get sloppy, falling-off-my-chair drunk and have sloppy drunk sex and eat sloppy drunk food. My dreams insist on sticking to realistic scripts, though, and so I also get to experience sloppy drunk hangovers before I wake up. Jerks.
I won't lie that I often hate saying no. After I got over the hump of an early buzz when everyone still irritated the hell out of me and fell into the warm river of inebriation, I felt brilliant. I wasn't brilliant, but I felt brilliant. It felt good to feel brilliant, that particular flavour of brilliant that came with my favourite hoppy beverage and a crew of fellow pub dogs you could set your watch by.
The rest of the time I felt like absolute, unadulterated shit, though. I felt like physical, spiritual, and psychological feculence. I didn't love myself, and I certainly didn't trust myself. What I dragged around with me when I wasn't drinking was leftovers.
I sat down on the edge of my bed in my underwear the other day, and I noticed that my belly was sitting on my thighs. Not a whole lot of it, but just enough that I would really notice, was flopped there, and I started going down that familiar path on which I chastise myself for being weak and probably ugly, and then I laughed at myself, because this was what I had to worry about? A little belly fat?
As far as I'm concerned, that handful of belly (or two generous handfuls, because who am I kidding here) is a sign of what saved me through this last winter while I learned how to live it sober for the first time in my adult life. Seriously. My comfort foods brought me through some very low moments since last August, and on more than a few occasions they were what kept me from running out to a local dive and sucking back some liquor where no one I knew could see me do it.
If chocolate ice cream saved me from being the middle-aged lady perched on a sticky stool staring down a neon Molson's sign, then I'm thankful.
When I quit getting drunk and stoned, I gave myself a free pass for a year to self-medicate with food, to take this thing in stages so that I would be less likely to have a knee-jerk response involving a sad plunge into several pint glasses of cloyingly yeasty, cheap draft. My year is almost up, and I'm ready for the next phase of my life, one in which I eat more greens and maybe even do some of that *gasp* yoga that you've all been going on about for years.
Still, though, despite the fact that I am going to work to lose her, she feels like a badge of honour. Esther is bearing the first year of my sobriety.
That's right. Her name is Esther. She feels like that little, old, grandmotherly type who insists that you need cookies. Were she not merely an anthropomorphized pocket of stored fat, she would say things like How are you ever going to find a man without a little meat on your bones? while dishing extra potatoes onto my plate.
Please note the treasure trail and surgery-scarred belly button: this belly's been around, and she likes it.
Right now, Esther is saying YOU'VE COME THIS FAR.
I'm going to miss my little Esther when she's gone. Plus, who's going to talk me into eating greens? My pinky finger? My elbow? Greens got nothing on Esther's sweet pudding.
categorized in health and tagged in alcoholism, health, mental health, sober, sobriety, weight
health and tagged in alcoholism, health, mental health, sober, sobriety, weight 
Reader Comments (23)
I love Esther. She is clearly Good People. :)
Awesome. That is inspiring. Good for you - and thanks for sharing. Made me think about my belly fat in a whole new way. I needed that.
Esther sounds like an excellent sponsor.
I love this.
I don't have an Esther. (Well, I do, but not for that reason.) I have shoes. Lots of shoes. And still spend less than I would have on the not-inexpensive scotch that used to start every day.
Go you.
In a different way, I get this. When my marriage went to pieces last fall, I said I wouldn't freak out over diet (like I should with T2 diabetes and as long as I was exercising) until I got settled in a place that felt more permanent than temporary. I'm moving for the second time in five months next weekend to somewhere that I think I'll stay for two years. Time to think about being better about food ...
I am so proud of you and Esther. You are both beautiful!
Ester brought chocolate. That's a true friend.
You are so fabulous! You AND Esther.
Esther's clearly a good egg. A smart one to keep around, that one.
I'm way fatter than you, and I'm still really really ridiculously good-looking. And so are you.
Your perspective - so wise, lady. Thank you for shining it on all of us. Esther wouldn't want to be taken too seriously anyway.
My grandmother's name was Esther. She was definitely a cookie pusher.
Esther is my second middle name, and it has served me well.
Just like Esther has served you well.
I love her for that.
I think you proved that the beer belly is just a myth. It's all the donuts' fault. Frickin' donuts.
I had my best success losing weight this year (25 lbs. in 4 months) by food journaling. No fad diets or ass-kickins from Jillian, just tracking calories and making better choices (which -- sadly for my taste buds -- meant cutting down on the microbrews). I used the free program from loseit.com but there are others online.
Ahh. Awesome. Hello, Esther.
For me, it's the mobilization belly. Because it seems the only way I can deal with being alone all the time is if there's more of me around.
I'm glad Esther has gotten you through. Congrats on making it this far.
This post made me really happy and remember my first year of sobriety. I had those dreams too (or dreams about drinking) so funny. Good luck to you!! I made it! Now I have to tackle my belly. There is something about sugar that makes it harder to resist now.
schmutzie, you're bad-ass. i think this so often when i stop by your blog. and congratulations--for sobriety, but also for all that it represents about your relationship with yourself.
I have that same little freckle right at the pants line. Mine is a sort of red color.
And what's a little Esther in the grand scheme of things?
Thank you for noting your treasure trail. For the longest time I didn't think that most women had them, and I shaved mine on occasion, until I realized that treasure-trail stubble is far less attractive than the full blown treasure trail. It adds character.
Ok, this is just weird...Wanda Sykes named HER belly Esther too! Am I missing something here? Is "esthera" latin for flab?
My grandfather cheated on my grandmother with a woman named Esther. It's old news, but every time I hear "Esther," I mentally shake my fist at that home wrecker. I love that your Esther is like a badge of honor. It's made me consider naming my own pudge. I'd like to throw mine a farewell party.
Eat what ever the fuck you want right now. In my first 90 days, I drank energy drinks every hour it seemed. I was drinking them like beers. I talked to another sober friend and he said he did the same. All of that passed and life is now not about getting sober but living it. If you haven't had a drink or a drug today then you've put yourself in a good place. Kudos to you! Also someone once told me that only sober alcoholics have drunk dreams. I always feel gratitude when I wake up from one of those. Hugs!