Breaking A Life-Long Sentence

A Daily Struggle

Imagine a life where every day is a struggle with depression and hopelessness.

Where you don’t really live—you just exist.

Where the idea of leaving home not only involves tremendous emotional and physical effort; it requires a thorough, carefully planned exit strategy.

This was my life.

And let’s face it: I wasn’t just fat. I was morbidly obese.

Read what Michael's doctors had to say.

At 35 years old and 5'5", I weighed 327 lbs. and sported a 60-inch waist. I suffered extremely high blood pressure and my cholesterol was through the roof. As far as I was concerned, I had turned my body into a prison, and there was no sign of parole.

When your appetite rules you and your defining quality is a combination of foul-mouthed obnoxiousness and whole-hearted negativity, you really feel like it’s the end of the line. For me, so much of obesity had to do with my mentality. I had resigned myself to my situation, and was overwhelmed by my weight; I felt almost as though it had beaten me.

To put it in perspective: if an average person feels that they’re 10 or 15 pounds beyond where they want to be, or that their pants aren’t fitting as well as they’d like, they diet and exercise. They do something about it.

Me? I’d just buy a bigger pair of pants.

Losing My Hero

It hadn’t always been this way. Although I was chubby as a kid, my father, a fitness fanatic, actively inspired me. He was both my idol and my best friend, and even though he’d undergone a serious heart surgery when I was five, we spent hours together bike riding and playing.

All of that changed in August of 1980, when I was 12. My parents were on vacation when my father suddenly succumbed to a massive heart attack. He died instantly.

I was crushed, and although I didn’t really talk about the devastation I felt, my emotional state became apparent in a much more obvious way. Within the first year after my father’s death, I gained 50 lbs.

From that point on, my weight increase was deliberate and consistent. Four years after my father’s death, by the time I was 16 years old, I’d more than doubled in size, and had expanded from my initial 125 lbs. to 275 lbs.

Sadly, you can’t chalk that kind of growth off to puberty. The teen years are hard enough without adding 150 lbs. to a 5'5" frame. I just knew that I wanted to be thin.

The problem? I knew nothing about the right way to do it. Instead, I went forward the only way I knew how. I starved myself. I crash dieted. I threw up. It was drastic, but effective. Within a year, I had reached my goal: I was 150 lbs.

Guess how long THAT lasted…

The Downward Spiral

At 21, after ballooning up to 275 lbs., I made another attempt to whittle my way down to a reasonable size. And again, knowing nothing about the healthy approach to weight loss, I resorted to the same tactics: crash dieting, throwing up and starvation. Again, I worked my way down to a short-lived 150 lbs.

Now, I had always known the importance of staying away from certain treats like ice cream and candies, but had no concept of what constituted a balanced diet. Instead, I ate huge quantities of fried foods, and was mired in a lifestyle where meals were the focal point of any gathering or business affair. There was no way to avoid an extensive lunch meeting, and it was impossible to escape entrée after overindulgent entrée.

No wonder it only took five years for me to hit 300 lbs. and to self-impose another smaller round of unhealthy dieting. This time, I only dropped 83 lbs. (for a total weight of 217 lbs.), and while it was slightly better than previous attempts, the rebound was slow but inevitable.

A Mother’s Dying Wish

To make matters worse, on September 11, 2001, my mother underwent surgery for chronic bronchitis and emphysema. We were extremely close, and her failing health was incredibly difficult for everyone—especially me—to deal with. Sadly, she passed away close to a month later, but on her deathbed, she begged me to take care of myself—to do something about my weight. It’s a shame that she’ll never know just how instrumental she was in helping me to come to terms with myself.

My mother’s death was an enormous blow and I sank into a deep depression. I drank. I became nearly immobile, and surrendered to my food addiction. In retrospect, it’s really amazing to look at the cocoon I created. In surrounding myself solely with family and co-workers, I could avoid the stares of strangers. These people knew me, my limitations, and how to side-step situations that would make me uncomfortable.

They knew that I couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs.

They knew that, every morning, as I parked my car, I’d pray for the strength to be able to walk back to it at night.

They knew that I refused to go to the movies or a ball game—the seats were just too small and uncomfortable.

They knew that after dinner, I would be asleep on the couch within minutes.

They knew that even on a vacation in Florida, I’d sooner sit in my boat, drinking myself to sleep, than go to dinner with my family. And visiting a theme park with the kids? Out of the question.

A Life-Long Sentence

Of course, even with this shield and all of my self-imposed isolation, occasional forays into the outside world were unavoidable and terrifying. Imagine feeling a sense of all-consuming panic wash over you when a friend asks you to meet him at a diner.

What if you can’t get into the booth?

What if you can’t get out?

Worse yet, what if you get stuck?

Any trip into “normal” society was embarrassing and humiliating, and hours of pre-planning were involved. If, heaven forbid, I had to fly in an airplane, it was a given that my young son would have to sit next to me; that way, I could remove the armrest, effectively using a seat-and-a-half while trapping my son between myself and the aisle. Without this concession, I’d have to buy two seats for myself.

I loathed airplanes to begin with. For me, they were demeaning coffins. When I walked onto a plane, I could see the looks of fear and disgust on peoples’ faces. To the average-sized world, I was an animal—a monstrous Sasquatch who couldn’t fully release his meal tray because it was stuck on his enormous belly.

I even refused to go to parent-teacher conferences or on class trips with my children. At school events, I would purposely sit in the back of the auditorium. I just didn’t want my sweet, beautiful children to be embarrassed by their fat father.

Facing the Cold, Hard Truth

In February of 2003, my family and I were supposed to go on a vacation to Florida. Coincidentally, a huge blizzard blanketed the Northeast, and our flight was cancelled. I was still determined to take the trip and thought that driving could be an option; my wife disagreed, and in the heat of our argument, I rushed out the front door into the snow.

And I fell.

Now, normally, a small spill wouldn’t be a significant problem, and most people would get up and dust themselves off. But due to my size, what should have been a non-event turned into a catastrophe. I slipped, broke my right rib, tore a ligament in my right shoulder, and bruised my right knee very badly. The pain was unbelievable.

After seeing a doctor and an orthopedist, I was recommended to an excellent physical therapist but, due to high demand and a tight schedule, they couldn’t see me for three weeks. During this delay, I endured one of the most important events of my life.

In March, I wrestled with a terrible flu that left me bedridden for two days. I’m not sure whether it was the fever or the pain from the injuries I had previously sustained, but I found myself in the throes of hallucinations, just watching my life flash before my eyes. I dreamt of my past and my future, and saw a man who didn’t care about living and was slowly killing himself. I dreamt of my mother’s plea. And as I started to recover, I was hit with the reality of my situation: a tiny fall had nearly crippled me.

The truth was, I didn’t want to die. I knew I had to make a change. NOW. And I knew that, this time, I had to do it the right way.

The Long Road Ahead

When I was finally well enough to stand, I dusted off my treadmill—which, at that point, was essentially a $2,000 coat hanger. I started slow, and, at first, I couldn’t walk for more than 15 minutes at a time—but at very least, I was in motion.

Within the next few weeks, I started physical therapy, which introduced me to invaluable world of weight training. By the time I had ended the sessions, six months later, I was walking at least three miles a day.

Of course, I still had doubts. After my past experiences with weight loss, I would question my situation frequently: Am I ready to attack this again? How can I do this again? How am I going to master this?

I reminded myself that this was a day-by-day process, and realized that I didn’t have to conquer my weight all at once, but that I could literally change my life step by step.

Over the course of the next six months, just through walking for longer distances and at an increased incline, I was able to shed 100 lbs. Running was out of the question—even still, my knees are badly damaged from carrying so much weight for so long—but cardio exercise was still a mainstay of my workout. Still, I remembered my days in physical therapy and the important role weight training had played, and in September of 2003, I decided to start working out in a gym.

Throughout the next six months and with the help of various books, I was able to drop down to a healthy, lean 147 lbs. At this point, I was no longer on a diet, but decided instead to begin a nutritional maintenance program. Through this change in eating habits—one I hope to sustain for the rest of my life—I added over 20 lbs. of muscle, putting my final weight at 168 lbs.

Shedding the Skin

Suddenly, I was faced with a problem I never expected to encounter: my skin. While obese, I had stretched my skin beyond the point of resilience. Now, having lost 180 lbs, it was as though I was wearing an oversized suit of skin that draped off of me.

After two separate surgeries—an upper body and lower body lift—over the course of six months, and all of the recovery and training in between, I’m happy to report that I’m healthy, happy and rejuvenated. I’ve stabilized at 168lbs with a 32" waist.

It didn’t take gimmicks.

I didn’t have weight-loss surgery.

I didn’t use pills or special diets, and I’m certainly no actor or celebrity.

It simply took me willing myself to be motivated, and reminding myself that I alone had the resolve and the power to reshape my life through healthy eating, exercise and a shift in philosophy.

I’m telling you from first hand experience: it’s not easy to go from “I can’t” to “I can.” But, if the desire is there, anyone can do it.

Free at Last

Occasionally, I think back to the worst days during my life as an obese person. The days when I couldn’t play with my children; when I was afraid to go through a turnstile for fear of getting stuck; when I knew that I couldn’t fit in my wife’s car. I had no life.

As a food addict, I’m still on parole. But with that parole comes the freedom of a new body, with new awareness and new abilities. It’s wonderful to know that although I was once a bad influence for family and friends, I’m now an inspiration.

I know that each day holds amazing new possibilities.

I know that I’m actively excited to wake up each morning and explore the world and the society that I avoided for so long.

I know that I can spend active time with my children, and attend their class trips and school plays—and to know that they’re proud of me.

This is how I reinvented myself. It wasn’t overnight, and it wasn’t easy, but I love the life I’m living now, and the wonder and exhilaration I feel every day.

This is how I broke my life-long sentence.