Not Working for Me–Sorry

"Marriages fail either because people don't know each other well enough or they know each other too well." I scribble into my journal. The ink from the soft tip smears- the letters runny, just like my nose. I sneeze, my head full of cotton, seasonal allergies that I treat with over the counter medications. The Benadryl I took at lunch makes me drowsy, my eyelids feel like weights. I'd lie down on the bench except: A) it looks like rain B) I might get mugged or C) Campus Security. The campus cops patrol on scooters. They've warned me about sleeping. Not that I'm breaking any rule, but it doesn't look right: a forty-five year old woman snoozing on a campus park bench. Irrational thoughts used to burst through my head like sparks from a Roman candle, but I've learned to control them. My therapist, a specialist in Cognitive Thinking, taught me how.

"The key to happiness is thought control," she said. If I felt bad, it was because I thought negatively. Some statements I said to myself were: "Teresa, you're fat and ugly, you have pimples, cellulite thighs. Nobody loves you, nobody cares." When these thoughts occurred, I was to counter them with, "My body is my friend. I've lost eleven pounds on my diet. Oxydol controls pimples. I have friends who love me. My therapist cares.” Sometimes, believe it or not, it actually worked.

Journaling was another idea. I write in it every chance I get. Lately, I've been writing about my son. He complains a lot about: A) I'm never home B) that when I'm home all I do is study, and C) that he never gets anything good to eat. He's sick to his stomach of baked chicken and fish, cucumber salads, boiled eggs.

My son is overweight too. He weighs 166 pounds and is only twelve. He takes after his father who was a big man- I mean, is a big man. I think about my ex-husband as deceased.

It helps.

Roger has re-married a redhead half my size and ten years younger. On her Instagram she wears bikinis. Our divorce was not easy. Roger left a note: Not working for me, SORRY. He wrote "sorry" in capital letters underlined with three strokes. Even in penmanship we were different. He liked ball points; I preferred flare tips.

I could live with his desertion, but not his note. Most women would tear it to pieces, but I pressed it under the trim of my bedroom mirror. I feared it might be the last word I'd hear from him. That's how much I loved him. When I told my therapist that I still had the note, she suggested I bring it to the group.

Susan brought a brass vase and placed it in the middle of the therapy group. It resembled a cuspidor- wide bottom, the top rounded with curved sides. The insides of the vase were stained. "Please read the note," she said. My groupmates sat on the edges of their seats, expecting something juicy. Actually, it was a dull note.

Roger was a bore compared to the other women's husbands. Gloria had been beaten for fixing a sandwich with stale bread. Tammy's husband forced her to parade naked in the house while wrapped in cellophane. Sam got caught making love to a sex doll. But she got the last laugh- "it's better than you could ever do.” I could never say such a thing to my husband.

This was the first time I had read out loud since high school. "Not working for me, SORRY." My hand shook, the note fluttered. Nobody asked any questions. I was fighting back tears. My mother taught me that if you cry, you do so in private, not in front of others. My therapist held up a yellow cigarette lighter and lit the paper: the flames caught. When I was a child my family played a game with tissue paper that had blue horses printed on it. My father started the game by placing a lighted cigarette to a star behind the horses.

As the tissue burned it broke into rivers of flame. Each river represented a racehorse. The slip of paper burned just like the horse racing tissue. The flames lapped at my fingertips; I dropped the note. Everyone clapped. I watched ashes rise from the spittoon's mouth; a few tears forced their way onto my cheek. "You're free now," whispered my therapist, hugging me.

But the SORRY never left. I lay awake at night wondering what gave Roger the right to feel sorry. If he thought that justified him walking out, he was crazy. Ours was not the best of marriages. Roger and I argued mostly about my weight. When we married, I weighed 154.

When he left, I weighed 247. The more we argued the more I ate. And the more he complained. It was a vicious cycle.

Roger drove a truck. He owned his own rig, a thirty foot diesel flatbed. When Roger's father died, Roger got the truck. The floorboard had rusted; the few times I rode with Roger I saw gravel beneath the stick shift. His hours were brutal: five in the morning till dark, but the more wood he hauled, the more money he made. To stay awake he swallowed small red pills.

"What are those for?" I asked.

"Constipation," he replied.

"Maybe you need to eat more vegetables," I said.

"Maybe you need to quit eating.”

Roger hated my obesity. When he came home from work, he got mean, calling me "Suey." Junior, our son, would laugh and join in. I couldn't touch Junior with his father in the house, but as soon as Roger left, I'd take my belt and chase Junior around the house until he apologized.

"Why don't you see a Doctor?" Roger suggested. He sat in front of the desktop. He had opened the screen to an ad: Before and After. The Before showed a woman in a tent-sized, unpatterned smock that went down to her bumpy scalloped-covered knees. Fat creases swarmed her arms, her cheeks. She wore thick-lensed, black-framed glasses, uncut hair wound atop her head like a Pentecostal. The After showed the same woman, but in a bikini. She had shoulder-length hair, her side turned towards the camera, her left hand gracefully balanced on her hip. Around her wrist was a bracelet. No longer a Pentecostal, she appeared converted, an Episcopalian perhaps. She no longer wore glasses, either wearing contacts or deciding to go blind. She smiled, her teeth white as fresh snow. Underneath the pictures was the name of a clinic, the name of a drug and a number.

"Can we afford it?" I asked.

"It says here, Free Consultation."

''You going to a fat farm, Momma?" asked Roger Jr.

"I just might and I might take you with me," I replied.

"No way I’m wearing a tire."

The football coaches made Junior wear the tire during P.E. They put a tire around his waist, fastened it to a chain which hooked into a concrete slab. Every overweight boy on the football team had to pull the slab one time around the dirt track.

At the clinic, the nurse asked me to remove my clothes and handed me a white cotton smock. The back of the smock was open; I felt a cold draft run up my backbone. The room had no windows, just a few pictures on the walls, Saturday Evening Post covers- Norman Rockwell. Muzak piped in through the air vent. I didn't notice any speakers in the room, just the grated vent above my head where the air frosted in.

The nurse handed me a two-page questionnaire: what I ate, how much and how often. It also had questions about my husband- how many times did we have sex, was it enjoyable, did we use substitutes? I didn't understand the last question, but I would have swallowed knives before I asked for an explanation.

The doctor rapped on the door and entered.

"Hello, Mrs. Jones," he said, all smiles. I did my best to return his smile. I felt embarrassed, being practically naked with a foreigner. Dr. Haad spoke with an accent, his words clanging like boxcars on a track. Brown specks were spaced between his teeth at the level of his gums. Dr. Haad's oily hair and dark skin made his eyes seem ceramic, his teeth scrimshaw. My body shivered, he patted my knee- a gesture of familiarity. I guess having a medical degree allowed him to do that. I wondered what Roger would think about this strange man touching me. "Lie down," the doctor said.

I lay on the padded examination table. With an ice cold caliber, he pinched my hip and underarm. "You can sit up now," he said. My face felt aflame. My ears burned. I was heated with indignation, glad for the air conditioning. Dr. Haad wrote on an Ipad. After he stopped writing, he read my responses. "You have no medical insurance. How do you propose to pay for your services?"

"I'll manage," I replied. My voice quivered. I decided I hated Dr. Haad, the way he treated my body, like an autopsy.

"You have a couple of options. You can try therapy or you can do surgery. Lipodectomy or Gastric stapling. The first involves small incisions on your hips, back and legs, removing the fat cells by suctioning. It's a safe procedure with a minimum amount of pain. There is a payoff however, in skin elasticity. The second possibility must be done in the hospital. I would staple off part of your digestive tract, shortening its length thereby decreasing the amount of food absorbed into your body. But there is the risk of infection."

"Are those my only options?" I asked. "What about a diet?"

"Looking over your record, I see you've tried several diets, some of which in fact were bad for your health, and a few I've never heard of."

I had an aunt who had a birthmark shaped like Florida. When we went to the beach, she always covered it up with a shirt. Now I knew how she felt.

"My husband wants me to fail. He buys cakes, candies, and ice cream.”

"Surgery, I believe, is your best option.”

“What about the shots I see advertised on tv?”

“With your history of slow gastric emptying, I can’t recommend them.”

Right then, I knew Dr. Raad was rich. I imagined his mansion, circular canopied driveway, a Mercedes in the garage, indoor heated pool, Jacuzzi.

"I don't want to do surgery," I replied watching the Doctor's face cringe, swallowing his disappointment.

"I see," he said. “Have you ever been to a counselor?"

The only person I had ever confided in was my sister. I once shared how Roger and I had stopped having sex. She told me I was fortunate, and would gladly trade places.

"No. Never," I replied.

"We have a therapy group. It's run by Mrs. Morrow. Susan’s a certified social worker and hypnotherapist. I'll give you her number. But the therapy won't do you any good without a sound nutritional program. You'll need to meet with our nutritionist, Mrs. Rivers. I want you to see her. I warn you. She is quite strict. Do you have any questions, Teresa?" he asked. I felt certain he was glad to be rid of me now that no surgery was needed. Calling me by my first name startled me, but he must have figured that by touching my body gave him the right.

"No," I answered.

“You can get dressed now."

I returned home with a folder full of charts, daily diet and exercise plans- all provided by Mrs. Rivers who turned out not to be mean at all. "Honey we just got to get you in shape," she said.

The exercise program was online: simple stretching exercises, strolling, gradually increasing to barbells and brisk walking.

"Take a deep breath, bend your knees; take a deep breath, touch your toes. Now while on your back, raise your legs and hold them six inches off the floor. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale." Mrs. River's voice droned on and on. "Now when you breathe I want you to see the pounds flowing out of you. Concentrate. Take a deep breath. Exhale. Let your body rain."

I also had to go to private sessions.

“One of the reasons you eat so much is to cover up. When you're able to talk about things that bother you, then you won't eat so much,” Susan said, explaining why she thought the group would help me.

It seemed as if she had a microscope that gazed directly into my soul. She was petite, sundrenched auburn hair, freckles frollicked across her nose, cerulean eyes. Her body reminded me of a Barbie Doll. Susan once had weighed over two hundred pounds, and had lost nearly one hundred pounds using visualization. Or so she said.

She introduced me to the therapy group. They all looked friendly. Six women and one male. I wondered how long the man would last.

Susan took my picture. I stood in the middle of the group in a grey dress, the Iphone flashed and then the picture came out the bottom of a printer in a nearby room. She handed it to me.

“That's the last time you're going to look like that," Susan said. “I want you to take that picture home and keep it.”

I wondered where to put it. I didn’t want to show it in our refrigerator. Finally, I settled on the back of an antique sterling silver mirror I kept in a spare bedroom. One day I hoped to bring the mirror to the Antiques Roadshow.

The old adage was right: misery loves company. I was with people who had similar problems. I learned eating habits were inherited. Papa weighed two hundred and sixty four pounds; my mother well over two hundred but she would never weigh on the bathroom scales.

"What does it matter," she said.

My sister, Ida Mae, who was the smallest, weighed 150. My brother was the same size as Dad. One time at church we all sat in a pew while Dad ushered. After he finished, he sat next to Mom. There was a loud crack. The supports broke. My legs flew into the air; I thought for sure I had fractured my back, and lay helpless until Mr. Thomas grabbed my ankles and pulled me upright. We moved to another pew, but before sitting down Dad tested it by pushing on the top with the heel of his hand. The congregation eyed us like criminals.

I had never been so embarrassed. Hearing the story my groupmates giggle. Susan glowers at them. They shut up.

I sit in a chair in the middle of the group, the others circled around me. I am on what Susan calls, "The Hot Seat." When someone is on the hot seat they must: A) Tell the truth B) keep their head up and stay until no one asks any more questions. Everyone has to be on the hot seat. After I finish describing, "the most embarrassing experience my weight has caused me,'' Susan frowns, and spreads her hands on her lap.
"It's a good story, but back then you weren't nearly as overweight as you are now. I believe you're hiding behind the humor. Covering up," she says.

Confrontation is what the hot seat is about. No one gets off easily. My groupmates wait for an explanation. I can either: A) challenge Susan or B) back off and tell another story. If I challenge Susan she'll get the better of me. She reads my journal during our private sessions.

The room starts to spin. Susan taps me on the shoulder; the room stops spinning. "Take your time," she says.

The words come fast. I'm not sure what I'm saying. I describe a poker game that Roger has with his friends, men I grew up with. "They sit in the den around a card table. The air is thick with cigarette smoke; the floor littered with ashes, butts, Budweiser cans. My job is to replenish finger foods. I carry platefuls of Cheetos, Doritos, pretzels and place them on a side table. Roger keeps his head hidden behind a hand of cards and starts rooting like a pig. The men laugh. One of them, who I have known since grade school, pinches me on the butt. I slap his hand. The other men take up the call, grunting like caged monkeys. I escaped into the kitchen."

"You can cry if you want to," Susan says, her fingers kneading my shoulder.

I feel the great wall break.

Each sob has the weight of a boulder. Debra hugs me, her arms pillow-soft. Her dress smells of fabric softener. For the first time in years I feel loved- and by a stranger.

After I've depleted a box of Kleenex, I pull my chair out of the center and rejoin the circle. My body feels light. I don't feel bad about breaking down. It happens to everyone. Before we leave, Susan has us close our eyes.

"See yourself standing naked on a hot beach on a bright summer day. The sun is beating down hard on your body. Look how the fat melts away, running down your thighs onto the ground." She goes through the induction several times. When I come out of the trance I feel lighter, but have this strong inclination to buy an ice cream cone. On the way home, I force myself to take the side roads to avoid Dairy Queen.

I started standing up for myself at home. Each time my husband insulted me, I was to say,
"Roger, that's a putdown. Why don't you grow up?" I tried it at supper. It was my turn to say grace. As I prayed, Roger started making hog calls, "suey, suey." Junior joined in.

"Roger, that's a putdown. Why don't you grow up?" I said.

His eyebrows furrowed. "What did you say?"

"I'm tired of your putdowns. If you've got to better your low self-esteem by lowering mine, that’s a sad excuse for a human being. I suggest you stop insulting me." My mouth did the talking but it was my therapist saying the words.

"Close your mouth, Junior," I said. "You're drooling."

"Those can't be your words,"my husband said.

"They are," I said, my heart beating fiercely. Roger got up from the table, threw his napkin down into the salad bowl.

Junior started to get up and I said, "If you get up, so help me God, I'll never fix you dinner again."

Junior stared at his father who shrugged, then Junior looked at me, his face unsure. He stared at his plate of ham, peas and steaming sweet potato pie, and then he sat. I felt like a general who'd just won a major battle.

I left Roger's plate on the table and went to bed. Later that night I heard him chewing, cussing each bite of cold food. He slept on the sofa.

Roger tried several strategies to change me. First, he threatened to hit me. I stood eye to eye with him. I held a pancake griddle, ready to strike. "Roger Jones, you lay one hand on me, and I'll call my cousin and have you locked up for good." Cousin Bailey was a Sheriff's deputy.

Roger scratched his head; the whole scalp moved. I kept the griddle poised, ready.

Next, he tried cancelling my sessions. "I’m not paying for any more foolishness," he said.

"Fine then. Find yourself another cook. Let Junior clean the house," I replied. After a week of burnt toast, McDonald hamburgers and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with dirty dishes piled high in the sink, he changed his mind.

"I won't hold it against you if you cook supper," he said, each word a bite of poison.

"What about my sessions?" I asked.

"For God's sake go."

As a last resort, he attempted sabotage. He brought home a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. The smell tortured me, but I knew if I ate one chicken thigh, all of my past resistance would be wasted. When he and Junior sat down to eat, I excused myself, "I'm going for a walk."

When I returned, Roger's truck was missing. "Where's your Daddy?" I asked.

"He didn’t say," Junior replied, "but he left you this note." I tore it out of his hand: "Not working for me, SORRY."

"What does it mean Mom?" he asked.

"I don't know," I replied.

Susan had warned that Roger might leave, but I never expected it. To get my mind off Roger, (she knew I was still serious about him because I had filled my journal with 16 recent entries about him), she suggested I could: A) continue to mope around the rest of my life or B) make a new start for myself. She suggested I take a course at the local college. After discovering that Kendra would be in the class, I decided to take Anthropology 101.

"Nothing to it, it'll be a breeze," she said. I didn't have any idea what I was getting into. I learned "Anthropos" meant man, "ology" the study of. If I had known that, I probably would have avoided it like a hornet's nest.

Our teacher was a tall Black woman who spoke without notes, pausing long enough to interject, "Any comments, any questions," before going on to the next subject. She taught as if she had left the oven on and needed to get home. We studied Australopithecus, Homo Erectus, Homo Sapien, Homo Habilis, our teacher using an opaque projector to show colored drawings of the different periods on the screen.

One picture I never forgot: a drawing of a tribe of women inside a cave huddled around a fire. The women wore breechcloths and beads. The fire burned profusely, the flames outlined like blades, smoke billowing from the cave's mouth. Above the burning timbers, a spit was driven lengthways through a pig, its sides darkened by the flames. Our teacher smiled at the caption, "Prehistoric Pig Roast." The rest of the students laughed but I looked closely at the picture. The women were small-framed, apricot-shaped breasts, dark hair, eyes, and skin.

Hunger emblazoned their eyes which reflected the glow of the fire, their bodies and minds racked by desire. I knew how the women felt.

I had lost seventeen pounds but after I saw the picture, I lost thirty-five more in a little over six weeks. Every mouthful of food reminded me of the pig roast. I imagined being rotated round and round, the flames licking my sides, the fat sizzling off. Everyone in the therapy group was convinced that I was taking a GLP. I was the first to reach my goal weight and no longer had to go to group.

I ran into Roger at the supermarket. Bags of skin were under his eyes, a days old beard. He had let himself go. Food stains spotted on his shirt. His face was rounded, he had developed gills. His untucked shirt sprouted at his ribs.

He smiled, and said, "You look great."

"I feel great," l replied. He stared at my groceries: cantaloupes, apples, oranges, pineapple- stuff we never ate, and scratched his head.

"Come visit sometime," I said, then to make sure he didn't get the wrong notion,"I'm sure Junior would love to see you." I left him at the checkout counter.

Now, I control my weight with: A) steady diet, B) daily exercise, C) journal writings and D) cognitive visualizations. I eat small portions.

Last week I ran into Susan at the mall. "Do you still have your picture?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"You can destroy it if you want."

I went into the spare bedroom but the picture was missing. Junior swore he did not take it. I figured it had to be Roger who still had a key to the house. I wondered what he might do with it? Would he post it on the Internet? Buy a billboard? But not that it mattered- what's past is past, and I’d learned how to leave it at that. My therapy was complete.