I was banded in alma, Michigan, on November 16 of 2004. I weighed 366 pounds at my heaviest, when I started the pre-surgery diet required by Dr. Cudjoe.

Today, as I sit here before this bright window on the world, I weigh 266 pounds.

One hundred pounds. Exactly.

Part of me sings, part of my spirit soars on wings of joy at this loss. My step is lighter, my rest more peaceful, my diabetes is, for now anyway, in hiding. I can wear a 44 men's pant, as opposed to a tight 54 a year ago.

I can hug my wife (well, I could hug her if RSD would let me. Horrible disease.) I can buy my clothes at the normal racks. I can take advantage of sales.

Still, I was down a hundred pounds a month ago. And this summer was a blur of grey shadows for I had slipped into a deep and dangerous depression.

I thought it was my challenging life. And it is challenging. But it wasn't that. I thought it was the stress of my job. But it wasn't that either. I thought I was grieving my lost freedom as a caregiver to a chronically ill person. But, of course, it wasn't really that either.

Day slipped into day, and it all felt like night. The only thing that changed was the calendar.

There's a machine inside each of us. A robot, if you will, who is very good at pretending to be you while the real you is adrift, becalmed on a sea of despair.

I showered each morning, I drove to work. I returned. I did the laundry, kept the house, cooked the meals, and kept all my wife's doctor's appointments. Even now, as the light begins to shine once again in my little spiritual prison, I can't remember any one day. Maybe, for me, it was all one day.

And I knew something was wrong. I knew I was in trouble. And I blamed it all on my life, my wife, the weather, finances. I blamed everything but the truth.

I would endure fits of anger at myself for not being happier about what I had. A good job, a wonderful spouse, and a one hundred pound weight loss when I thought I had been fat's prisoner for life.

I really don't know what did it. I really don't know what opened my eyes. But I came to realize what was really happening.

I was grieveing a loss.

You see, I am a murderer. Just about a year ago I killed the only friend who could comfort me through times of strife. Days of sorrow. But he wasn't really a friend, for while I was being comforted I was also being murdered. Slowly, coldly. My friend was smothering me in warm cozy layers of fat.

I miss my drug. I miss eating half a pie, and washing it down with a quart of ice cream. Then repeating the procedure. I'm not just addicted to food, you see. I'm addicted to the act of eating. And, through constant toil and practice I made my stomach just like my heart. Something that could never be filled. An emptiness like the black core of interstellar space.

He cries out in me still. His ghost lingers on. I see him. I hear him. I hear that siren call "Eat....Eat.....Eat.....Eat". He sings his destructive song in my ear still. Even now he calls to me.

Thank God I know his face now. Thank God I know his name. The Enemy is no longer invisible. But he is strong. And.....I am weak. Thank God I have a band. It lends me the strength of science. When I weaken, when I succumb to the hypnotic cry of the gourmand, it lends me it's strength. It's wisdom.

Yes, science treats my symptom. I alone must face the disease. But, a hundred pounds down, and sixty odd to go, I can fight longer. I have longer to heal. And I got that hundred pounds back from my addiction. That victory will always be mine.

If you've read this far, you have my admiration and condolences. Thank you. I wanted to share that haveing the band doesn't solve your problems, it gives you a breather to work on them yourself. It's a tool. And any tool that lies unused is worthless. Use it. Fight. I'll fight beside you. We all will fight together.

It's never to late to become what you might have been.

Ryan.

Hey Ryan!

so glad to see you still have the beautiful gift of writing. Welcome home!

And a big LBT hug for that -100 pounder. :eek

Then I said the word that bikers know. It's part of their private language. "Priorities". He knew what I meant. Stay alive at all costs. Don't go through the motions of life, job, family, car, house. LIVE. Never forget to live your life.

Ryan...first of all, it's GREAT to hear from you again. You have been missed.

Second, thank you for very wise words. I know that personally I have a tendancy to "go through the motions of life" and forget to LIVE.

Hmmmm.....maybe a motorcycle is in my future? (not the first time I've considered it)

Take care.

Congratulations on this amazing success!!! I am also, like everyone above, inspired and urged to know, I mean really get in touch with, the psychological/emotional side to my weight issues. It is something I've never gotten close enough to really be able to experience and embrace the emptiness of being without food as my friend. I appreciate your words, and I will keep them in mind as I get further and further down, and on my lifelong path of healthier living.

If you want a motorcycle, go for it! If you want to paint a miniature version of the Mona Lisa on the back of a gum wrapper, do that!!!

But don't put off the act of living!!!! Any plant or animal can eat and breathe. Don't fall into that rut!!

Once there was a little boy. He wanted, more than anything else, to be a writer. He wrote all the time, and read everything he could get his hands on. But he never submitted his writing. He never even let his teachers know of his desire. He kept it hidden because he didnt' really think his words were good enough. He didn't believe he had talent.

He grew up, and yet that desire never left, and still he did not follow his dream. Still, he would write things. Usually he would decide they weren't good enough for the eyes of anyone else and he would throw them away.

Years went by. He held jobs, got married, divorced, and married another. He learned a great many things, but one thing in his life never changed: Each morning when he woke he harbored a wish that he were a real writer, making his living at his craft. And each evening he would write in his head as he fell asleep. Think up new lines of prose, new plots, new stories. And just before he went drifting on a sea of dreams he would wish that he were a writer. Someone who got paid for his words.

Finally he got his first novel published. It came out on his fiftieth birthday. Now he must make up for lost time. Now he truly regrets all the chances not taken. In fact the only regrets I have are the chances not taken. I should have been submitting my work at that early age. But I didn't, instead of following my dream I followed everyone else's dream for me.

Now......grab your dream and go. You'll not regret it. What a different story each and every one of us would have to tell if we would LIVE and chase our dreams rather than be respectable and go through the motions of being alive.

Thanks for the welcome back. I'll try to post, I'll try to help any who I can.

Ryan, thanks so much for sharing your story. You eloquently put into words, what so many of us struggle with - giving up 'the act of eating'. I too, turn to food when I'm happy, sad, depressed, undecided .. you name it, food was my comfort, my obsession.

I'm concerned by how I will deal with this during the holidays, but knowing that all of you are here will make it that much easier I'm sure.

Congratulations on your accomplishments!!

Wow- Here I sit crying. Because I know that my problem is as deep has you have written. I didn't think I was really that addicted or weak but after only 4 mnths & already gaining back some I know I am. You words are very helpful to me. Congrats on your journey & 100 pds loss. And thank you for your post it has helped me take a closer look at myself & my on going problem.