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A Story About Head Hunger
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I’m a longtime lurker on this forum and this is my first stab at actually participating. Today marks seven days since I was sleeved and I’m feeling fabulous. I am so grateful for the support and information you all provide, and hope I can return the favor by being a resource for some of you.
As great as I’m doing, I am starting to understand what you all mean by the phrase “head hunger" (alas). I’m not sure if someone who hasn’t had weight-loss surgery can really conceptualize what this is, and though mine hasn’t been a huge deal so far, there is a certain novelty in finally “getting” it.
Appropriately enough, I heard a perceptive analogy about head hunger today that I wanted to share with the group. It happened while speaking with a neighbor who is an amputee. She noted that her foot and lower leg had been removed due to a chronic condition that caused debilitating pain, and she described her post-amputation life as vastly improved despite the need for a prosthetic limb.
As I explained the sleeve to her, I observed that although I have absolutely no appetite right now, I do find myself occasionally preoccupied with food. It’s not exactly a feeling of being hungry for the food, and it doesn’t seem to be related to how long it's been since I last ate. Rather, it’s closer to a sense of being fascinated by a food item. Even if I couldn't swallow it (which of course I can’t right now), I would want smell it, touch it, be close to it. Sometimes I find myself thinking how much I want to buy the food and cook it for someone else, or more often I’ll fantasize in minute detail about how it’s going to feel in my mouth after I’m back on solids. It’s the kind of feeling that might have put me in danger of having a binge episode in my life before, except that it’s not accompanied by a feeling of emptiness or “hunger” in my stomach… which makes the sensation especially bizarre and unexpected. This is head hunger.
She seemed to understand completely. What she said next took me aback: According to my neighbor, the pain in her diseased foot actually had two sources. The first was obviously her foot, where pinched nerves and misshapen bones fired off distress signals day and night. But the second site of the pain was inside her brain, and its role in her suffering turned out to be non-trivial. She said she only fully understood this after the amputation, when she continued to require prescription pain medication for discomfort in a foot that no longer existed. She could see that the foot wasn’t there and her “thinking brain” knew that it had been removed even when she wasn’t looking at her leg, yet she continued to feel that awful ache for years after surgery.
I found the end of her story especially interesting: My neighbor said that although the pain has not gone away, eventually it diminished significantly. I asked how she deals with the lingering discomfort. She replied that she made it a smaller part of her life. I didn’t understand at first - I mean, pain is pain, how do you just ignore it? She said she uses cognitive-behavioral therapy techniques, which have trained her to think of the pain as a cognitive distortion formed by years of suffering with the pre-amputation foot, as if those neural pathways became so well used that her brain can’t turn them back off. She also practices of mindfulness. She pauses each morning to record her level of pain and how her stump feels in a medical record book, but otherwise she resists letting her thoughts drift in this direction. Instead, she focuses on savoring what she’s doing, or she may change her environment when she feels the pain intensifying by (mindfully) smelling a special scent or reading a book of quotes. This helps make the sensation bearable until it recedes again.
I have no idea how scientifically sound this narrative is and it may be an over-simplification, but I thought it might appeal to members of this crowd. I definitely buy the idea that my brain has been permanently changed by 28 years of cognitive distortions related to obesity and binge eating, and it makes some sense that these thoughts might not just “turn off” with the removal of most of my stomach.
However, it seems equally possible that by filling my life with healthier thoughts and continuing to root out cognitive distortions, I can take steps to minimize head hunger’s interference with my recovery. [indeed, I just realized every time I’ve felt this way has been late at night, which is when I tend to be alone with my brain.] This helps me feel more confident that when (not if) head hunger-type feelings do recur, I can learn to “make them a smaller part of my life” rather than suffering with them or giving in.
What do you guys think? Thanks again for all you do - I couldn't have gotten to this point without you!
Edited by Skinny_Krissy