“The Realm of the Hungry Ghosts”

“Tormented by unfulfilled cravings and insatiably demanding of impossible satisfactions, the Hungry Ghosts are searching for gratification for old unfulfilled needs whose time has passed.  They are beings who have uncovered a terrible emptiness within themselves, who cannot see the impossibility of correcting something that has already happened.  Their ghostlike state represents their attachment to the past….Their attempts to satisfy themselves cause more pain” (Epstein Thoughts Without a Thinker).

I am in the process of jumping through the approval procedure hoops to have a gastric bypass surgery sometime in June.  In the past five years I’ve felt myself sliding into a slow, steady despair.  Sure there are the mental things that have been relatively worked out.  Sure there is the disease.  And certainly, loneliness has contributed in a major way to all of that and the waistline.  The shock of my weight hit home with the weigh in that I did at my first appointment with the bariatic surgeon.  After seeing the scale’s readout, nmy heart raced, my head spun, and the tears streamed down my face.  I was full of disgust, so full that I couldn’t squeeze in even one more breath.  I knew then that I would absolutely do this operation.  I know the risks, I know I might die.  I know that I might suffer terrible pain.  But I knew then that I had to do this because I’ve been allowing myself to just die very slowly going along like I’ve been – suffering a slow decay at my choice to do what is easy, comforting, self-destructive self-medicating.  I know that I need to do something permanent, life-altering, – something serious.  Since that day in late Januaray I’ve settled into the idea even more.  Of course the idea of cutting, re-arranging, blood, vomit, pain and more frightens me so very much.  Yet, there is a sense of re-birth in the idea of changing my anatomy that suggests a forced change in my reality.  I cling to the hope that I believe this difficult procedure may offer.  I cling to a vision where I can reach my toes again and enjoy flexibility, lungs full of air, fitting into seats at auditoriums and airplanes.

In order to prepare for the help and supervision that I’ll need when I have the operation, I have moved back home with my parents.  They are 62 and 63 years old.  Mom is always home, Dad is always gone.  They will need to help me as I recover and can not eat normal food for three months.  This is an interesting situation as returning to the home I grew up in has triggered a lot of interesting emotions.  This is why the above passage about Hungry Ghosts is so appropriate.  Sadly, I am a Hungry Ghost.  Examining the Buddhist notion of craving, I know where my problems stem from.  It is as if I have returned the ring to the fiery realm of Mordor.  I’m at the source of my discontent.  I respect my parents for the help and ever-present support that they offer my life.  I am very grateful.  Yet, there is a sadness here in this home.  There is the emptiness the oozes from the once clean and tidy places and spaces of childhood memories; now there is clutter, dust, and the hauntings of time gone by – longings, regrets.  My parents’ once-beautful home that hosted countless birthday parties, displayed precious family treasures is burried beneath their excess and their attempts to fill the emptiness with materials.  My father is a hoarder by definition – clinical.  My mother shops, bringing home rediculous amounts of stuff: there are thirteen large plastic bottles of distilled water in the laundry room, there is a basement full of canned food expiring each day, there is the new this and that doubling, tripling up as the current this or that is just fine.  The fridge is exploding it is so full.  The cars are in the driveway because the garage is so full.  Two of the three kid bedrooms are unusable.  One room is full of baby toys and items that my niece has outgrown – these items are brand new with the tags still on.  The stuff is everywhere.  I see it as a cancer.

In packing up my own home in order to clear out for the renters that are now there, I see that I am not immune from this same problem.  The process was crazy and intense.  I went through my belongings…I have a lot of stuff.  I cleared it out, threw it away, boxed and labeled it.  It was as if I was losing weight.  As I de-cluttered, I lightened up.  Feng-Shui – hell ya!  The power of the process was so refreshing.  I feel better already.  I’ve lost some weight already and I’m not even trying.  I’m not trying to satisfy my Hungry Ghost by buying stuff.  I’m driving past the fast food joints.  I’m keeping busy, very busy.  I’m soaking up sunshine each afternoon.

The medical tests are quite interesting.  I have HBP.  I have Sleep Apnea.  I still have a slow thyroid.  I’ll know about my digestive track tomorrow since I’m having an upper endoscopy.  All of this bringing the picture into clearer focus. At some point I stopped caring about me.  I cared about how I felt emotionally.  I cared that a piece of cake could make me feel better – at the moment that I wasn’t.  I cared that stopping at Portillo’s could make me feel better – driving home to an empty house.  I cared that buying whatever the hell I want at the grocery store could supplement for a lack of freedom I felt as a “victim” to my own mess.  I didn’t care that I was fading away from family and friends.  I didn’t care that the strong body I once was so proud of was becoming burried alive beneath layers of fat.  I didn’t care that my heart was racing throughout day and night.  I didn’t care that my lungs were gasping.  I didn’t think of those things as me.  I was my emotions.  Dealing with emotional issues could mean the subjection of my body.  There was no link between mind and body.

I feel the connection better now.  It is so easy to get wrapped up into my feelings.  I am cerebral.  I am words, thoughts, feelings, moods, affection, sorrow, regret, hope, fear, and dreams.  I am all of that existing inside a physical body.  A body that still has room for many more miles, if I fix it now.  My former junior high school principal, also my parents’ neighbor, who has to be older than dirt now just walked by.  He is all puffy white Santa hair, track suit, cane, and big Harry Carey glasses.  This man of pure, kind heartedness has touched the lives of thousands of students in this town.  This Sicilian man who encouraged my dreams and allowed my noble 7th and 8th grade ambitions the room to grow.  This man who was so sick and kicked a stroke, conquered coronary bypass, survived the death of his wife and daughter…this man is a role model still. I am a teacher, but I am still and always a student.  I can learn from him.  I can learn from the stories of countless others.  I can learn from Buddhism.  My hunger is not real.  My hunger is not justified any more.  I can solve problems and move on.

Although it seems that most of this Midwestern American society does become the Real of Hungry Ghosts, I can recognize these trappings and try to rise above the temptations and patterns.  Material wealth can never matter more than physical and emotional health.  I will continue to move forward with the medical procedures in order to get this operation done.  I will go into this knowing full well it might not work.  I will know that I might freak out to get out from under my cocoon of fat.  I know that it will be strange to be free of the obvious scape-goat of my life.  I know all of this…and I know nothing at all.

~ by the10sdoc on April 18, 2010.