hedonisticfeedee
Honey, I’m Killing the Kid
Published: June 30th 2020, 11:31:03 am
Author’s Note: I tried to write a little differently this time using three different perspectives on the subject’s obesity. You have one parent feeding his son to death, making a genetic or biological argument for obesity, making it sound natural and unstoppable. The other parent makes the argument that their son’s obesity is a product of their environment and how one parent nurtured him. Finally, we see the son struggle to operate under his weight and how he feels about all of it.
One of the first obesity documentaries I ever watched as a kid was the TLC show “Honey, We’re Killing the Kids” (2006), which the name is a parody of the Disney movie “Honey, I Shrunk the Kids” (1989).The show was about the need for parents to address their kid’s eating and exercise issues before it was too late. Naturally, I thought about what would happen and what does happen with obese young adults if parents enable their offspring. C.J., who is 19, is a product of nature versus nurture argument for obesity after his weight was left unchecked. What can one do when they get this large? Is it reversible with diet and exercise, or is it too late because the habits are too ingrained in patterns and the fabric of the family values? Enjoy!
Honey, I’m Killing the Kid
James
Do I feel bad about what I’ve done to my son? Sometimes, but he also makes his own choices. It’s not like I forced him to get fat. He did it to himself, but his genes make it hard for him not to self-destruct. It just kind of happened, and the kid is a natural at packing on the pounds. His body is designed to gain. Ultimately, I’m happy if he’s happy. That’s the very reason I am here picking out food from the go-to convenience store like it’s a legitimate buffet. He eats so much of this shitty food. I have no clue how he does it, but he loves it, and I’m a pro at picking out what he lusts after.
C.J. made friends easily in grade school. However, as he aged, the less Sharon, his mother, and I heard about his friends. That was around the time we noticed he picked up weight quickly. Our family pediatrician gave us diet after diet to help him shed the weight, but nothing worked. He blimped with each passing week. The teacher told us playing left him breathless, and eventually, he couldn’t keep up with or walk like his classmates.
By the time he made it to middle school, C.J. was already over 300 pounds. I won’t lie and say it didn’t concern me how fat he got by that point. Things didn’t get better; life was hard for C.J. and me that year. Sharon experiences acute abdominal pains. I rushed her to the hospital, where an oncologist diagnosed her with a rare form of gall bladder cancer. There were no symptoms until it became stage 4. Only 5 in 100 people survive stage 4 gallbladder cancer for five years or longer. We buried Sharon only three months later.
Things spiraled more after Sharon’s death. We were both depressed. C.J. got so fat he no longer fit in desks. I decided to put him through online school when I found out about other kids bullying him because of his weight. I just wanted to protect his fragile mental health. Over time life got better. For example, after Sharon’s passing, I discovered my bisexuality. I always had a feeling, but I did the marriage and kid thing that my parents expected me to do. I decided fuck it. I’m going to live authentically. That’s when I met Felix at the bar. I hesitated to bring Felix around C.J. when we first met, but I was able to come out to my son and introduce them once we developed a serious relationship. Felix and I got married two years later, and Felix adopted C.J. Felix is now called Pop, and he calls me Dad. C.J. seemed happier with Felix in our lives, but his weight continued to soar.
Felix
C.J. is nineteen years old, but I’m frightened at what this is doing to his body. He hasn’t even reached his prime yet. I know C.J. is not my biological son, but I’m his adoptive father because I really do love and care for him. Sometimes I sneak into his room while he sleeps and count his breaths to make sure he’s still alive and ensuring he put his CPAP on. I’m terrified at the idea of having to bury my boy at such a young age. James is worried too, but that’s why he uses denial. I refuse to normalize the growing situation. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think James is a bad father; he’s just misguided.
Sixteen is the age a teenager earns their permit and then license. I never knew someone so unmotivated and willing to stay dependent on their parents. Back then, I tried to get him to study by printing him the online copy of a driver’s manual. I even bounded it in a binder like an actual book. He gave me his praise, but he never took the test. Honestly, by that age, he couldn’t fit in a car correctly or use the seatbelts without an extender. I wonder if the drama contributed to his apathy towards driving.
Even last year, I tried to start him off right into adulthood since I watched his body grow wider and rounder. On his 18th birthday, I gave him a Planet Fitness membership. A month went by, but to no avail did he give exercise a chance. Sometimes I think he spent the rest of that year hardly getting out of bed just to spite me. He just laid in bed. He still does, but now he’s breathless doing absolutely nothing.
C.J.
Getting out of bed is too much of a challenge these days. It would be significantly easier never to leave bed again. I only do it when it’s necessary like to use the bathroom. Dad and I talked over solutions so I wouldn’t have to get up, but for now, I have to keep destroying my knees to cross the hall and sit on a broken toilet seat. It doesn’t matter if I only have to pee. I still sit on the toilet because I’m too big pee while standing up without making a mess in my fat folds and on the floor.
The only reason dad made me promise to make any effort at all is to appease Pop. I imagine Pop pissed off at the thought of me using a jug or asking for a catheter, so dad and I don’t bring it up. Nevertheless, I only get up a handful of times per day to do my business. The only other reason to get up is food, but dad brings me whatever I want whenever I ask for it. I used to beg for him to bring me cheeseburgers or cake, but he gave in so quickly.
I haven’t begged in years. Now, Dad just does what I say. He never attempts to deny me anymore. He often sneaks extra food to my bedroom because I can’t sleep unless I’m uncomfortably full. Pop would be angry to see the shit dad lets me funnel into my gut. That’s what he’s doing for me right now: picking up food for me at the convenience store. I’m so fucking excited. Please hurry, dad!
Felix
I try to keep junk food out of the house. I let it slide because snacks aren’t the worst thing isn’t the world. However, C.J. has no control. It is reasonable to expect an average adult male to weigh about 165 pounds. Raising a child to weigh over 600 pounds by the age of 18? That should bother anyone. What I’m trying to say is it’s easy to see who’s fault it is! Stop giving him snacks! It makes me so angry and also sorrowful for him.
Sharon and James didn’t teach him nutrition and physical exercise early enough. I also think there’s something psychological going on, but I walk on eggshells around them both. I know Sharon’s death hurt them both, and it’ll take more therapy than I can do. It’s still no excuse. There’s no reason for him to be that big. C.J. is an adult, but sometimes I feel like he withholds information from me. He won’t tell me, but I just know he’s unhealthy. I imagine his body riddled with health issues. There is a family history of diabetes and heart disease. He says he’s fine, but I can physically see the toll of lymphedema stretching his legs and inner thighs with rough fatty deposits.
C.J. uses his CPAP after every huge meal to break up up his wheezing. He struggles without oxygen, but why would he? His plush, heavy breasts weigh on his sternum with an enormous belly poking into his lap and covering his knees while he’s in bed. I can’t stress enough how much I love him, but honestly, he’s a spoiled pig, pumped full of lard with a growing appetite. I don’t know how much longer he can keep this up.
C.J.
There’s plenty of reasons to hate being this fat, or morbidly obese, or whatever you wish to call it. I’m in constant pain. Pop sees it on my face. My lungs fail to expand with enough oxygen to keep me breathing like a normal person. The hungry feeling deep in layers of fat never goes away; I’m insatiable no matter how much I eat. I can and will eat until I feel sick, but ten minutes later, I feel like I’ve been starving for days.
When I was mobile enough to leave the house it sucked to be out in public. Everyone stared at the shaking blubber or made comments to try to get under my skin. Trust me; there is a lot of skin to get underneath at this size. I’ve dealt with the comments since third grade. That doesn’t mean I’m always miserable. Sure, I bet some really obese people are unhappy to be trapped in their homes. I’ll admit it’s uncomfortable and tough, but being too fat to do anything for yourself does have its perks. I get to eat whatever I want. I don’t have to wear restricting clothes. I never got a license or went to college, so I have no debt. There’s plenty of food, as evident by empty snack packets that make their way onto my floor.
My favorite snacks are from the convenience store a few blocks away. I used to go to it by myself, but now dad brings me giant drinks and a grocery bag full of sandwiches. The gross, fattening foods from 7 Eleven fill a hole in me that nobody or nothing can fill. When I eat an entire gas station pizza with a Big Gulp on the side, all my pain or worries go away. Besides snacking, I have access to any video games I want. Dad is a sucker for buying me the latest game systems that come out. When I’m tired of the games I can watch Television. I do this all wearing minimal clothes. Clothes are unnecessary expensive only for me to outgrow them quickly. Dad is fully supportive of what I want to wear, or in this case, not wear.
I don’t wear shirts or real pants anymore. I can’t bend down to put on socks or tie my shoes, so I don’t. It’s not like I’m going anywhere anyway. Pop thinks it’s a sign of giving up on life. Don’t get me wrong; I understand where Pop is coming from in his logic. I have given up on a lot of things because of anxiety and depression. He has the right to be concerned, especially when he tells me my weight is killing me. That’s fucking terrifying for all of us. It’s almost enough to make me lose weight. Almost. It would be much too hard to lose it though, so I don’t try anymore.
This is the reason why I wear a pair of overly stretched gym shorts. It’s all I can wear semi-comfortably. It gives us all hope. It provides us with some resemblance of normalcy to be able to fit into clothes and like it’s not this bad. It is this bad, though. I’m just afraid he will finally snap when the elastic in the gym shorts also tear beyond repair, leaving me completely naked and vulnerable.
I remind myself people mobile enough to function have it rough. They do boring yard work and tedious weekly cleaning. Some people decide to exercise and get uncomfortable sweaty and sore on purpose, not because it’s natural for their body to do like mine. Why would anyone put themselves through that? Why would I want that life when I can have this one? Anyone who says being active must be lying, or am I just lying to myself to make myself feel better about being this big? This is the life. Right?
James
I think there’s enough food for now. I’ve lost count at how much of this junk food is stacked on top of each other with care like it’s a puzzle. The first time the cashier checked out the grotesque amount, they were shocked and disgusted. Now they never say a word because they are accustomed to how much food I buy for my son; I’m a regular. I wonder what they think I do with all this food. Do they think I donate it? Eat it throughout the week? Buy it for a party? The customers roll their eyes, waiting in line. The clerk continues to bag and double bag the contents for me. I’m trying to hurry. God only knows what is happening at home while I’m out getting C.J.’s food.
Felix
The last time I heard C.J. weighed a dangerous 711 pounds after coming back from his last doctor’s visit. Ironically, 7 Eleven is his favorite. It disgusts me to see James walk the three blocks to 7 Eleven and come back with a convenience store feast to satisfy C.J.’s voracious appetite for a short time. Seriously. I don’t understand why obese people love fast food so much, but I sure as hell don’t understand craving fucking gas station food.
The fruit harvest blend cups and Kale and Quinoa salads are ignored for the bundle of mini tacos, cheeseburgers, spicy chicken sandwiches, and pizza. Right now, 7 Eleven has a deal where they deliver $5 pizzas and pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream without a delivery fee.The only good thing about this situation is how cheap the food is, but the cheapness is also why America has such an obesity problem. Come on, 49¢ Big Gulps and you get your 7th Bug Gulp free? Who needs that much soda? They’re practically giving away diabetes! Sometimes I’m afraid to go into C.J.’s room because I know I’ll panic seeing both nightstands overflowing with an army of old cups. This is not about genetics. 700lbs. That is hitting the bottom of the barrel. We know there’s a chance he won’t come back from that.
C.J. needs psychological help to deal with the years of issues. James needs psychological help to prevent him from feeding our son to death! Some days I just want to yell at James until I can get the point across. Other days I want to burn the Costco bulk-sized Oreos, chips, and sodas. Most days, I let it slide because I have sympathy for them both. If he carries on at his rate, he will weigh over 1,000 pounds in the next three years, or worse, die. His weight will only go up from here unless I take charge and do something drastic because James won’t do anything with C.J.’s weight. I’ve got to put my foot down once and for all.
C.J.
Obviously, I can’t see myself in my current position on the bed. However, I can see the growing disappointment on Pop’s face to see me in the state I’m currently in. It’s like he sees my expiration date when looking into my eyes. I’m sure I haven’t helped matters with orange Cheeto dust on my cheeks and chin folds. I show respect for him by rolling up the bag and putting it on my nightstand. Next, I take my orange stained and try to find something to wipe them off on. It’s either my dirty bedsheets or my body. Which one will make him shake his head more? I decide it’s easier to clean me than getting me off the bed for already ruined sheets. The dust lands in my chest hair.
“It’s time to get out of bed and try some exercise,” he hides his gloom with a fake encouraging tone.
I don’t want to do it, but Pop is going to make me. “No! Please! I don’t want to do this,” I gasp. I know he wants what’s best for me, but he doesn’t understand how much pain it puts me through. Pop makes the point I haven’t been out of the bed in over a week. I hate when he’s right. “I don’t care. I like being in bed. Please don’t make me do this. I’ll do better next week,” I beg of him.
“We simply can’t allow that, son. I know moving is hard, but we have to get you out of bed and walking. You know what will happen if you don’t,” Felix responds sternly. I sigh when he walks over to me, knowing that I can’t escape. Ironically, escaping would mean walking away, which defeats the purpose of my plea.
I pout, but I know Pop isn’t going to give up easily like Dad does instantly. “You know it’s not healthy to stay in bed all day. I’ve got all of these resources for exercising for people of any size! It’s going to be great!” Pop tried to reassure me. I’m not about this exercise non-sense. “Let’s get up,” he encourages me. I’m already out of breath, rocking back and forth until I roll over on my side. I scoot toward the edge of the bed. Sheets follow my girth, peeling off the edges of the mattress. I need a minute to breathe, but I also don’t want to be the fat failure of a son I’m afraid Pop sees me as sometimes. I don’t do this often, but when I do, I have help and I’m only walking a few feet. I know this will be a different experience.
I am able to rock myself up onto my aching feet. In a matter of seconds I’m exhausted and trying to keep myself up by holding onto the bed frame. My knees begin to buckle under my weight. I stagger forward hoping movement prevents me from falling. It’s not comfortable with hundreds of pounds of belly pushing out in front of me and resting heavily on my knees as I lumber forward. An excited Pop sees me struggle and comes by my side to stabilize me as much as possible. “Good boy!” he praises me like a dog. I groan in response to the pain in my lower extremities as he helps me shuffle four or five steps. I’m so exhausted already I’ve lost count. I pray for a miracle.
“P-Pop...please let me...sit down,” I wheeze while clutching my chest. My lungs burn.
James
“You’re making him walk?!” I shout, shocked as I enter the room with the gas station goodies. I really shouldn’t be surprised. This is just like Felix.
“Look at how he’s floundering about! If we don’t get him out of the bed more often he’s going to lose the remaining mobility he struggles to maintain. Besides, how do you think he’s going to shed any of this weight lying in bed eating this junk?” Felix accuses me of enabling C.J.’s Bad Habits.
I reassure C.J. he’s done enough and that everything will be okay. After all, his body may not be able to handle this much stress. Felix glares at me as I comfort him and assist him with waddling back to the bed. “It’s okay, hun. Let’s get back to bed.” C.J. Falls back onto the bed, causing a snapping noise. Fortunately, I don’t see the foundation collapsing, but I make a mental note to reinforce the bed later. The behemoth wheezes in an attempt to fill his lungs back to capacity. I’m sure they burn. “You did so well! Daddy is back with your reward!” I exclaim, hoping he will forgive Felix for the high-intensity workout.
I give him the bags from my snack run. He rips through the plastic, like tissue, and unwraps a burger. I honestly thought 7 Eleven cheeseburgers would dry beyond consumption under the heat lamp for who knows how long. I’m proven incorrect watching grease drip down C.J.’s growing chins starting from the sides of his spherical cheeks. The burger he chose must still be fresh. He throws the wrapper on the floor with no concern who needs to clean his mess after he’s done. Let’s face it. I’ll be the one cleaning his mess per usual. It’s a labor of love, just like everything else I do for my son.
Another unwrapped burger makes it into his gaping mouth, crumbs rolling down into his protruding breasts. I think he’d be embarrassed about becoming a pig and degrading himself with food by becoming so helpless if he had to do it in public. Instead, he’s an animal in comfort. “All this greasy food, C.J. I’m worried about your cholesterol levels. You really shouldn’t be eating all his. You’ll ruin your appetite for the healthy dinner I’m going to make,” Felix tries everything to get C.J. to slow down. C.J. isn’t considering any of the pleas with the recent change in power structure. He’s daddy’s boy, and nobody is going to stop daddy from spoiling him. He doesn’t slow down. On the contrary, his eating accelerated as he reaches for a mini taco after a loud, disgusting belch. I hope that this is enough food to tide his overwhelming hunger over until dinner. I can’t have my boy starving; A growing boy needs to eat!
Felix
James always says C.J. Is fat, fluffy, or overweight. He doesn’t like using the medical term of Class III Obese. We can’t sugarcoat the problem anymore; the monumental issue is a hard pill to swallow just like the high blood pressure medicine. It’s ironic James goes on and on about biology and medical issues related to C.J.’s weight, but refuses to put him on a diet approved by dietitians and hates turning obesity into a medical problem. The thought frustrates me beyond belief.
Out of the three of us why am I the only one bothered enough by the calorie-dense food and sugary drinks to promote change? Why are the health consequences not enough to save his life? Why was there no therapy or someone to stop him from eating? Why does this family think it’s fine enough for a young adult to weigh over 4 times his natural weight? Will there be a wake-up call? What will it take? Falling and hurting himself? Getting stuck in a doorway? Failing to get out of bed on his own and pissing on himself?
James
I know there might be some who blame Sharon or me about C.J.’s weight problem. It’s not our fault he grew so big. Genetics makes losing weight challenging. Sharon and I were small, but Sharon’s father was a big man. I would be surprised if C.J.’s weight shot right up because of something hereditary. The doctors always said C.J.’s hypothyroidism at a young age would make weight loss a challenge.
Overweight people report that they eat no more than thin people and exercise just as much. Still, fluffy people can't drop the pounds. C.J. is no exception, and it’s unfair when Felix blames him or myself. I know Felix is just concerned about our son, but he completely ignores the science behind being fat. There are more than 50 genes associated with obesity. Many studies cite the FTO gene has a strong association with high amounts of fat tissue and getting, uh, fat. Really fat. Being beyond 700 pounds isn’t just 'liking food too much' or 'being lazy.' I wish Felix understood.
I love my son C.J., but I also love my husband, Felix. I don’t have the heart to tell Felix that diets don’t work because of C.J.’s genetic makeup. We tried them anyway for C.J.’s sake because, ultimately, we both want him to be healthy. We encouraged exercising. We cut C.J.’s calories down significantly. Naturally, he hated calorie restriction. I felt so bad about torturing him that sometimes I snuck him food behind Felix’s back. There’s nothing wrong with being full, but there’s something very wrong about starving someone you care about. Sometimes I’d bring in a whole pizza as a bedtime snack or let him have a two-liter of soda on a hot day. As a family, we tried to make changes together, but with every new diet that came along, I’d cave into C.J.’s begging and puppy dog eyes. I’d reward him with chocolate cake every time he ate his vegetables. I still give treats to him these days despite the conflict it causes between Felix and me.
C.J.
I just want them to stop fighting over my weight. I don’t care if it’s poor genetics or if I’m a product of a bad environment. This is just the way I am. Let’s be honest. I know this will eventually kill me. Pop doesn’t need to try to scare me about it. I love both my Dad and Pop, but right now, I just want to eat in peace. They continue to fight in front of me. I zone out with mini tacos.
“This is not normal,” Pop tells Dad.
“On the contrary, over 70 million adults in the U.S. are obese. That seems pretty normal to me,” Dad replies.
“James, 711 pounds on a 5'6 frame means he will die soon if we don’t intervene.”
“Dozens of ‘son, I need you to lose weight because I love you’ won’t reshape his genetics.”
“It’s not genetics! Don’t be an enabler. We'll end up burying our son before he’s 25, and you’re part of the reason he’ll be there. You’re encouraging him further into disordered eating. You always have an excuse, a way to avoid responsibility,” Pop accuses Dad.
“Hon, you’ve got to stop doing this kind of stuff. He’s right there! What 19 years old is letting their parents weigh them or check their blood pressure as a family activity. He’s big. Let him live his life.”
“Overfeeding our son junk food is child abuse! Stop bringing him garbage! I’m sure he’ll get mad about it, but for fuck’s sake, he didn’t get so big by himself!”
“Sweetie, he’s not a child anymore. He’s an adult who can make his own choices. It’s like you think I’m feeding him and making him fat on purpose,” Dad attempts to convince Pop to let me have the freedom to let me rot my insides with more fat.
“You... you’re delusional when it comes to our son’s weight problem.” I mean, Pop is kind of right on that one. I’ve gotten really fucking big. I mean, BIG in all caps.
“You’re strict and overbearing,” Dad retaliates.
“Stop eating!” Pop demands of me. I disobey. I don’t want to upset him, but I’m just so hungry. “Christopher Jamison Roberts! Are you even listening to me?” Pop uses my full name in anger. I don’t care. My face is vacant, and my stomach growls, needing more. I mindlessly reach for a hot dog.
My parents freeze as they hear the doorbell. “Who could that be?” asks Pop. I snap out of my trance, excited for more food to arrive. I can already tell Pop will go to his bedroom and bawl his eyes out because of his fat fuck of a son. This isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last they fight over my size. It’ll all be okay in a few hours. Dad will apologize to Pop and do something nice for him. As for now, neither of them know I ordered more food while they argued. I’m just excited 7 Eleven delivers.