Quit Smoking to Get Healthy, Get Fat and Sick Instead

THE ORDEAL OF preparing my apartment for its quarterly premises inspection while I am afflicted by plantar fasciitis  in my left foot – which means I'm much more crippled than usual – has stolen my writing time. This week's OAN is thus limited to material I've posted on other sites.

Coincidentally – or perhaps not (because excess weight is among the chief causes of plantar fasciitis) – one of those posts was about the methodically suppressed connection between quitting smoking and inexplicable, uncontrollable and frighteningly fast weight-gain. It is a condition with which my post-smoking self is intimately, bitterly, god-cursingly familiar. But the facts about it – especially the hideousness it inescapably imposes on about 35 percent of former smokers, especially males – are carefully concealed by USian doctors, lest the dreadful knowledge encourage nicotine addicts to keep smoking.

Hence the following, an expanded version of the reply I posted two days ago on the comment thread of “5 Reasons Americans Are Getting Fatter: It's Not Just the Food,” an AlterNet report reprinted by Reader Supported News. 

While reporter Martha Rosenberg did an excellent job of rounding up the usual obesity-epidemic suspects – the long litany of for-profit additives and artificial sweeteners by which the capitalists poison our food – she wrote not a single word about the plague of post-smoking weight-gain. 

In this context it is important to understand the national quit-smoking campaign did not originate from any real public health concern. What began it is a condition unique to the USian Homeland: the fact the Ayn Rand doctrine that is the basis of USian economic policy defines health care as a privilege of wealth rather than a human right. The anti-smoking drive was therefore launched in response to for-profit insurors' anger over how tobacco-related deaths were reducing their obscene profits. In other words, the USian war on tobacco smoking started as a manifestation of capitalist greed – which is precisely why it has been conducted so relentlessly and therefore with such success. Contrast the totality of the USian anti-smoking effort with the USian effort to eradicate communicable childhood diseases. The latter is a program increasingly abandoned, with predictably catastrophic results, due to deliberately genocidal neglect of the poor combined with the ailments spread by Christian fanatics who are now granted theocratic exemptions that allow them to legally ignore formerly mandatory inoculation requirements. The difference between the anti-smoking and childhood-health programs undoubtedly lies in the bottom-line: apparently payouts for smoking deaths reduce insurors' profits far more than payouts for the deaths of children.

Though I intended my response to Rosenberg to be corrective rather than confessional, my fury at the cosmic unfairness and sadism of my post-smoking circumstances – the fact I quit smoking to get healthy but instead got grotesquely fat – made parts of my contribution uncomfortably Oprah-ish. Normally I would have deleted such lapses as inappropriate emotionalism. But on second thought, it seemed the disclosures might help others who, like myself, are now after quitting smoking forever entrapped in the mortification inflicted by balloon-sized flesh. Besides, I have nothing to lose: I am who I am, and in this instance what I am – that is, horrendously obese – combines with abject poverty, physical disability and age to ensure the female gender will never again look at me with anything other than indifference, if not outright disgust. 

The associated negative emotions – which slap me in the face whenever I look in a mirror – are intensified by the fact USian doctors generally insist you're cheating anytime you gain weight on post-smoking diets. Whether calling you a liar is prompted by ignorance or is mandatory protocol, the psychological devastation is the same. The only exception I ever encountered amongst USian medical personnel was the nutritionist I consulted through Washington state's Group Health Cooperative. She said the stress of nicotine withdrawal – which is now recognized as the longest and most wrenching drug withdrawal  known to humans – throws the body into what she called “concentration-camp mode.” Thus the body begins turning all food into the fat essential to protect muscles and bones from absorption during starvation. If this is indeed what happens – and the explanation seems as good as any I've heard – the implication is that nicotine withdrawal truly ends only at death, especially for those of us who suffer the lifelong post-smoking tendency to become circus obese. 

Unfortunately, my case is typical. I weighed 158 pounds in 1985, when, at age 45, rising blood pressure and occasional bouts of cardiac arrhythmia prompted me to begin what became a ten-year fight to quit smoking. I was in good shape, an attractive and reasonably successful middle-aged journalist, the editor-in-chief of Art Direction, an international advertising-industry trade journal. As a Manhattanite I routinely walked five miles a day – Gotham-dwellers average more miles afoot than any other USians – and my 158 pounds with its 31-inch waistline was only 10 pounds and two inches more than my best condition ever, this in the Regular Army c. 1962. But my first week off cigarettes I gained 12 pounds, my first month a total of 24.5 pounds – gains I would have dismissed as impossible but for the irrefutable testimony of my trousers, which I could no longer button, and the corroborative witness borne by my belt, which was soon extended to its maximum length. 

Within weeks I went back to smoking – mainly because I knew the fast-encroaching ugliness would end my romantic and sexual prospects forever. Then my blood pressure again soared, and I again tried quitting. Once more I tried cold turkey; then I tried Smokers Anonymous (which is where I first heard of the British studies linking nicotine withdrawal to radical obesity). I tried hypnosis; I tried gradual reduction of my daily cigarette-count; I tried various over-the-counter medications that promised to help me quit. But it seemed nothing could get the nicotine monkey off my back. 

Meanwhile I had discovered a new and even more formidable complex of barriers to quitting: without nicotine, I could not function as a journalist. I could still edit copy, but I could not converse intelligently, think clearly or write a coherent sentence. I am dyslexic; soon I came to realize it was nicotine's function as a neurotransmitter – and not any innate talent – that had enabled all my intellectual acumen and indeed my entire reporting career. 

Of my communication skills, only my photographic ability was enhanced by not smoking – this because of the vast improvement in peripheral vision and tonal sense that results from the absence of vaso-constricting nicotine in one's bloodstream.

There was no triumph in my gradually-winning battle against nicotine addiction because it was equally a forever-losing battle against becoming monstrously obese. I grew fat and fatter – ever uglier, ever more embarrassed to be seen in public, ever more inescapably lonely. I had gained weight even on the unspeakable misery of a two-week, 1000-calorie-per-day diet. Tests proved the gain was not related to metabolic deficiencies. And the failure of that diet proved the weight gain was so uncontrollable not even starvation would stop it. 

When I finally managed to quit smoking permanently – this via a combination of nicotine patches and prescription medication – I was 55 years old. I weighed 195 pounds. By then, I had learned to accept my post-smoking obesity – repugnant though it was – with the same bitter resignation with which one accepts other physical handicaps. Moreover, being grossly fat was no longer the pivotal disaster of my life. My career had been destroyed by the odium of the post-traumatic clinical depression that eventually befell me after all my life's works were obliterated in a 1983 fire, and that alone left me too impoverished to ever again be attractive to any woman. Thus my physical appearance no longer mattered – precisely the realization that finally enabled me to swear off tobacco permanently. My first day without cigarettes forever was 23 September 1995. I used my last nicotine patch sometime in January 1996. Since then I have never had nicotine in any form. Within a year I had blubbered up to 235 pounds.

It would take me nearly a decade to teach myself to write again; I will never be the fast, self-assured writer I was as a smoker. And it would be a dozen years before I could again comfortably socialize. 

But even without the obesity, quitting smoking would have destroyed my physical condition. For most of my adult life I worked out regularly: jogging, walking, the long-distance hiking associated with back-country trout fishing, the day-long exertion of upland bird hunting, various self-administered physical training programs including nearly a decade with the Royal Canadian Air Force Basic Exercise Program. Then after my spine was permanently injured by one of Washington state's defiantly habitual drunken drivers, I was prescribed a combination of physical therapy and yoga that gave me enough flexibility to work a season as engineer/deckhand on a commercial fishing vessel and kept me ambulatory until – you guessed it – I began my quit-smoking effort. 

Another of the deliberately downplayed effects of nicotine withdrawal is total disruption of sleep patterns, the result of which is a profound state of exhaustion – precisely the condition that discourages exercise of any kind. And in my case – as in many such cases (or so I am repeatedly told) – the sleep disruption has never gone away. I used to sleep like the proverbial log, but I have not gotten an uninterrupted night's sleep since I smoked my last cigarette, and now after 18 years and six months, it is obvious I will never know the comfort of a full night's sleep again in this lifetime. Exhaustion – sometimes mild, more often severe – is now my normal condition. With it comes a loathing of unnecessary exertion so intense no amount of will power – at least none I am able to muster – will overcome it enough to foster regular exercise.

I know now that without cigarettes, I will always be fat – which is to say I will always be ugly. In my years off nicotine, I've weighed as much as 275 pounds. As a result I've come to regard food as my enemy, to fear and despise it and hate myself for how it obsesses my mind and deforms my body. By constant struggle, I (mostly) manage to keep my weight in the vicinity of an (only) (moderately) repulsive 225. Like the vampires of legend, I avoid mirrors; I go out in public only when I have no choice, and never for pleasure. Such is my lot as a former smoker.

***

The documentation on the weight-gain/post-smoking connection, which I first heard of through a British acquaintance in 1986, took me years to ferret out. It surfaced, albeit in much later forms, via two papers unearthed in 2010 by the skills of a talented reference librarian at the Tacoma (Wash.) Public Library, a woman I knew only as Sarah and that only by telephone. In this instance she outdid even her colleagues at the main (Fifth Avenue) branch of the New York City Public Library, who repeatedly told me there was no such material, never mind NYPL is ostensibly the finest such institution in the nation.

Here are the two references Sarah found for me:

“Smoke-Free and Fat: the Health Hazards of Kicking the Habit”; Kent Sepkowitz, Slate: 2008. Conclusion: quitting smoking makes you fat. 

“Smoking as a Modifable Risk Factor for Type 2 Diabetes in Middle-Aged Men”; S. Goya Wannamethee, A. Gerald Shaper, Ivan J. Perry, Diabetes Care, Sept. 2001 v24 i9 p1590. (No link available.) Conclusion: quitting smoking makes you fat, thereby increasing your diabetes risk.

*****

Outside Agitation Elsewhere: It's All About the Ukrainian Crisis

Most of this material is focused on the Ukrainian Crisis because of its terrifying threat of a thermonuclear World War III. As I have said before, to me it is scarier than the Cuban Missile Crisis because in 1962 I trusted President John F. Kennedy. But now in 2014 I have learned the hard way – that is, by voting for him twice – not to trust President Barack Obama at all.

However, thanks largely to an astute journalist named Robert Parry, the debate is beginning to focus on whether Obama has been betrayed by his own advisors or whether he is (once again) demonstrating his formidable skills at deception and manipulation by minimizing his culpability in provoking the crisis.

Predictably, I argue for the latter – that Obama the Orator is merely showing another aspect of his true Barack the Betrayer self, most likely to improve the Democratic Party's abominable prospects in the November elections. The relevant links – those on which I contributed to discussion threads – are here  and here. 

Medea Benjamin's disturbing account of how she was savaged by the Egyptian secret police – obviously on orders of someone in the USian government if not in the White House itself – is also relevant. It, like the atrocities committed against the Occupy Movement, shows us the true nature of the imperial mind: all the more reason to fear the U.S. will escalate the Ukraine Crisis into World War III. 

LB/16 March 2014 

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