Hunger
On trying to go home again.
In 1981, my mother loaded our few belongings into our VW Beetle and drove us away from New Mexico forever. I was 13 years old and ready to start high school, and now I’d be starting it in a state as alien to me as any distant planet. As we left, I silently promised myself that one day I’d move back home to the big sky, sunshine, and mountains. Albuquerque would be home again.
The first time I hung out with other local teens at a playground in my new town in Michigan, I asked in all ignorance about the playground grass. Back home, only REALLY rich people had any sort of lawn because the cost of water + fees and fines were too pricey for most. I didn’t understand how the school could afford to have a lawn.
The other kids just stared at me for a minute until one said, “It just grows?” I learned later that it rained and/or snowed five days a week in East Lansing. Free water! From the sky! IMAGINE.
New Mexico runs deep in our family, thanks to my dad being the sixth-generation of his family living in the state. Even though I didn’t spend any time with my dad growing up (he served overseas, although when he moved back, my mom was determined to keep us apart). Decades later I connected with my siblings and got close with my sister Diana and niece Natalia — both living back home in New Mexico, making my urge to move home even more intense.
It’s been a driving beat under my heart for a long, long time, but financially impossible. Lately, even visiting was unaffordable.
I’ve returned home only four times since I left; 1982, 1986, 1995, and 2008.
Last October brought horrible news: my niece Natalia passed away. I needed to go home for the funeral. We pulled every single string, rented a cheap car, and drove for 24 hours straight. As I watched the midwestern towns drop away and the landscape change to dry and tumbleweeds appeared, my breath began to catch and my heart was a stone in my mouth.
I was so damned hungry for home.
After 12 hours of driving in the dark, we crossed the state line into New Mexico and the most breathtaking sunrise started, bright and on fire. Since we were driving directly west as the sun rose, that sunrise kept slowly rising behind us. It lasted for nearly 150 miles — over ninety minutes.
At last, the Sandia Mountains appeared. I do not know how to explain the connection I have to those mountains. I grew up hiking them, playing in the foothills, and best of all, riding horses. Plus there is something to be said for growing up with the geographical anchoring of a 10,000 foot mountain range directly east of town.
As my heart began to ring in harmony with the land, a part of me so deep I forgot it was there awoke. I began crying deep, choking sobs of relief and joy. Ravens swooped over the little car over and over. Sweet female rain fell on the north side of our car while beams of bright sun cut through the south side.
For the first time in 17 years, I was home.
Hunger is the river that shaped my life.
As a child, there wasn’t enough food. There wasn’t enough love. I chased after romance with bad men, and sisterhood with women who didn’t want sisters. I constantly got involved with people who didn’t like me, but loved the way I formed myself to fit them.
When I worked and had enough money to eat, I got fat. So I began to chose hunger and a lifetime of calorie restriction. It always worked and I could easily drop 25-50 pounds. Sometimes it was more successful; I’ve lost and regained 100 pounds three different times.
When I started hiking again in my thirties, it helped me become more comfortable in my bigger body. I embraced the fat acceptance movement and tried to learn how to feed myself with love and care instead of restrictively
But after two difficult pregnancies with three babies that ended in a single living child, and then taking unneeded mental health meds for thirteen years, I crossed from fat into “super fat.”
My joints began to suffer. I need at least one full knee replacement. After years of being stubbornly “pre-diabetic,” I tipped into the danger zone. A lifetime of severe asthma, frequent pneumonia, and long covid has drastically hurt my ability to breathe.
Have you ever heard the term “air hunger?” It describes not being able to get enough oxygen into your lungs, regardless of how deeply you breathe. During my visit to New Mexico in October, I struggled with the high altitude and got so sick I had to use supplemental oxygen. It was the first time I experienced the sensation of taking breaths but NOT getting any oxygen into my lungs.
It felt like drowning. It cannot happen again. I need to get better.
After long consultations with my doctor and pulmonologist, I couldn’t deny reality: losing weight would improve my ability to breathe. So I started using a GLP-1 medication last weekend.
I hadn’t considered taking it before. I was too scarred by all the miracle weight loss drugs that ended up banned because they fucking killed people. I hadn’t kept up with the science behind weight loss so I didn’t know that current research has shown that visceral fat actually causes inflammation because it’s metabolically active and tends to cluster around organs and the belly — something I have in abundance.
It’s not benign after all. It’s hurting me.
It turns out that not only do GLP-1s help with diabetes and weight loss — it fights chronic inflammation. So I agreed to take it. I’m tolerating the initial dose well — and I can’t believe I already feel the difference.
My hunger is… distant. Far away. I can hear it, but not without trying. And it’s not just food, either. Doom scrolling is suddenly boring. My anger and frustration triggers have become less… inflamed (pun intended).
It’s weird as fuck.
Who am I without my hunger?
I love this. I felt like I was in a scene of your biopic for a minute, and then back with you in present day as you brought me up to speed.
Wishing you well - I understand the reluctance- sadly steeped in stigma and all the stories humans carry in their heads. All I can say is patience - I've seen many who've benefitted and have gained some freedom from inflammation and the tedious life of rollercoaster diets.