Alas, as an isolated schizophrenic, not only was I poor, but often lacking in judgement.
One way this manifested itself was through my diet.
At one point, through a combination of Olanzapine and unhealthy eating, I weighed over 270 pounds.
I had only one pair of pants that fit, and could not stand my appearance. Nor was it healthy.
I remember frozen burritos– bleach-white tortillas containing a gritty bean and beef paste.
I remember Holton meats. These were beef patties that came in packs of 20. I would grill so many of them that the smoke and soot changed the color of my kitchen. When I read the ingredients of Holton patties, I noticed they contained, among other things, beef hearts.
I remember Totinos pizzas. The look like microwave pizzas, and used to cost about a buck apiece. But you still have to fire up your oven to cook them.
I remember Ramen– 3 packages for a dollar. Boil the noodles up, and fill your empty stomach.
I remember Pop tarts.
I remember chewy granola bars.
I remember extremely cheap whiskey. I stopped drinking that because I did not ever know how much I was taking in.
I remember two-fer beers– you know the kind– tall boys. These were for when you are poor enough that you can only think of today– really, only this hour of the day.
I am not exactly Julia Childs nowadays, but things have gotten better. When I backslide, my wife voices her concern, and I redouble my efforts to eat a more healthy diet.
If anyone wonders why schizophrenics tend to live shorter lives– well, it’s not mental or emotional. It’s the crap they eat, drink and smoke.
