Or as his manager would say, “Spend until I tell you to stop.”
He drove a company car — gas and insurance paid for. Dined at the finest restaurants. Made his own work schedule. And maybe saw his manager once a month.
He earned a “comfortable” income. By society standards, he was free.
But Gerald Roliz was a drug dealer. Not the illicit kind that will land you behind bars, but selective serotonin repute inhibitors (SSRIs) and proton pump inhibitors (PPIs).
In his words, he “bought out” doctors, using fear, pressure, spin selling, and pricey dinners to win their prescriptions. Prescriptions for the drugs he sold. Prescribed to real people, many of whom would learn to live with their side effects.
It was the most surreal (and frightening) experience of my life.
There I was, sitting on the weight room floor. Hyperventilating. Watching the floor swing from side to side. Lights suddenly blindingly bright. Scared.
I was having a panic attack.
It all began the previous afternoon. Feeling like my social anxiety had gotten out of hand, I showed up for my appointment at the campus clinic looking for help.
I rattled off my symptoms to the doctor — the sweats, tremors, racing heart, negative thoughts, all occurring in social encounters.
I had diagnosed myself with Social Anxiety Disorder. My doctor agreed.
He pulled a pad out of his pocket and wrote a prescription for Prozac.
For some reason, Prozac sounded a little extreme. I had done my research on its side effects and it was the last thing I thought the doc would recommend. I just wanted something to calm me down in social settings and to push me out of what had been a fairly prolonged episode of depression.
In fact, one of my favorite football players openly used another drug, Paxil, for his social anxiety. It seemed to be working for him. That’s what I wanted.
Person A (we’ll call him Norm) is categorized as “normal weight” on the Body Mass Index (BMI) scale. He’s perfectly content with his weight, eats fairly well, and seldom makes time for exercise since his weight appears to be ideal.
Person B (we’ll call him Obi) has a BMI of 34, considered “mildly obese”. He also eats well, but manages to squeeze in at least 30 minutes of exercise 4-5 days each week.
Who lives longer?
Well, according to the latest research, Obi the Mildly Obese Man has a lower mortality rate than Normal Weight Norm.
I know, it sounds completely backwards. But science has recently uncovered an “Obesity Paradox”, revealing the protective nature of body fat.