A Story of Recovery:

Castles Made of Sand

When I was a kid, my favorite summer activity was to go down to the beach and build a sandcastle. Not a little one either. We’re talking a massive endeavor with several layers of fortifications. It generally required the concerted efforts of three or four siblings and cousins to excavate and construct the sand behemoth, and the bigger it got, the more effort it took to maintain it. We’d build it close to the waves and with every added ring of walls, our construction would come perilously closer to the water. Nothing beat the thrill of trying to keep a layer of wet sand from collapsing under the onslaught of a vicious, uncaring wave. The satisfaction when a monster wave came along and almost, but not quite, annihilated the outer fort was unmatched by any other pleasure I could experience as a ten-year-old boy—except, of course, for the joy this little food addict took in inhaling the typical beachside treats.

I’m 18 years older now, but I still enjoy building sandcastles. It strikes me that the process of constructing a sand fort is quite similar to the process of recovery. In the beginning, I was defenseless. A wave of temptation came and smashed my puny wall of willpower into disparate grains of sand. That was me in my teens and early twenties before I came into FA. I had lost the power of choice. A slight discomfort would come up and I’d eat. There was no thought involved; there was just the initiation of the hand-to-mouth ritual I knew so well. An hour later, I’d be lying prone on my bed, unable to move, wondering what on earth happened. How did I lose my resolve so easily?

When I was 24, I joined a support group for entrepreneurs and was fortunate enough to meet two women who were in Twelve-Step programs, including one in FA. I really liked the way they held themselves in the world. They were calm, whereas I was either manic or comatose. I wanted what they had. It wasn’t about losing weight for me. I came into FA weighing twenty-two pounds less than I weigh now. Due to a combination of excessive exercise, starvation, and bulimia, I was underweight and wished I weighed even less. I was obsessed with my body and convinced that the right combination of food would fix me.

One day when we were doing an exercise where we talked about our greatest weakness, I opened up and told them about my eating patterns. I was sure they’d judge me, but instead, I was met with empathy and an invitation to come to an FA meeting. After six weeks of resistance, the tide came in and washed away the vestiges of my sandy defenses. I joined FA and have, mostly, not looked back.

Joining FA, I found a group of people who were willing to help. It felt like going from being that little kid striving in vain to build a wall against a raging torrent to now having a collection of strong and enthusiastic helpers with shovels who helped me build the first effective wall against the sea. I’ve found that recovery, like building sandcastles, is more effective, and more enjoyable, with other people.

It doesn’t stop with the first wall, though. If I’m not vigilant about maintaining my fort, my recovery, the water’s going to find a crack, and before I know it, the entire foundation will collapse. That’s the way I think about the tools. I have to constantly work on my recovery to keep it strong and robust.

In my early days in FA, I was often assailed by fears and resentments related to my finances and work. These were the feelings that led me to eat before FA. I stopped eating over the feelings, but I still felt perilously close to relapse. There was nothing stopping those waves from breaking right against my inner keep. After getting abstinent, I was faced with the spiritual illness that led me to eat. My character defects threatened my recovery more than any flour or sugar product could.

These days it’s not like that. I have worked hard to broaden my recovery into other parts of my life. By working through the steps, I’m beginning to experience some freedom from those defects. By rectifying the wrongs of the past, I make it less likely that aggrieved children will come and trample on my sandcastle because of the time I kicked sand in their faces. By working Step Ten and continuing to take a personal inventory, I remain vigilant to holes that are forming in my fort. If I practice quiet time every morning as part of Step Eleven, I’ll be gifted with intuitive thoughts from my Higher Power about how I can better reinforce my castle. And importantly, if I practice Step Twelve and help other people build their castles next to mine, I’ll not only feel good about myself, but I’ll reduce the risk of being wiped out by a wave attacking me on my flanks. By practicing these principles in all my affairs and building an outer perimeter of defenses, I make it less likely that the ocean of food addiction will catch me off-guard.

Next time you’re at the beach, I encourage you to build a little fort next to the waves. Not only is it fun, it’s also quite meditative.