I woke up this morning thinking about my first day in an 8-week residential treatment program for food addiction. I was 41 years old and had been bulimic off and on for 25 years; I was underweight and unhappy. It was two days before Christmas, and although I did not particularly want to be there, I didn’t want to be anywhere else either. How had I gotten there? At the time, I had my own business and had been married for the past 15 months to a man I adored. Those were two of the things on the top of my list of “if only I had (fill in the blank), then I would stop this crazy eating.” Yet, there I was, unable to stop by sheer force of will. I don’t know when I became a food addict; I may well have been born that way. I was always... Continue Reading
Today I was supposed to work, but my work said that they did not need me. Cool. It’s rainy out and I am tired (and filled up) because I had an FA meeting last night. But then I got this little thought, “Hey, maybe I should text my sponsor and see if I could come over and help her pack stuff for her move.” So I texted her and it looked like a go. (It is a miracle of Program that it even occurred to me to ask. Back in my food addiction, I would not offer to help anybody do anything unless I was getting something out of it. I remember one time when I spent most of the day helping a family move, only because I kept thinking they were going to give me some speed. They never did and, in fact, the cops came over and made... Continue Reading
Focused on digging my car keys out of my oversized bag, I hurried out of the Walgreens toward my white car. But when I pushed the button to remotely open the driver side door, nothing happened. My shoulders slumped. I pushed again. “Batteries must be dead,” I muttered to myself. So I tried the key in the lock. It would not open the door. Now what? I repeated the ritual. Same results. Just as I’d begun again for the third time, a voice from behind made me spin around. “That door is not going to open no matter what you do.” A scowling woman strode toward me. I didn’t like either her tone or her expression. It called up—what? Fear? What had I done wrong? She crossed her arms. “That’s MY car.” Not until that moment had I noticed an exact replica to the car I stood beside parked in... Continue Reading
As a food addict, I have the tendency to go to extremes. I have been overweight, underweight, bulimic and compulsive with exercise. I have learned a bit about weighing, measuring and moderating my behavior as well as my food during the 13 years I have been in FA. Because of that, I felt safe buying a Fitbit without going back to being compulsive with exercise. I wore it quite happily for a couple of years, but lately it had all begun to feel like I was veering in the direction of looking at it all too often, more and more invested in getting those 10,000 steps a day, becoming way too attached. When I spoke with my sponsor, with that old extreme thinking, I said I either wanted to hide it in a drawer or smash it with a hammer, whichever she suggested – I wanted peace from the insanity... Continue Reading
FA has taught me that in order to stop eating addictively, I have to face things I feel badly about. With the proven guidance of the Twelve Steps, I realized that I needed to make things right with my parents and my sister and her family. In the past, my self-centeredness never took a break. When I lived with my parents, I stole dessert mixes out of my mom’s yearly food supply and ate the jars of food she spent many hours canning. I ate specially prepared desserts and home-cooked meals and gifts meant for others. I snuck boxes of food and cooked them, using as many condiments as possible, while the family was at church. Often it didn’t even taste good, but I always had to be eating lots of something, anything. Then I would throw it up in the bathroom or on my mom’s lilac bushes. I was... Continue Reading
