A Story of Recovery:

Manageable, Not Managing

“You’re right, Dad, I’m an addict. But what am I supposed to do about it?”

At 14 and a top weight of 225 pounds, I finally conceded that my father may have a point when he said I was, “Like a crack addict with food.” However, I was convinced that there was nothing out there that would work for me. My father, who had heard about FA through a friend several months earlier, was patiently waiting for the day that I would surrender and ask for help. G-d bless him and his patience, he knew that my rebelliously-addictive teenage self would not accept help unless I was in dire pain.

The following week, my mom took me to my first meeting and helped me choose my first sponsor. I did not jump in with open arms. My poor sponsor had six months of abstinence and I was her first sponsee. My addiction was in full force. Every day I told my sponsor why I could not go to three meetings—I was going to attend Harvard Law School someday, so I had to be in extracurricular activities every day. I cried as I ate my breakfast. “It’s so awful! I cannot eat this,” I’d sob. I complained that my lunch vegetables stunk, and my classmates would tease me for the veggies I brought. Oh, and don’t even get me started on quiet time.

In perfect addict fashion, I told my sponsor everything that was wrong with FA, with her suggestions, and with the food plan. In reality, I was terrified. I didn’t know how to get through breakfast with food that tart, I didn’t know how to let go of going to extracurricular activities five days a week, and I certainly did not know how to survive for four to six hours without my security blanket of food to get me through.

When I went to my first AWOL meeting in lower Manhattan a month later, I heard someone say that 4.1 is not 4.0, and something clicked. I had my spiritual experience. I understood that surrender meant calling my sponsor and telling her I had been eating extra fruit to survive from meal to meal. If I was going to have a manageable life, I had to stop trying to manage it. Maybe I’d end up at Harvard Law school, maybe I wouldn’t, but what really mattered was that I was abstinent and present today.

On the ride back to Brooklyn, I immediately jumped on the phone and called my sponsor. I told her I had to start over. Though not immediately willing to do everything, I begrudgingly began doing the suggestions. I drank water and got on my knees between meals, I learned which vegetables smelled a little bit less, and I came to find the high school jokes about my food endearing. (I was, and still am 12 years later, “cauliflower girl” to my high school friends.) Most importantly, I learned that these first 90 days were a time for me to sit back and listen.

I let go of my resentment about not being able to share my “wisdom.” I also let go of my belief that I knew more about nutrition and my school life, and I trusted that maybe these people standing up in front of the room could help me. Through that surrender and that trust, I was able to reach 90 days. Not through managing or controlling, but through surrender and allowing.

Twelve years later, I have nearly five years of abstinence, and I know today that each time I’ve allowed that 14-year-old addict to control things, I’ve relapsed. But as long as I remember to surrender my will and my life over to a higher power as I understand him and take my sponsor’s suggestions, I get to be abstinent today.