A Story of Recovery:

Refuge From Rage

I was so hurt and angry that I couldn’t see straight, and on top of reeling with emotion, I also felt embarrassed and cornered. Tourists passing me in the street may not have noticed anything strange. I could have been any forty-something female simply waiting for her evening companion. But the sidewalk was crowded, and as I stood outside of the Restaurant, with its large front window, I felt exposed. My eyes were swollen and red, my Kleenex had long since shrunk into soggy uselessness, and I didn’t dare leave the curb.

There was no point walking to the car since my husband was still in the restaurant with the keys in his pocket. Having just slung several loud F-bombs at him in that cozy eatery, I didn’t have the nerve to re-enter. I was tired, it was 8 p.m. on a Thursday night, and I wanted a ride home, whatever anger I felt towards the driver. So I stood there, sheathed in discomfort, and waited for him to come out. I hadn’t eaten my dinner, and I was ravenous. I resented every crumb I hadn’t consumed and regretted more than anything the timing of my hot-tempered departure, coming only seconds earlier than the entrée itself.

Foremost in my mind as I was shuffling about in the warm evening air was not the shocked look on the waiter’s face, the raised eyebrows of our fellow diners, or my husband’s quiet hostility and mortification. My major preoccupation was the thought of that steaming plate of relief I’d left behind. I wanted to stuff myself with that grease, starch, flour and sugar. Odd, looking back so many years ago, that my greatest dismay was reserved for the uneaten dinner.  Earlier that afternoon, before we had gone to the restaurant, I had taken my sixteen-year old son to the airport to board a plane for London, where he was headed to live with his father, my first husband. He would never again be a child in my care, except for on the very occasional holiday. My days of living with this beautiful, able, yet unhappy young man were over; he had chosen his Dad over the driven existence of his American mother and new stepfather. He and his younger sister would, for the next fifteen years, live in different countries. Our little family was now to be three thousand miles apart.

Where, in all of this, had my new husband gone wrong that night? Nowhere, actually. He had offered to join me in the trip to the airport, knowing that I would be feeling some intense loneliness after the flight took off. He had waited with me, as you could in those days, at the boarding gate, watching the passengers through a glass wall. He had stood near me as I blinked in my tears, wanting to soak up the sight of my tall, quiet child. When the queue of travelers walked down the ramp and he turned with a mouthed “bye” before disappearing, my husband had gently put his hand at my back and steered me in the other direction.

So why did I erupt at the restaurant? Because that’s just what I used to do. I wanted the pain to be over. I wanted a meal out to fill the hollowness I felt. I wanted my food to arrive and the world to be the way I wanted it to be. As I recall, while slowly emptying the bread basket, I began with mean-spirited jibes at my husband, telling him that he should have helped convince my son to stay in America with us. I blamed my husband for my son’s decision. The more aggressive and hurtful I became, the quieter he got and the more bread I ate. After we ordered our meals, he became entirely silent, not responding to my abuse. I couldn’t tolerate that. “Talk to me, for God’s sake! Why are you such a wimp?” And it got worse.

Later that night, when my husband finally emerged from the restaurant, we silently made our way to the car, out of the city, onto the highway  and home. When we arrived home, I took the car keys from him and drove to a drive-thru. After filling my face, I felt much better. I was crazy and miserable, but drugged with relief.

I wish I could say that that was the last of those events, but there were more experiences of bad behavior and self-loathing over the next two decades. My youngest went off to college, my husband and I moved into the city, and very shortly afterwards, we divorced. At the age of fifty, I began to  melt down inside, spending more and more hours at work, filling my evenings with projects and activities, exercising early each day while at the same time eating voraciously and constantly. I even began to drink in order to try to eat less, but it was harder and harder to keep my weight down, and I hated every extra pound.

Then, magically, I was offered recovery.  I was having dinner at a restaurant with a new, thin friend, and we were discussing my then-frenzied existence of searching for a new job, a new boyfriend, and a new place to live.  Quietly, she shared her own experience. She told me that she had a disease of fear, doubt, and insecurity. She produced a photograph of herself at 90 pounds heavier and said she went to FA meetings, one of which was happening that next night.

Each moment of that conversation remains suspended in my memory.  I was intrigued by the idea of food addiction but thought: It’s a disease? Don’t we all suffer from fear, doubt, and insecurity? Still, it rang a loud bell for me, and I thought I might attend the next FA meeting, although I still didn’t think that I’d ever be released from my prison of constant food cravings.

Today I am a much-recovered food addict.  I joined FA and got a sponsor. Over time, the cravings disappeared. Through studying the Twelve Steps, I learned about myself and my disease, and I am still learning how to be the kind of person I most want to be.

My fellowship, friends, and family would tell you that I’m no saint, but I no longer swear loudly and crudely at loved ones in public places, and I no longer seek refuge in food from painful times. I accept the real limits of my control over the lives of others and am grateful for the people I’m blessed to have in my life. As I remember my past, I can understand and have empathy for those who had to tolerate this rage-filled addict, and I can care for the younger me, too.