A few food memories One morning I woke up early and my mother was still asleep. I went into the living room and saw an empty frozen concentrate can with a spoon in it, on the coffee table. I still remember saying to myself, “I didn’t know you could eat that.” I never mentioned it to my mother, so right there I learned about “secret foods” and not talking about them. Once the mother of a little boy next door, who was several years younger than I, made us each a half of a common children’s lunch item. I wanted a second one and asked him to ask for another one. I was mortified when he told his mother that I wanted another half. The concept of eating secretly became a learned behavior. To calm my terror of going to the dentist, my mother would tell me that we’d go... Continue Reading
As a child, my mother, (God Bless her), would break a wooden spoon over my head or crack a thick yardstick on my back. When she realized what she had done, she would calm herself down and ask me what I would like her to fix me for a meal. Consequently, I got used to feeling better when eating a meal or two. My mother would tell me to clean my plate because of the starving children in China. I cannot blame my mother for my problems, especially since once I reached the age of reason, I continued to eat the same way as I did in my childhood years. I grew up in a family where life always centered on food and drink. On holidays all of our family came to our home because of the good food, which we all found comforting. In my eighteenth year in the... Continue Reading
The trails around Stephens Lake switchback and intertwine. Each new vista opens up a tableau worthy of an oil painting. Perfect. Except for the stinging bugs. Swatting away a persistent one I consider how I would compose a painting. I picture brushing in an irregular row of honeysuckle vines like the ones standing guard against encroaching woodlands. Maybe with fountains steepling high over a windblown lake. Gray boulders fencing in brightly flowering mounds would add a touch of color. I admire a sculptured blue metal butterfly bench, which beckons me to sit and think about my composition. Joy gushes from my heart. It’s Mary-Poppins perfect. I swat a black fly away from my face. Except for that. Being perceived as perfect has long been one of my greatest passions because early in life I learned that being a “good girl” earned me points redeemable in extra attention and praise. I... Continue Reading
“Okay, you are right Dad, I’m addicted to food…now what?” At the tender age of fourteen, I agreed with my dad that I had a problem with food. I couldn’t deny the late nights, leaning into the refrigerator, countless missing leftovers from the kitchen, or the fact that I was fourteen and 225 pounds. No, I couldn’t deny it anymore. But what could I do about it? My dad printed out information about FA. That day I was able to admit that I didn’t know everything, and in fact I probably knew very little. The food had defeated me, and I needed help. My mom and I went to a meeting and I started Program, resisted a bit, and then got into the swing of things. I got abstinent the first month of high school. I soared through life with ease, not because things didn’t come up, but because I... Continue Reading
I mustered up the courage to go to my first FA meeting a little over 90 days ago. I got there a little early and saw 1 or 2 people milling around, but I wanted to go in closer to starting time. I had gone to OA for a few years before this, and knew about meetings starting on time. As the start of the meeting approached, there were several people outside the entrance and my guess was that the door was locked. A couple of people started walking away and I thought, “If I don’t get out of this car now and introduce myself I may never come back.” I got out of the car and said, “Hi, I’m new.” I was instantly welcomed. A few of the women were saying that because of the holiday, the meeting room was locked in a way that we could not get... Continue Reading
