Recently I was reminded of that passage from the Big Book that talks about how we so desperately try to re-create the “good feelings” alcohol used to bring us, but every time we took another “first drink,” it was the first step on a trip to hell. (Of course, I am rather doubtful about the accuracy of those pleasurable memories, in the first place!) I don’t know what is right for anyone else, I just know that for me, every time I have a food thought like that (Oh, the good old times…), I really need to think it through to the end; to what comes after the good feelings of the first couple of bites. I just know that for me (please God!!), the research and endless, doomed search for those “good feelings” is over. For me, to eat is to be completely cut off from God, my fellow... Continue Reading
My life used to be very empty. I was sad, disillusioned, and often morose. I wasn’t afraid I was going to die, but rather that I was going to live for another 30 years in a miserable existence. My body was deteriorating. I was pre-diabetic, morbidly obese, and had asthma, allergies, arthritis, depression, a skin condition, vein problems, sciatica, and the not-yet-diagnosed killer, food addiction. I didn’t know what food addiction was at the time. I believed everything I had been told when I was young, that weight problems ran in our family, that I was big boned, statuesque, and had child-bearing hips. I thought it was pretty much a done deal that I was going to be fat, so I figured I might as well eat. When I reached 270 pounds, I paid a significant sum of money to a surgeon to remove 80% of my stomach so I... Continue Reading
If not now, when? That was the question that came to mind as I sat alone facing one more “day one.” I had experienced eight months of relapse, and when I looked back, I could not recall one meaningful thing from those long months. All I had known was a constant struggle with food and weight. It was lonely and quiet in my apartment in way that was hard for me to tolerate. I was at a crossroads. I felt the cravings start to rise, and I wondered if I was really going to be dragged to the store by disease, again. “Just one more time,” is what my disease told me. At that point, I had heard that phrase and believed it hundreds of times. In pain and fear of what yet another binge would do to me, I dropped to my knees and prayed. All I could say... Continue Reading
My father was a pastor of a small church in a marina village in southwestern Ontario. Mom was an excellent cook and baker. There was a two-course breakfast every morning and dessert after every lunch and supper, often with a flour and sugar snack in the evenings, as my parents entertained church congregants and visiting missionaries. We moved to various small towns in Ontario every three years. Food was a large part of both home and church life. My dad didn’t make a lot of money. Congregants left baskets of fresh garden produce and other assorted treats on our steps. Many church meetings and events were accompanied by home-baked goodies. I would sneak sips of the communion beverage out of the bottle in the refrigerator when my parents went out and scour the cupboards and refrigerator whenever I was left on my own. When I reached babysitting age, I learned... Continue Reading
I used to love to swim in the ocean. As a child I spent many years living near the beach and was always happy to go swimming. I liked to dive into the waves, to swim far out and watch the people on the shore. I would stay out there for hours – the sense of floating, of being lifted up by the waves, of swimming with or against the current were all fun for me. As my disease progressed, I went from bingeing and dieting in my teens to gaining 30 pounds and then battling to lose the weight. I discovered bulimia and excessive exercise and spent my 20s and 30s bingeing, throwing up, running 10 miles at a time, and lifting weights for hours at the gym; the weight was managed by these drastic methods. I found FA 10 years ago, but kept breaking my abstinence, and the... Continue Reading
