I do not remember a time in my life when I was not preoccupied with food. My mom recalls that my grandmother used to give me two fudgesicles at a time. When scolded, my loving, chubby grandma would say, “They make her so happy!”
I can still feel the excitement that holidays and family gatherings brought. I enjoyed playing with my cousins, but I especially loved the endless plates of food—desserts, sodas, and candy. At an early age, I taught myself to bake the treats I craved using my mom’s Betty Crocker cookbook. During my latchkey years, I would rush home from school excited to mix batters and doughs, bingeing on them while trying to produce a smaller version of the recipe for my family.
I grew chubby, “pretty plus” or “husky” according to retail clothing stores at the time. My mom provided healthy food, and she and others tried to help me control my weight by moderating my portions. My siblings and friends didn’t seem to struggle the way I did. I assumed I was weak and lacked willpower. As bright and earnest as I was in other areas of life, I had no way to manage this struggle. I felt ashamed.
What we could not have known then was that I experienced something deeper—an abnormal reaction in my body and mind. When I consumed processed sugars, simple carbohydrates, and certain trigger foods, I experienced a relentless mental obsession and physical craving.
I loved babysitting and stayed busy with neighborhood jobs. Although I was reliable and committed, I often raided the cupboards, eating so many snacks that I felt guilty and embarrassed when the parents paid me.
As puberty arrived, I was overweight and painfully self-conscious. I began comparing myself to other girls and wanted to wear cute jeans, shorts, halter tops, and a two-piece swimsuit like my sister. Despite good grades, close friends, and a sense of humor, I thought the worst of myself and felt unattractive. I believed that if I could just lose weight, everything would be better.
During my teen years, I cycled through restricting, bingeing, purging, obsessive weighing, and excessive exercise. Diet pills and smoking joined my growing list of compulsions, along with drinking. Despite scholarships and opportunity, alcoholism, depression, and eating disorder struggles cut short my first attempt at college.
At age 21, I sought help, got sober, and found strong support in Alcoholics Anonymous. I stayed close to the program, worked the steps, and helped others.
Yet despite my deep commitment to sobriety, I lived with discomfort in my body, dissatisfaction with myself, and dis-ease in my relationship with food for another 26 years.
I was perpetually on a diet. I tried pay-and-weigh programs, supplements, expensive packaged food plans, outpatient treatment for binge eating and bulimia, personal trainers, and countless gym memberships. I relied on smoking and gallons of Diet Pepsi to manage my appetite. I pleaded with my doctor to prescribe phen-fen and asked to have my thyroid tested “just one more time.”
I walked and walked for exercise. Then I would inexplicably find myself in the kitchen baking cookies and cakes “for the kids.” My diet largely consisted of sugar, baked goods, pasta, chips, crackers, pizza, and fast food—anything high in fat and carbohydrates.
I lived with the constant belief that I should restrict food. I did not eat for nutrition or hunger, and I felt guilty all the time. From age eleven, I believed I should be on a diet, and for thirty-six years I was failing at it.
Sometimes I gave up entirely, eating with abandon and rationalizing that the daily stressors of life entitled me comfort and escape with food.
I attended Overeaters Anonymous and tried, at times, to limit my sugar intake while hoping to learn more about myself. I expected some great epiphany but remained unwilling to be honest about what I was eating. I didn’t want boundaries and scoffed at the idea of measuring my food. I hoped I could still eat whatever I wanted some of the time—especially on days when I was having fun or feeling stressed
Since I lived in extremes, that was most days.
Despite constantly talking about how unhappy I was being overweight, I could not take meaningful action. I had lost whatever scraps of willpower I once believed I had. I became unhappy, critical in relationships, and ineffective at work.
Still, I believed that if I lost weight, everything would be better.
There had to be an easy fix—a magical answer.
“I’ll start in time for summer.”
“After this vacation.”
“In the New Year.”
“Monday.”
I would buy chicken breasts and vegetables but could not bring myself to prepare or eat them.
Deep down I knew something had to change. Wanting to change, trying to change, needing to change, and seeking help to change were all steps along the road to recovery—even though I was still stubborn and full of excuses.
In November 2014, I arrived at COR Retreat, a 5-day 12-Step based food recovery program. I was anxious, uncomfortable, and angry. I don’t even know what or who I was angry at. I was scared. I couldn’t stop overeating. I felt defensive. After all, hadn’t 26 years in AA taught me all I needed to know about the 12 Steps?
On the very first evening meal at the retreat, the facilitator announced we would be having fish.
Fish?
I thought, Gross. I don’t eat fish. Ever.
My mind immediately raced:
This won’t work for me.
Is there something else?
Poor me—I can’t eat this.
I’m special. I’m a picky eater. Life is harder for me.
As I stood in the food line complaining internally and sweating about what to do, I said some sort of prayer. What should I do?
In that moment, something became crystal clear.
If I was not willing to try three ounces of healthy protein prepared by a professional chef—something fourteen other people were about to eat—I would never be willing to change.
My stubbornness would kill me.
For the first time in my life, I became honest with myself about food.
What seemed impossible was, in truth, quite simple.
I ate the fish.
And this is how recovery begins: one meal at a time, one day at a time, with the help and support of others.
I realized that food and sugar addiction is a primary illness that affects every area of my life. When I accepted this truth, I found freedom.
There had been a slow progression of this dis-ease throughout my lifetime. Even when I thought I had control, it was always there.
It hurt. And it was time to change.
There is a saying in the program:
“We cannot think our way into right acting; we must act our way into right thinking.”
So I started acting.
I listened to others. I became teachable. I got a sponsor and finally connected with the wonderful friends I had in OA. I worked the steps and began making amends.
Today, I use the tools of 12-Step recovery..
I do not do this alone.
Today I have a daily reprieve.
I am grateful.
I am blessed.
I am healthy.
Do I really think I will go the rest of my life without sugar, flour or sweeteners? I sure hope so. Food addiction is progressive, incurable. Recovery is freedom and presence.
I’ve had enough cake.