Sample Connection Magazine
FA's Connection magazine:
created by food addicts for food addicts.
Read this sample issue packed with diverse, personal stories of FA recovery from food addiction, offering a lifeline to those who haven't yet found a solution. You can also subscribe.
Stories of Recovery
- Alone with Bowl
- Powerless
- Dazed and Confused
- Fear Interrupted
- Clicking In
- The Mad Race
- Rewiring My Brain
- The Courage to Change
- Choosing Freedom
- In Hard Times
- A Dream Come True
Alone with the Bowl
When I was a kid, Halloween was one of the greatest opportunities to gorge myself on candy. My mother purposely bought Halloween treats to hand out to the neighborhood children that nobody in my family particularly liked, so my sisters and I would not eat all the treats that were intended to be given out. My mother always put the candy in the same huge brown wooden salad bowl—I can still picture it. And every year, I remember eating all the candy I collected in a pillowcase after walking the neighborhood for hours on end.
Immediately upon arriving home, I would start eating my favorites and eventually resort to the ones I did not like but couldn’t help eating. After that, I always headed for the treats left over at the bottom of the salad bowl. I still remember the nauseated, stuffed feeling I had every year, and the bafflement as to why I ate so much of what I didn’t even like.
As I got older, the Halloween tradition continued. But instead of trick or treating, I spent a lot of time in stores buying all my favorite candies in bulk and on sale. At that point, my disease of food addiction had progressed until I was “mainlining” my drug and buying only my favorites—sweets with such a high sugar content that they stung my mouth and made me feel sick. I ate them anyway, and bought as much as I could. Sometimes, I think I stole it. But the clearest memory of Halloween is during my second year in FA. I came into the program in July of 1993, 145 pounds overweight. The following September, I had lost over 100 pounds and left a crazy relationship with a guy I had been living with for about two years. I moved back in with my mother.
On Halloween that year, my mother was out at a party, and I was alone in the house. For whatever reason, she had bought the good candy I liked. My recent break-up and resulting move were particularly traumatic, and I was crying a lot and talking to other people in the program about it. I needed a lot of help. During one of the many conversations, sitting in my mother’s living room chair, I realized I was alone in the house with the salad bowl in the hallway. There had not been one single trick-or-treater, so the bowl was full. And although I was uncomfortable and sobbing a lot of the time, obsessing about this crazy guy, I had not put my hand in that bowl and hadn’t reached for anything. I had not even thought about the bowl. Instead, I was using the support of other people in the program to get me through. I was being honest and talking rather than eating, despite my feelings. I will spare you the details of the following seven months during which I went back, more than once, to that boyfriend until I finally let the relationship go..
I had not noticed the bowl until I spoke about how grateful I was to be in FA. In that moment, I realized that despite how slowly my recovery from addiction was progressing, I was alone with the bowl and had not turned to food for relief. I had a good laugh with my friend, and I went to bed. That was the end of Halloween 1995, and one more day that I did not eat addictively.
Today, I no longer associate Halloween with food temptations. This year, my husband and I will attend a party with our two children, who adore getting dressed up and visiting the brightly decorated houses. That crazy boyfriend is long gone, and the joy of my life in recovery is so much better than the food ever was. I am so grateful to no longer be alone with the bowl.
Powerless
I am eating when I don’t want to eat. This phrase came into my head in a small, clear voice while sitting in my morning meditation. I had been in FA for three years, but couldn’t exactly see how I was a food addict. I spent so long in such a deep level of denial that it took years of being in the program before I was able to see my food addiction for what it was. I always had some justification for the way I ate. I said I ate a lot because of one of many excuses. Some favorites used to fill in that sentence were because I played lacrosse, I was tall, I had a fast metabolism, I was bored, I was hung over, I was high, I was Jewish, I was hungry.
What I later learned in FA was that I was incredibly insecure, fearful, and uncomfortable in my own skin. I ate addictively to try to escape from my discomfort and uneasiness. Putting food in my mouth was akin to escaping to a gorgeous, tropical island where I felt warm, secure, relaxed, and where all was well with the universe. But as soon as I finished eating, the anxious feelings, depression, negative obsessions, and self-hatred about my body would rush in again. I often ate more to suppress those feelings, and the cycle continued.
Despite being raised by loving and supportive parents, I felt insecure and “less than” from a young age. I did not begin eating addictively until high school, but the hallmarks of this disease—fear, doubt, and insecurity—took root at a very young age. Even though I was a talented little girl, excelling at music, dance, gymnastics, and theater, I always felt like I wasn’t good enough and did not measure up to my very talented siblings.
This insecurity followed me to high school, where, under the self-imposed stress and pressure of needing to excel in a very rigorous all-girls’ school, I began eating to soothe my fear of failure. I would nibble for hours while doing homework. I couldn’t get the food in fast enough. Chewing and swallowing temporarily eased my discomfort, but the effects were short-lived. I always just thought and felt that I was hungry, which is why I kept eating. I know now that it was not hunger that made me eat, but deep-seated fear that I was going to fail, never get into college, and have a horrible life. There was a big, gaping hole inside of me that I tried to fill up by eating. It never worked.
My food addiction took a different turn once I was in college. After binge drinking, I would binge on food like I had never done before, convinced that the greasy foods would soak up the alcohol. I never had the chance to experience the joys of college life, as I was consumed with insecurity about my body. I spent a lot of energy controlling and calculating my food intake and exercise. Years later, reading a story in the book Alcoholics Anonymous, I came across a quote that stuck with me. Describing her drinking, the author wrote, “When I controlled it, I couldn’t enjoy it; when I enjoyed it, I couldn’t control it.” (p. 328, “Crossing the River of Denial”) This describes my eating perfectly. I only let myself go when I was smoking pot or hung over. Then, I absolutely could not stop eating. Otherwise, I controlled my food, always wanting more, but denying myself as much as possible.
I became so anxious that I started having panic attacks. As I got into my mid-twenties, I used to have bleak, dark thoughts of not wanting to go on. I wasn’t actively suicidal, but had those tendencies. I used food to cope with all of my fear and discomfort. As a result, I stayed stuck in those feelings and hated myself and the way my body looked. I was hypersensitive and overly dramatic. I thought the world was out to get me, and I had a hard time trusting people. I had nowhere to go with all my fears and feelings, even though I was in therapy, on psychiatric medication, in social work school, and had a loving family and a supportive, but fed-up, group of friends. None of these supports took away that emptiness I felt inside of me or the sheer terror of facing the world as it was.
I was so lucky to have two friends who were in FA. I watched them for about eight years, marveling at their thin bodies, sparkly eyes, confidence, calm, joy, and an overriding sense of peace around food and being in the world. I was sure that I was not a food addict, so I never thought to start FA. Then, when I was 27, one of my friends suggested I try FA after she saw me go through a major personal crisis. She said, “You kinda sound like a food addict, and you have a little weight to lose.”
I took the plunge nearly eight years ago, and I have never left. After a few years questioning myself in this program, it finally started to sink in that I am not normal with food. I was obsessed with food all the time. Although my cravings left almost immediately, it took a long time before the desire for food ceased. Now, I have no desire to test whether I could handle eating bread or sweets on my own. I know I would not be able to stop eating. Before I got here, I constantly obsessed about my weight and feeling fat, but I was powerless, despite strong efforts to do anything about it. I tried for so many years to have peace around food and to be happy in my life. I was completely incapable of achieving this until I walked into FA.
That’s how I know I am still a food addict. I am grateful to know that my internal sense of when I am hungry is eternally broken and that I have a mental obsession with food that can be stopped temporarily, but not cured. These truths keep my feet planted firmly in this program. I was eating when I didn’t want to be eating—it’s as simple as that. And now, thanks to FA, I have a solution for my disease.
Dazed and Confused
Eight months ago it would have been impossible for me to sit quietly, gather my thoughts, and write. My body was so exhausted from working out three hours a day. My life had ground to a halt. College was a distant memory, derailed by my inability to focus and the hours consumed by a cycle of food court binges, followed by the exhausting ritual of purging. That destructive pattern was time-consuming. In the miserable aftermath of a binge and purge, my only instinct was to seek comfort in more food, unable to distinguish between hunger and fullness. I worked full-time hours at my part-time grocery store management job, often in a haze, trying desperately not to eat while on the clock. My evenings, however, were marked by intense flour and sugar binges, leaving mornings filled with pain and dread.
I wanted out; out of life. I couldn't stop this cycle. I thought that if I just didn't put any food in my mouth, I would be fine. Anorexia was more comfortable than violently purging, but when I chose not to eat, hunger coursed through my being and inevitably sent me ravenously into the food. My situation was hopeless.
I went to FA, but after one meeting, I'd heard enough about no flour/sugar to believe I could be successfully thin on my own. I made a New Year's resolution to stop throwing up. However, it was the word "addiction" in the FA program title that caught my attention. This was a familiar echo. Having come from A.A., the raw desperation I felt resonated deeply, igniting a willingness to do anything for even a sliver of relief.
I found myself at a meeting that a friend of mine attended. My insides were screaming for help, yet once I got there, I could not find my words. "I am throwing up," was what I managed to sputter as my friend embraced me. Death was inside of me, my eyes were soulless, and a panic set in like I had never known before. I was powerless. This was, quite literally, killing me. I could no longer process food, and my sister begged me to go to the hospital. Like a great addict, I stubbornly refused, left the meeting, and continued to seek an "easier, softer way." For me, this meant admitting complete defeat.
Then, for some reason, a friend picked up a newcomer packet from FA. "These are for you," she exclaimed. I gratefully took the pamphlets and eagerly awaited the upcoming meeting. I don't remember much about the two days before the meeting, other than that I was skiing, with healthy snacks in my pocket to prepare for a new lifestyle change. I binged and purged on them all day.
I went to the FA meeting and received my food plan. I stocked my refrigerator and cupboards. I had a sense of wonderment at the simple release of my menu to my sponsor. I could do what she said. I had never been able to make any sound judgments on my own, but I could follow directions. My life was saved.
By the grace of my higher power, I have had a second chance at recovery. I no longer aimlessly wander. I have a sense of direction. Now I weigh out my meals, and I am grateful for the structure and balance in my day. What a gift. I meditate and call my sponsor in the morning; what a beautiful reason to wake up. By working the precious tools of FA, I am connected to others. This is worth all that has brought me here. There are great sadnesses that I now have the privilege of feeling, but I know that these feelings will pass. I cannot dream of what is to come. Life is beautiful, and I am excited to live every minute.
Fear Interrupted
Fairly early in recovery, I heard people share at meetings that we addicts have a disease of fear, doubt, and insecurity. It took me a while to fully understand what that meant and how it applied to me. I knew I was obese (280 pounds), but I didn’t know what that had to do with fear, doubt, and insecurity.
I got a food plan from a sponsor and stopped eating addictively, and as I sat in meetings and listened, I started to remember how big a role fear played in my life from very early on. I didn’t have a whole lot to be afraid of as a child. I lived in a very safe suburban town, my parents did not mistreat me, and I had never experienced any trauma. Nevertheless, I was terrified of the dark, of ghosts, of getting stung by a bee while playing outside, or being eaten by a shark at the beach. You name it, I was afraid of it.
I slowly became aware of how much fear I had, even as an adult. I suffered from insomnia. I had the awareness in recovery that I couldn’t sleep because I was afraid of what might happen if I was not awake and paying attention.
Once, before recovery, I quit a job because I made a mistake and got a warning from my supervisor. I didn’t realize until recovery that I quit because I was afraid I would get fired and wanted to beat them to the punch. Not once did I think to explore why I had made the mistake or learn how I might not make it the next time. I did not talk to my supervisor about my mistake. I simply walked into his office and quit.
I will admit that even now, after 18 years of abstaining from addictive eating and a 150-pound weight loss, fear has not vanished completely from my life. Just yesterday, I took a nosedive into fear when my boss sent an email (I work at home some days) inquiring about something I had done. I realized I had overlooked a piece of information I should have caught. When I became aware of my mistake, my hands began to shake, I could feel my face turn hot, and I felt that old feeling of panic rise in my chest. I thought, “Maybe I’m going to get fired over this.” In the back of my mind, I knew this was my disease (of fear!) and that I wouldn’t get fired over the mistake. Still, for a moment, the fear took over.
It was lunchtime, so I knew I needed to eat the food that I had weighed, measured, and brought with me. Instinctively, before eating lunch, I walked up to my bedroom and fell to my knees. I didn’t beg my higher power to not let me get fired. Instead I said, “God, I’m really scared. Please help me to trust.” Then I went back downstairs and made a few phone calls. When I couldn’t reach anyone, I just did the next right thing and ate my lunch.
After lunch, I wrote my boss an email acknowledging my mistake. I explained what I had been thinking and apologized for missing the piece of information. Then the phone rang and it was someone who had been free from addictive eating for many years, who had known me for 18 years. While I was on the phone with her, an email came in from my boss. The message said something like “no big deal.” I read it while on the phone with my friend, and we both had a good laugh. I was able to talk to her about my realization that my fear of being fired came from my financial uncertainty, because I am the primary financial support for my husband and two young children. Only moments after the phone call, I realized the fear was completely gone, and I went on with my day.
There are many differences in my life today in recovery versus my life before FA. It is not that I don’t ever feel fear, it’s that I have a higher power now to turn to, tools of the FA program to use, and the clarity and peace of mind to deal appropriately with scary situations. That, to me, is the true gift of this program and the reason I don’t have to eat addictively anymore.
Clicking In
Over and over again, I found myself lying on the couch, utterly disgusted and immobilized by my latest gorge. Not a day passed that I didn’t think about food—excitement over a new diet, a new gimmick, or maybe a “magic pill.” Then I would experience feelings of failure and despair, which led to anger and humiliation. Fueled by fear and insecurity, I lived the definition of insanity, doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result, for two decades! But the worst was yet to come, and the best.
I was driving to work and heard the lady on the radio say something about Americans being addicted to sugar. She had a name for said addiction, but I didn’t catch it. I went about my day. Later, at work that morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about how delicious dinner would be. My husband and I were making chicken wings with all the fixings. I could hardly wait.
When lunchtime came, I raced home and ate them, all by myself. They were sweet and fantastic. I couldn’t believe I’d eaten them all. I’d intended to eat just half, but, you know. Ordinarily, I would have run back to the store to replace the two pounds of chicken wings I’d just devoured with my husband none the wiser. But something unusual happened. I remembered the radio lady talking about people being addicted to sugar. Before I knew it, I was searching the internet for more information. What I’d just done with those wings seemed similar to what the radio lady had been talking about.
A click or two later, and I was at the FA website. “Having trouble controlling the way you eat? Are you overweight? Underweight? Obsessed with food, weight or dieting? You are not alone.” They’re talking to me, I thought, while reading the landing page. I clicked again, eager to see what this was all about, and it brought me to a quiz, “Are you a food addict?” My answer was “yes” to 19 of the 20 questions on the quiz.
Then things got weird. People's faces began popping up on my computer screen. What the heck? Where am I? I’m not the most computer-savvy person in the world, but still, I’d just managed to click myself into a live FA video conference meeting without even knowing it. I heard a voice ask, “Hello? Can you please mute yourself?” It was a person at the meeting speaking to me. “You can hear me?” I asked. “Yes,” they responded.
I was shocked. Not about my audio, but my video. I desperately needed to figure out how to hide my fat face. Somehow, I turned off my video and decided to stay. For the next 90 minutes, I kept quiet and listened to people talk very personally about their experiences of food addiction. Silently, in awe of what I was hearing, I thought, Oh my gosh, that’s me! That’s what I do, too! Could this mean there’s hope for me? When the meeting was over, I immediately found another FA meeting. Again, I listened, transfixed. About 45 minutes into the second meeting, there was a knock on my office door.
My husband was home for dinner. “Hey Peggy, where are the wings?” I told him I’d eaten them for lunch. “All two pounds of ‘em?” I apologized and started laughing uncontrollably because I was so embarrassed and ashamed. My husband exclaimed, “Where is your willpower?” I explained to him that I’d just found out I’m a food addict. He looked puzzled. He had no idea. I’d never binged in front of him or anyone before. I’d kept my eating hidden from the world. I’d been outed!
The next day, I found an FA sponsor and did everything she asked. I got a food scale. I weighed my meals. I have a digital bathroom scale and weigh myself only once a month. I write down what I’m going to eat the following day, and I commit it to my sponsor. I make calls every day to fellow FA members and attend three meetings or more a week.
I came into FA at 258 pounds, and so far, I have lost approximately 52 pounds in 90 days. At last, I have the answer to my biggest problem. Better yet, I’ve found my solution. I’m here to stay.
The Mad Race
I stood at the kitchen sink with a spoon and my favorite pint of frozen dessert. As I frantically looked behind me to check the driveway, my only thought was how to eat all of it in the next three minutes before my husband arrived home in his red pickup truck. The dessert was frozen solid, but it didn’t matter to my desperate heart. I dug in with fervor. I couldn’t let him see the container in the freezer because he would ask me why it was there, and I would be caught. What made me play this destructive, isolating game over and over? I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter because I was only focused on the here and now. I had pain, and I wanted relief. I wanted to eat my emotions, not face them. I was consumed by thoughts of eating it all and quickly! I was not concerned about my health, cholesterol, feelings, or what was happening in my life.
Once again, I seemed hell-bent on destroying my body. Did I care? Not at all. I enjoyed the taste of the treat at first, but after the first few bites, I couldn’t taste anything. Yet, by compulsion, some drive deep within me, I just had to eat it all. As I shoveled in the last huge spoonful, my cheeks bulging, my husband came home. I had just enough time to hide the small container inside a bag in the trash. He would never know. How many times in the last several years had I isolated myself and played this sick game? What was wrong with me? How many more times would I leave a grocery store with not one or two, but three desserts, eat them all in the car on the way home, and find trash cans along the way to dispose of the evidence of my uncontrolled eating? How many more times would I fight these behaviors and still feel out of control? Too many!
A friend of mine I met through a pricey, commercial diet program had started to look into FA. She told me she had been to a few meetings and was learning more each week. I was curious and decided to look at the FA website myself. I was surprised by all the information and started to read some of the literature. Of course, I wasn’t ready to use the word “addict” to describe myself, but it did seem like I had some of the same behaviors as the people I was reading about.
One day, after two small, emotionally-charged disappointments, I had a mini breakdown; I was praying and crying at the same time. I asked to be free of the burden of excess weight and feeling sorry for myself. I had had enough. The next day, I attended an FA meeting and noted the phone numbers of possible sponsors to help me. I found the courage to call a few of them and left messages. Later that day, my soon-to-be sponsor called me back. I began the program the next day.
Today, after four months in FA, I have lost 25 pounds, and I am grateful that I no longer have to fight the urge to overindulge on unhealthy foods. The insanity is gone. I am much calmer when disappointments come up and can handle them without turning to food. Just planning my daily meals frees my mind to think about and do things that used to overwhelm me. Food is not the center of my existence anymore; I’m learning to do hard things because I have the confidence and clarity of mind that was clouded by addictive eating. Knowing my sponsor is there each day to answer questions and listen to any emotional turmoil I may be going through is such a relief. I don’t have to handle everything that comes up all on my own.
My spiritual life is getting stronger by the day, and my family relationships are getting better. Making daily telephone calls to other FA members reminds me that others have the same thoughts about food and that I am not alone. I could not have accomplished all of this in four months without FA. I am so grateful that the out-of-control moments like standing and eating at the kitchen sink are gone.
Rewiring My Brain
I have no idea when my food addiction began. As I look back, I see that I had abnormal thoughts and behaviors around food throughout my life, but I did not recognize them until I was in my early 20s. I vividly remember, during a commercial break from a TV show, standing in front of a jar of baked goods trying to figure out how I could take six but make it look like I only took two. I remember thinking that a “normal” person would just grab the six they wanted and not care what others thought, but I cared a lot about whether others were judging what I was eating, mainly because I was always judging other people. And then I thought that a normal person would take the acceptable two and be content, but I knew that two would not satisfy me, and I would constantly think about the four I left behind. And then I also thought that maybe a normal person would simply walk away, empty-handed, and return to watch the TV show. But there stood in the kitchen, hovering over the jar, paralyzed by what I came to understand was an addiction to food.
At 12 years old, I weighed 125 pounds and was probably around 5 feet, 3 inches tall. Our physical education teacher used to pinch the back of our arms with some device and would mark a number in a box. Later in the locker room, we all compared our scores. I was elated to realize I scored the highest! Scoring an XL, I assumed that because I had the highest score, it meant that I was the best. I had no idea what I would later find out—that the number at the top of the page meant obese. I recall returning home after school and proudly handing the phys ed paper to my mom. She took the paper, looked down, and exclaimed, “Oh my God! You are fat.” As I stood there, my heart sank. I was stunned, in shock, and in total disbelief.
The humiliation of having shared my score with everybody, the realization that I didn’t look like the pretty girls at school, in magazines, and in movies, hit me like a ton of bricks. My mom took me to a doctor, who was furious at the school’s inadequate method of determining body size. He convinced her I was still growing and said not to worry. While that worked for my mom, the damage was done for me. That score immediately damaged my spirit and broke my eyes’ ability to see what I really looked like.
Years later, when my son started kindergarten, the children with disabilities were not segregated from the general classroom. The teacher explained that our brains were like a bunch of wires—red connecting to reds, greens to greens, etc. For some people, she said, the wires did not connect in the same way as other kids, and it might seem like these children got special attention or favoritism, but really it was that they needed different kinds of help to connect the wires.
As my son came home and gleefully drew a picture of his version of the brain, I stared at the scribbled mess of crayons and suddenly realized, Yes, that is my brain! Things just don’t match up there. Although I am very smart in many other aspects, left to my own devices, when it comes to food, my brain becomes completely unharnessed.
As my food addiction progressed, I found myself eating foods at a shocking speed and in greater quantities. I ate in hiding, I refused to share the “good stuff” with my children, and I stopped cooking for the family, and instead abused fast-food drive-thrus. I stopped trying to make excuses for the excessive amount of binge foods I was buying at stores, and I ate quantities that made me sick. Eventually, food became the only reason to get out of bed in the morning.
With the increase of food came the increase of weight. With the increase of weight came more negative, unharnessed, distorted thinking. I was too emotionally and physically exhausted for basic grooming and house cleaning. Food stains covered my clothes, and I took down most of my mirrors. I had to order clothes online, as stores did not carry my size.
The humiliating experiences of being 300 pounds were endless. My medical insurance company contacted me to explain that I now qualified for stomach surgery. My life insurance company refused to increase my coverage, and my doctor threatened high blood pressure medication, warning that diabetes was inevitable if I continued my path. Despite being given advice and treatments from therapists and meal plans from nutritionists, I continued to feel undisciplined, unmotivated, miserable, and hopeless. I had long ago stopped even trying diets because I believed nothing worked for me.
Then I found FA, but feeling destined to fail, I continued to try to prove to myself that this, too, would not work for me. I had tried to manipulate, tweak, customize, and sabotage every past attempt to lose weight. When my sponsor made suggestions that seemed in no way diet-related, such as daily readings, phone calls to connect with other members, taking time to sit quietly, and other FA tools, I did them. I did not do the program perfectly or happily, or without judgment, often eye rolling or grumbling, but I did do it.
Within the first few weeks, the “food fog” lifted enough for me to see the relief I felt from waiting until my next meal versus beating myself up for breaking, yet again, the diet plan of the day. I felt lighter in my steps just knowing I was finally following through on a plan. I got relief from realizing I was not the only miswired person out there, and saw a spark of hope that maybe this program could reassemble my mind, eliminate the extra weight I was carrying, and, dare I hope, bring me out of my misery.
I came into FA in June 2010 at 5 feet, 4 inches tall and 340 pounds. Now I weigh 127 pounds.
As I progressed into recovery, sanity, and a body size that was right for me, I came to understand that life still had its ups and downs. There was no pink happy cloud that I could ride on forever. FA did not lead me into a heavenly euphoria where everything is perfect, but it led me out of my own hell. For that, I am eternally grateful.
The Courage to Change
I have always been afraid of change. I’m pretty sure I felt that way my whole life, but until I came into recovery, I simply blunted those feelings with food. I never noticed how hard transitions could be for me. I could start a diet and lose 20 pounds or so, but it only lasted as long as everything in my life was stable. If something changed and I got uncomfortable, my addictive eating took off, and that was the end of that diet.
The summer after I graduated from college, I decided to try a “no-carb” diet, and I lost about 25 pounds. I had planned to go backpacking in Australia, and I was so excited to finally fit into size 16 clothes that I spent some of my travel money on a new wardrobe. I fantasized about losing more weight, meeting an attractive Australian man, and having the time of my life.
At the airport, Australian customs officials seized my boxes of diet bars, but I told myself I would still stick to the diet. Unfortunately, within 24 hours of landing, jetlagged and feeling uncomfortable, I was driven back to fried food and alcohol, both of which were plentiful in the blocks surrounding my hostel.
I was in a new country on the other side of the world, surrounded by new people I didn’t know, and I couldn’t deal with that amount of change all at once without feeling unbearably uneasy. I didn’t realize it at the time, but even in Australia, I was doing exactly what I had done my whole life: avoiding uncomfortable feelings by anesthetizing myself with food.
I spent the next two months bingeing on Australian junk food and drinking nightly as I traveled from Sydney to the northeastern corner of the country. I was having what should have been amazing experiences—sleeping under the Milky Way, snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef, sailing to pristine white beaches—but a lot of the time, I was too distracted by my feelings of loneliness and inadequacy to fully enjoy it. I was on a camping trip with other young backpackers from all over the world, including plenty of attractive Australian men, and instead of getting to know them, I was sitting off on my own, thinking, Why don’t they like me? Why do my thighs look so fat in my bathing suit? Why does everyone seem to be making friends except me? I was traveling with a friend from college, and I clung to her like a barnacle, getting jealous every time she talked to someone else in the group and wondering why she was being so mean to me.
After two months of traveling, we ran out of money, and I had to stop in a city on the coast to get a temporary job teaching swimming. I didn’t have a bathing suit that fit at that point, so my boss gave me one of her old swimsuits—it was a maternity bathing suit, and it didn’t fit her anymore, but it was the perfect size for my 215-pound body.
I would take a long train ride to work in the morning, fuel myself all day with fried food, take the long train back to the hostel, and spend the rest of the night eating junk food (mostly made of flour and sugar) while watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I was so afraid of change that halfway around the world, I had managed to create a life that was exactly the same as the life I had left back in the United States. Almost none of the clothes I had brought fit anymore, and I was out of money to buy new ones, but since I wasn’t going anywhere other than work, it didn’t matter. Lonely, homesick, and sitting on a growing pile of debt, I decided to return home a month before my visa ran out.
I learned nothing from that experience. I kept thinking that what I needed was a change: graduate school in New York City, a new career, international travel, a new apartment, but none of it could fix the fundamental problem of my food addiction. Every time, I would begin with hope and end in despair, gaining weight, escaping into TV, and hiding from life. This cycle continued for six more years until I was 27, and I found FA.
In FA, I learned that I didn’t have just a weight problem or a food problem; I had a life problem. I always felt that something was wrong with me. Why couldn’t I just enjoy my life like other people? When I came into FA, I began to understand the fear, doubt, and insecurity that led me to use food as a drug. In the 13 years since coming into FA, I have had a lot of awareness about my early experiences, particularly understanding how my fear of change and discomfort affected how I behaved towards others. I now realize that the problem was not the Australian customs officials, my traveling companion, or the backpackers. The problem was me. I could have been putting myself out there, making friends, enjoying those experiences, but my fear held me back, and I turned to food instead.
Today, I abstain from addictive eating, and in recovery, I have lost 75 pounds. I have traded maternity bathing suits for bikinis. More importantly, I recognize that new situations make me uncomfortable, but I have tools that help me get through change without running away or turning to food to feel better. In recovery, I have traveled to multiple foreign countries, I moved, got married, and bought a house, all without taking a single bite of flour, sugar, or quantities of food that I now know would lead me to eat addictively.
I hope one day to return to Australia and experience the beauty of that country without eating addictively, but, for today, I’m having the time of my life right here at home with my new husband and stepson. And the “promises” of the program that I hear in FA meetings continue to come true for me, one day at a time.
Choosing Freedom
It was my seventh day after joining FA, and I was sitting at the front desk of a yoga studio, fighting cravings like crazy. My job was to check people into yoga classes and schedule massages, which was about all I could handle after being trapped in food addiction for so long. I thought back to the numerous times I would be left alone after the rush of students scurrying about, when I could eat without interruption. If the phone rang while I was eating, I’d be angry with the caller, terrified that I’d have to stop, and mortified that I might be caught mid-binge. But the fear and shame of being caught in the act of my addiction weren’t enough to make me stop. I couldn’t stop, even when I wanted to.
Once, a health food company gave our yoga studio a huge amount of “healthy” mini-treat samples. We kept a full basket of them on a counter in the front office, and they tortured me. My brain told me that if something was “healthy” or from a health food store, then it wasn’t that bad. Unfortunately, I had recently gained 30 pounds in six weeks by bingeing on those “healthy” foods that “weren’t that bad.” I was sneaking the samples and eating huge amounts, hoping no one would notice how many were gone and how many wrappers were in the trash. At one point, I confided in a co-worker that I was having trouble staying away from them, and I asked if she would hide them from me for the rest of the afternoon. As soon as she took them away and went to teach her class, I promptly went on a quest to find them and shamefully gobbled them all up.
I can’t explain what was different on this day. Having seven days of not eating sugar or flour was a huge miracle, but when the studio was quiet, I felt the loneliness and despair start to creep in, which triggered massive cravings. I played out two stories in my mind and realized I had a choice. I could either plot my next binge or I could ask for help. It wasn’t complicated, though my brain wanted to make it so. I reached out and made a call to someone in FA, asking for help in a more authentic way than I ever had. The person who answered the phone helped me see that if I chose to eat addictively, I would have to start over and repeat those seven days of misery and withdrawal. Those were hard days, and I did not want to go through that again! But if I chose to believe that the feelings would pass, and I didn’t hurt myself with food, then I would be seven days closer to freedom. I wanted freedom so badly.
That marked a huge turning point for me. I could either choose the discomfort of the shame and self-hatred that comes with a binge, or I could choose the discomfort of sitting through a craving or a challenging feeling abstinently. The difference is that when I chose the food, I always ended up in the same empty hole of despair. But when I choose to abstain from eating addictively, no matter how uncomfortable the situation, then I get to experience hope, and to me, that is freedom.
In Hard Times
My partner had a “routine” medical operation. The last time he had surgery was over 30 years ago, before I came into the FA program. He had cancer, and his chances of living five years were 20 percent. My reaction at that time, before FA, was to use food to numb myself. I gained over 25 pounds in the 10 weeks he was recovering.
His recent surgery was successful; however, the recovery was not. Four days post-surgery, he was rushed by ambulance back to the ER. He spent 13 hours there before being admitted back into the hospital. Fear, doubt, and insecurity entered my thinking, and the urge to eat addictively was whispering, but I was focused on helping my partner.
At 10:30 pm, he was finally settling into a hospital bed, and I left for home, alone. I was tired, emotionally drained, and stressed. The urge to eat was now screaming in my brain.
There are seven traffic lights between the hospital and my home. When my FA program is strong and in its place, I do not notice what stores are at traffic lights. Of course, this night I had the bad luck of having to stop at every light. At the first intersection, my addictive brain said, Look over there at the fast-food place. You have had a rough day; stop in. Two lights up, another red light, another restaurant, and my eyes were tired. My brain wanted numbing! I said the Serenity Prayer three times before that darn light changed to green. There were more gas stations and convenience stores at the next three lights, all open at 11:00 pm. My thoughts went into overdrive, thinking in my old addict-like ways. I began to salivate! I hadn’t had that strong of an emotional and physical reaction in years.
I arrived home without stopping, yet the familiar pull of addictive eating still threatened. Knowing the danger, I instinctively reached out. Six quick calls, six late-night messages left. The last one, raw and urgent, went to my sponsor. "I'm about to eat my favorite sugary food. Please call me!" Speaking those words aloud was a jolt. A sudden clarity pierced through the craving. I don't want this. It was like a lightning strike. The answer was clear and immediate: You're safely home, take some quiet time, and go to sleep.
Early the next morning, my cell phone started to light up, first with texts and then with a phone call from my sponsor. Her first words were, “Well, did you eat addictively over it?” I was happy to share with her that, by making phone calls and staying quiet, I was able to get centered again. I woke up having not eaten addictively for another day. Thanks, Higher Power.
A Dream Come True
My story begins the morning of my seventy-fifth birthday. I was now three-quarters of a century! My husband and I filled our car with gas and headed to the grocery store. En route, I spotted a sign on a building that read “Indoor Climbing.” A friend and I used to walk in our neighborhood mall, and we would stop and watch the children climb the rock walls. I used to tell my friend, "Once I'm thin, I'm going to climb that wall, too!" I knew my current weight made it impossible, but it was a long-held dream to be slender enough. And there I was, thin, on my seventy-fifth birthday! Seeing that sign, I simply couldn't resist the opportunity.
I went into the building, which was filled with different walls to climb. The manager showed me a wall suited to a novice such as myself, and asked, “Do you want to do it now?” “Oh, no,” was my reply. “I need to grocery shop first.” Was I building up my courage to climb one of those walls, or did I have to convince my husband, who thought I was crazy for wanting to do such a thing?
Groceries done, lunch over; no more waiting. The climbing gym was calling me back. Then, a kind young woman appeared. She strapped me into a harness and gave me special shoes. This was it. She was going to help me touch that dream.
The 30-foot wall looked huge, but I wasn't backing down. After all, it was my birthday. I was finally thin. This was my dream. My hand grabbed the first hold. My foot followed. Then, hand over hand, foot after foot, I started to climb. Up, up, higher and higher. My muscles worked hard, but I was smiling. I made it so far, maybe two-thirds of the way up; a good 20 feet. Then I looked up. Those next handholds looked tiny. I felt the tiredness in my arms. And then it hit me. I am 75 years old. "I think that's enough for today," I said. The staff person told me to just let go and grab the safety wire attached to my harness. Slowly, gently, she lowered me back to the ground. I did it. What an amazing feeling! The support person even asked if they could put my picture on their company's web page.
Thinking more about my day, I wondered how many first-time climbers started at age 75. Why could I do it? It was because of FA. Without FA, I would still be in my obese body that would have never been able to climb that high, and would still be dreaming about climbing the rock wall instead of actually doing it. I know that we can do whatever we want to. FA allows us to fulfill our dreams. I am forever grateful for FA. My dream had come true!
The opinions and views expressed herein are the writers' only and do not represent those of FA as a whole.