Welcome to this qualification meeting. I’m a food addict from California, and I’m your leader for this session.
It’s good to be here today. Earlier this morning, I was thinking not about what I wanted to say, but about some of the things that have happened in my life that brought me here. I’ve had my fair share of calamities, and I also had a wonderful childhood. I think about how many of the things I once thought were bad turned out to bring good into my life, and this is one of them. Not speaking today being bad but simply being here is a very good thing.
I was raised in Southern California in a beach community. I lived with my mother and father and was the oldest of three children. I felt loved and adored. I was told I was beautiful. I was apparently a very active child. I didn’t sit still, and I don’t know if I had some form of ADHD, but I was always running around, skinny and content.
Then I reached a stage where a few things happened. Around the age of 11, I started changing from a bean-pole body to a curvier, more voluptuous body, which was very uncomfortable for me. Everything started to stick out in different ways, including my nose, which I was always self-conscious about. I remember feeling disconnected from my body, like this isn’t who I am, but it’s me, and I didn’t understand what was happening.
At the same time, although I felt loved and cared for, my parents’ relationship was very out of control. I remember uncomfortable moments, including one time when my mother was pounding on my father’s chest and screaming, and he was just standing there. I remember thinking, do something about that. Why aren’t you doing something? I always felt like my mother was out of control, and my father was passive and not taking care of things the way he should. He was a doctor and was often out of the house, and my mother had her hands full with three very active children. She had a very short fuse.
Our house always felt chaotic. I worried about what my mother might do if we set her off. When would the wooden spoon come out? When would she knock everything off my shelf? When would something calamitous happen? I remember her saying, “Wait until your father gets home,” and thinking, thank God, because he wasn’t going to have the fury that she had.
Around age 11, my parents told us they were separating and that my father was moving out. I remember feeling terror. I thought my mother was going to lose it, and we would be stuck with her, while my father would be alone. I remember burying myself in my breakfast bowl, shoveling food into my mouth, and praying I wouldn’t cry. I was also sneaking makeup at the time and didn’t want it to show.
I ran to school feeling deeply uncomfortable. This was around 1966, and people weren’t getting divorced in my neighborhood. I was the first kid whose parents were divorcing, and I felt a lot of shame and insecurity. All of that, combined with hormones and discomfort with my body, felt like the perfect recipe for addiction. I also believe I came from parents with addictive behaviors.
Fast forward to around age 16, when I really started acting out my addiction. Up until about age 21, I was in a normal-sized body, though I don’t know how. I remember driving with friends from the coast down Sunset Boulevard to Hollywood, stoned, laughing, and going out for huge meals. Before that, we would stop at a drugstore and buy loads of candy. I got stoned so I could eat and have an excuse for it. We would eat before, during, and after the movie.
That’s when my pattern began of going any distance to get a certain kind of food. I was picky and would go to any lengths to get what I wanted. I would ride my bike miles just to get something specific. That impulsive, obsessive behavior became my addiction.
I went to college and was happy to be away from home, choosing a school far from my family. Later, I decided to move back home and attend a different college, and I was miserable. I remember nothing about the campus except the vending machines and food. At night, I would make a box of food meant to serve four and eat the whole thing. I gained about 25 pounds in a year.
Later, I moved again, lost the weight, and didn’t regain it until pregnancy. During both pregnancies, I gained a lot of weight and then lost it again. I don’t think I was fully addicted yet, but I was definitely dabbling.
Eventually, when my family moved again, and I felt intense fear, resentment, and sadness, I started eating to stuff my feelings instead of crying. That began about eight years of compulsive eating to numb everything: happiness, sadness, anger, fear. Fear, especially, went unacknowledged for many years.
During that time, I gained weight rapidly. A friend noticed and asked if something was going on, but I brushed it off. I wouldn’t talk about my feelings or ask for help. My eating continued unchecked.
A typical day started the night before, lying in bed, berating myself for failing again. I would promise that tomorrow would be different. In the morning, I would skip breakfast or eat sugar and flour. I tried to “diet” until late morning or mid-afternoon, and then all bets were off. I bought food under excuses and ate throughout the day. I wasn’t a big binge eater, but I constantly grazed.
When my brother died by suicide, I didn’t cry. I shut down and avoided people, just as I had learned to do with pain. This pattern repeated throughout my life.
As my addiction worsened, I became desperate for solutions. I went to doctors, weight-loss programs, nutritionists, hypnosis, diet pills, and even questionable clinics. Nothing worked. I wanted to be taken care of, hospitalized, spoon-fed, anything to make it stop.
I tried to fix my children’s discomfort the same way I tried to fix my own: doctors, hospitals, or food. I couldn’t tolerate discomfort in myself or anyone else. I blamed my husband for not understanding, even though he wasn’t an addict.
After my father died, I felt completely hopeless. Then I ran into someone I barely recognized because they had lost a significant amount of weight. Their eyes were bright, their demeanor transformed. They told me about a program based on the 12 steps. They mentioned it was free, didn’t require exercise, and involved sponsorship. That caught my attention.
I went out and ate compulsively for three more weeks before finally going to a meeting. I got a sponsor and committed to weighed and measured meals. For the first time, I told someone what I was going to do and followed through. I went to bed that night feeling integrity, hope, courage, and comfort I hadn’t felt in years.
Physically, my body felt better almost immediately. The inflammation in my joints eased once I removed flour and sugar. Emotionally, I felt peace for the first time in a long time.
I began going to meetings, doing service, and sponsoring others. I discovered fulfillment not in food, but in service and recovery. My life didn’t change externally, but I experienced it differently. It was like gaining clarity and color I hadn’t known before.
Over time, gratitude became part of my daily life. I began to see blessings everywhere. I felt deeply fulfilled and wanted to pass this program on to others. The disciplines, tools, and structure gave me safety and freedom.
Every day feels like a gift. I wake up grateful for another day of abstinence and the chance to pass it on. That’s all.