Welcome to this qualification meeting. I am a food addict from Pennsylvania, and I’m your leader for this hour. After a moment of silence, please join me in the Serenity Prayer.
I’ve been thinking about this opportunity to come and qualify. A few years ago, I was on a committee to rename recordings when people’s personal names were taken off of them. I was in my head this week thinking, what’s the name of my story? One of the names I came up with was “the perfect storm.”
I grew up in a family of five children. I’m a middle child, a peacemaker. That was my place in the family. I had two parents who were very emotionally overwhelmed. My mother thought she was going to have twelve children and thank God she didn’t. She was a workaholic and really a dry drunk. She stopped drinking when I was very young, but she never had any recovery. She was also a food addict.
It was a chaotic family to grow up in, a perfect storm in a lot of ways. I learned from my mother to eat. My extended family was full of addiction, lots of alcoholism and food addiction. Another way I identified was as a runner. Emotions were not spoken about in my family at all, and I really believed they must be deadly. If anything got emotional, I would try to control it and make it go away, or I would run. I would leave the situation.
That became a lifetime pattern. If I had an interaction with someone that was uncomfortable or embarrassing, I would avoid them completely. You would never see me again because it was too uncomfortable to feel those feelings. I ran through life as fast as I could to stay ahead of my feelings, and one of the ways I did that was by eating.
I don’t believe I was born a full-fledged food addict. I’ve said I was born a cucumber and got pickled later. One of the mysteries for me was when I crossed that line. I was a user. I used food throughout my childhood, and it was very important to me. My mother was a terrible cook, so meals weren’t very attractive, but I was always looking for something extra special.
Anytime I had a little money, I went to a sweet shop a block and a half from our house. The first time I ever stole money, the only time I really remember, I was four or five. I went into my mother’s purse to get money to go to the sweet shop. She didn’t have change, so I took a five-dollar bill, which was a lot of money for a little kid. I went to the shop and stood in front of the glass case, sliding the bill across and pointing to this and this and this. The woman behind the counter asked if my mother knew I was there, and I said yes. I walked home very happy with my stash until my parents pulled up next to me. I didn’t get away with it, but it was incredibly important to me. Anytime I had money, that’s where I headed.
Another childhood story that shows how important food was to me happened at the zoo. I loved the zoo, but I always wandered off. There were five kids, and my mother couldn’t keep track of all of us. One time I wandered off and was picked up by guards, who announced over the loudspeaker for my parents to come get me. I was screaming in the background. When they picked me up, I remember being in the car and proudly telling my mother that the guards tried to give me some food, but I didn’t take it because they were strangers. I was proud and upset. She turned around and said, “Oh, they were guards. You could have taken it from them.” I was furious that nobody had told me this rule about which strangers were okay.
I grew up with that focus, always wanting something sweet. Even into adulthood, I felt emotionally deprived, and sweets gave me the sweetness we didn’t have at home. I was very attracted to them. There were times when I could eat a little and walk away, and that stuck with me. When I became fully addicted, I couldn’t do that anymore. It changed at some point.
I see the progression of the disease clearly. I started as a user. It ebbed and flowed until I was almost thirty, married, and thinking about having a child. I loved kids and was a great babysitter. One reason I loved babysitting was because I could eat other people’s food. They always had food we didn’t have at home. I ate people out of house and home, and they still hired me back, which tells me how good a babysitter I was.
I got pregnant and was living in California at the time. I planned to be an Earth Mother and have my baby at home with midwives. I was eating what I thought was healthy. I learned about nutrition from my mother, who was also a food addict. We never had sweets at home, but she took us out for treats because she needed them. She also believed that if food was healthy, you could eat as much as you wanted and not get fat. I bought into that completely.
I got deeply into health foods and nutrition, reading and studying. Every time I went home, my mother was following a different food philosophy. Eventually, I realized I couldn’t follow her anymore.
During my pregnancy, a midwife told me I wasn’t gaining enough weight and needed to eat more. Something clicked in my brain. I had full permission to eat as much as I wanted, of whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. In the last few months of pregnancy, I put on fifty pounds. I was told not to worry because nursing would take it off.
I was also very stressed. I had a business, worked full-time, taught, and felt overwhelmed. I was terrified of becoming my mother. I ate through all my fear—fear of responsibility, adulthood, and motherhood.
After a long labor, I had an emergency C-section. I took my baby home and, in many ways, became my mother. I was emotionally unavailable and terrified. Three weeks later, despite complications, I packed up my baby and went back to work because I couldn’t be at home with her. I continued eating, but I was nursing, and the weight came off quickly.
When she was weaned, I couldn’t stop eating. By then, I was used to eating whatever I wanted. I told myself I was healthy and knowledgeable about food, but a real struggle began that lasted fifteen years. I wanted to go back to how I used to be. I thought I was fat when I wasn’t. I identified myself as fat and tried desperately to return to a time I didn’t even fully understand.
Meanwhile, I wanted to eat what I wanted, when I wanted. The addiction had me completely. If I thought of a food, I had to eat it. I would drive long distances just to get a specific thing. I was driven entirely by food. My weight climbed, and I maintained around 233 pounds for years.
I was deep in addiction and didn’t understand that I was the pickle trying to go back to being a cucumber.
I went to a twelve-step program for years, but I never fully surrendered. I was self-sufficient and didn’t want anyone telling me what to eat or asking me what I ate. The idea of committing food ahead of time never occurred to me. I stayed because it was a place where people talked about misery around food, but I never truly recovered.
I couldn’t give up the food. Life became more miserable. I’m an artist, and I couldn’t show up creatively. I lived in a fog from sugar and flour. My mood swings were extreme. I had a little girl, and I became a screaming maniac. I never hit her, but I was frightening. I didn’t know how to be present.
At forty-seven, I realized I needed help and that I might have to let someone else tell me what to do. That was a turning point. I joined another program, committed fully, and did exactly what I was told. I lost seventy pounds and got a lot of attention. It felt thrilling.
Eventually, it became overwhelming. My sponsor moved away, I didn’t get another one, and I started sponsoring myself. I tweaked the food plan, rationalized everything, and slowly slid back into addiction. The fog returned.
Later, someone told me about another program. What I heard was that there was no wiggle room. That terrified me, but I knew that was what I needed. If I crack the door even a little, I blow it wide open.
I came to a meeting, listened, and eventually came back after a vacation where my addiction was on full display. I had no control. I was humiliated and powerless.
When I returned, I got a sponsor and committed. I was willing, even if I didn’t look willing on the outside. Every time I was asked to give something up, I got something better in return—peace. That’s why this isn’t just a diet. Diets take things away. This gave me peace.
I stayed abstinent through everything. I adopted a child with severe behavioral challenges, and I knew that if I lost my abstinence, I would lose him too. Abstinence remains the most important thing in my life.
I’m grateful to be here. Every day is a miracle. I remember my first committed meal, thinking it wasn’t enough food, and then realizing I was satisfied. For the first time, enough was enough.
My real recovery didn’t start until I reached my goal weight. Losing a few more pounds than I thought possible led to a spiritual awakening. I realized I couldn’t live in my body without a higher power. That was the beginning of growing up.
I’m seventy today, and I feel like I’m finally growing up. Being able to show up and be present is a miracle. One of the most important realizations I had was that eating exactly what I committed, not one bite more and not one bite less, mattered. If I shorted myself, I would justify more the next day. I can’t do that.
Thank you.