BUILDING BLOCKS

every choice I make today is one more brick in the process of rebuilding myself.

i can build up or tear down.

one brick at a time.

Thank you for sharing! It sounds kinda cliche, but I am legitimately grateful. Just two weeks ago I realized my brain is somewhere on the mild ADD spectrum and it explained so much. To know that another woman with a lot of the same issues (moms, sisters, food addiction, etc) had the same realization, that its not a flaw, my personal failing is massively reassuring!! Thank you so much for sharing. I look forward to reading through the rest and I'm excited to celebrate your 60th birthday in February!

DISINTEGRATION and REINTEGRATION

Stick with me here. I think I'm on to something.

At my sickest, when the food addiction's grip on me seemed unbreakable, I spent a lot of time in denial.

And I spent a lot of time feeling almost disembodied - like the hand that was bringing Doritos to my mouth wasn't even mine. I would look at an empty bag of cookies and literally not remember eating it. I would watch my hand bring another spoonful of ice cream to my mouth through the tears that were running down my face. I did not understand why I was eating. I knew it was bad for me. I knew I shouldn't do it. I'd promised myself I wouldn't keep doing it.

And there I was , doing it, watching myself as if I was someone else, on a film.

I was dis-integrated. I was blocking off antire parts of my own self, refusing to acknowledge them.

Let's back up a bit. Know any toddlers? Every ask a four year old who's got magic marker all over her face and hands "Who drew on the walls? Did you do this?" and she says "no" with complete conviction?

Psychologists say that up to a certain age - I think it's close to four - she's not lying. She's telling the absolute truth as it exists in her mind. She did it, of course. And she knows it's bad. And she can't completely process all of that, so her brain, her remarkable, self-preservation-oriented brain, tells her that actually no, she didn't do it. And that's what she firmly believes. The ability to sort that all out comes much later.

She's taken something that's too hard for her to process, and shut it away, and now it no longer exists.

When my doctor, who for the most part seemed indifferent to my steady weight gain, asked if I had any concerns to discuss, I'd say 'no', and I'd mean it. In my mind, it wasn't even a thing. Except occasionally, of course, I'd take a real look at myself and then become depressed, or make impossible pledges to walk ten miles a day and live on water and air. Yeah, You can imagine how effective that was.

Let's look at a combat veteran who has seen, perhaps done, horrible things. We speak of them re-integrating when they come home, and partly, that means this: the things that they had to block out of their mind in order to simply survive now have to be examined and processed in a safe way so they can be whole again. To get through a horrific experience, that soldier can't give in to emotional reactions; the sights and sounds have to be walled off in a compartment, somehow, and kept out of that person's mind as much as possible. But to become whole again, eventually it's got to be addressed.

Same for trauma survivors. Teachers, nurses, emergency responders, anyone, really. We all know that sometimes we have to compartmentalize horrific things in some way, even if only temporarily, just to get through the day.

Now - we addicts? We have taken that whole thing even further. We've dis-integrated. We have taken something, some part of ourselves, and hidden it away. It's hurt, it's wounded, but we're hiding it, trying to pretend it isn't there.

imagine that it was a literal body part that was hurt and infected, and we just pretended it no longer existed. Yeah, no happy ending to that story, right?

But it's what we're doing with our addiction when we're still in the denial stage. We can't cope with looking at it, so we pretend it isn't there. And sometimes when it does come boiling over, we're overwhelmed with guilt and self-loathing, which of course only encourages keeping it all hidden in the future.

I was there. I was there, and now I'm not.

But I was there. The hidden food purchases, going through a checkout line twice and using cash for the things I was going to hide for myself, so they weren't on the receipt that would be in the main grocery bags. Eating in the car and stopping at a roadside community trash can to throw away the evidence, and then coming home and cooking and eating a full dinner within the hour - because that binge had no longer happened, in my mind. I did all the things you're doing, with the possible exception of purging. But the denial part? The compartmentalizing? Yep.

I am free of that now. My work, now, is undoing the damage that decades of abusing food have done to my body. But I am no longer bingeing, no longer lying, no longer hiding. The self-loathing and guilt are gone. (Mild remorse, sure. And alertness to potential downfalls, sure. I mean this thing doesn't totally go away, ever. But the sick part of it? Done.)

What made the change happen was to consciously re-integrate. I had to put all the pieces of me back together. I couldn't do it without admitting what they all were, even the ugly ones. The analogy of a puzzle is flawed, but it works up to a point: as long as I 'hid' the addiction piece, I couldn't put the puzzle together. But this is a magical puzzle, in that once you have all the pieces together, you can change the size of some of them. You can make the bad bits lessen, as long as you let the good ones grow to fill the void that's left.

Integration. Wholeness. Balance. Those are the things that will really heal us, friends. Pick the pieces up off the floor, shake the dust off them, look at them, honor them, love them, piece them back together.

i am many things, and one of those things is an addict. It will always be one of the pieces of me, but now it's a very, very small one. I've learned to love and cherish that part of me, because it had a lot to teach me. But it's also going to stay small and quiet now, and no longer control me.

RATS and COCAINE

I've been reading an article about an experiment. Rats were kept in sterile, empty cages. They were given access to two water bottles. One was laced with cocaine. The rats preferred that bottle and drank the cocaine-laced water exclusively until they killed themselves.

But instead of stopping at that point, the researchers changed the environment in which the experiment had been done. Up until this point, the rats had been living in a sterile cage with no distractions - nothing sensory at all.

In the second round, researchers created a 'rat paradise' with rat-attractive living quarters. They had toys, sex, good food, areas conducive to exercise, all sorts of stimulation,plus places in which they could quietly retreat.

They started drinking the regular water and did so almost exclusively. Apparently a little recreational cocaine use but not to the point of self harm.

It's not that simple for people - we have many things that might drive us to addiction - but might it be a factor to consider?

We have never taken a lot of vacations in the usual sense. Farming doesn't lend itself to getting away easily. I am blessed to be able to visit the family house in Canada once or twice a year for a retreat, but I'm also responsible for its upkeep and maintenance, and that sort of changes your perspective, as far as mindless relaxing goes.

But, in looking back, I don't think I have ever made bad food choices while on vacation. I haven't binged, ever. I've gone to the occasional great restaurant on vacation, and there was a short cruise, once, with the inevitable lavish food, which I certainly enjoyed - but didn't turn into a pig.

When I'm on vacation, I'm removed from most of my day to day stresses however briefly. Usually it's only temporary, I know they're waiting for me at home, but I'm able to pretend they don't exist for a short bit. I'm sure that's a factor.

But there's also a parallel to the rat experiment. There's new things to see, new experiences, places to play, new toys, often more sex, different people to talk to............perhaps I should give this some more consideration, and see how I might impact my home environment to incorporate some changes. Hmmm.

THE RELATIVITY OF COMFORT

(Edited at the end: this went in a slightly different direction than I intended when I wrote the first few sentences, but I'm going to let it stand as is.)

i've set a goal for myself that may not sound impressive to someone who's fit and athletic, but for me, it's a challenge: I'm going to walk the 3.5 miles of a nearby nature trail 100 times. Last winter, I did so three times a week for about eight weeks. Now, i'm reaching higher.

I've done 11 so far in 14 days. I decided that trying to do it every day would be a recipe for failure. Some days are simply logistically impossible, since this takes about a two hour hunk out of the day: driving there, walking, driving home, showering. And with a degenerative autoimmune disease, making sweeping declarations involving physical effort is fairly stupid: I've got so much gas in the gas tank every day, and if I use it up too soon, I'm in deep trouble. Some days, I have to rest, or I'll have a big setback. But I'm trying to walk every day on which it's possible to do so.

While the walk is not grueling to the point of exhaustion - that's something my disease will not allow me to even attempt - it is definitely taxing.

About two thirds of the way around the path, which encircles a lake and thus does not lend itself to chickening out partway through, I find that I begin to really, really want three basic things: a chance to sit down, a potty, and a bottle of water. None of these needs are life threatening, of course. Read this whole thing with that in mind - I'm not presenting this in a whiny way, it's just an observation. An observation that no matter what was on my mind when I started walking, it boils down, within 45 minutes, to being thirsty, needing to pee, and being tired.

At my usual 50 minute mark, there is a water fountain, a restroom, and a bench. Each of these things is so very, very much appreciated when I reach them. The restroom, very basic, is also relief from cold winds or rain. The sink offers warm water for sometimes very cold hands. The bench, simple planks, is incredibly comfortable for the few minutes I give myself to catch my breath. The water is ambrosial.

At home, I have all of those things, but I don't even think about them. My work rarely prevents me from taking a restroom break or getting something to drink - although I rarely appreciate being able to do so. I often disdain drinking water in favor of something more 'exciting'. I plop into a comfortable, dreadful old sofa instead of sitting on a wooden bench.

The very things I find myself eagerly anticipating at the 2.5 mile point of my walk are not 'good enough' when I'm at home.

So what's this telling me? (Because, you see, I'm realizing that the whole world has something to teach me........)

I think the human species is wired to want a certain percentage more than we already have - no matter what that is. A rich person might become annoyed is their favorite purified spring water is not chilled to their preferred temperature. I have clean running water in my house, something much of the world does not, and I'd rather drink an iced tea. On my walk, when I get truly thirsty, the chlorinated city water in the fountain is nectar. If I were literally dying of thirst, I'd drink dirty water out of a ditch.

Want and need is all kind of relative, really, and most of us in first world countries already have a skewed sense of what those words mean. Before I began to get better, there was one horrible, horrible night when I was home alone and, after eating nine full sized peanut butter cups, I was genuinely upset that there were no more.

This is, of course, horrible and embarrassing and indefensible - but the very indefensibleness of it strengthens my contention that our addiction screws something up in our brains and makes us react instinctively to food, the way we would if we touched something hot or heard a nearby explosion. Or, perhaps, the way we would if we were truly terribly dehydrated and saw a puddle. Something primal and animalistic kicks in and we start automatically eating. We don't think. We just eat.

We are somehow bypassing the part of our brains that would otherwise apply logic and reason to the situation. A person truly dying of dehydration will not stop to wonder if that puddle contains bacteria. Anyone else will do so. In the first case, the life-and-death physical need will override any other concerns at all.

But a ninth peanut butter cup wasn't a life or death situation, other than, of course, surely hastening my death from heart disease, diabetes or something like that.

I didn't stop and ask myself if the second peanut butter cup would truly make me happier than the first one. I didn't stop to think about whether or not my body needed it, or if was a reasonable treat given what I'd already consumed that day, or any of the questions I have since learned to ask. No, I approached that bag of peanut butter cups much as the dying person in the desert approached the festering puddle.

No one in their right mind would deliberately choose to shove nine peanut butter cups into their mouth in ten minutes and then be frantic for more. That is not normal behavior, it's not safe behavior, it's not the behavior of someone whose brain is operating in a healthy way.

Thus, in retrospect, I can see that at that moment I was not fully sane - perhaps not in the clinical sense of the word, but my behavior was not in my self-interest in any way. (I'll define self interest as benefitting myself or the community(ies) which support me.)

I have always maintained that a food addiction is NOT OUR FAULT. We may contribute to it, we may avoid looking for a solution, we certainly are not without some responsibility. But there is something messed up in our heads.

It's normal to want that drink of water after a long walk. It's not normal to drink to the point of hyponatremia. You and I wouldn't drink so much that we'd kill ourselves.........but we're taking some chances with our food addiction, And no one's going to do that unless something somehow is messed up in their brains.

Taking the blame and the shame out of this was the second big step I took toward getting healthy. (The first was being honest with myself about it.) And I could not have made any progress without reaching that point.

I think at this point in my journey I'm learning to be happy with the drink of water instead of something else; I'm learning to appreciate resting on a hard bench when that's what's available. I'm learning, yes, to appreciate the comfort of the potty stop, the cuddle with the dog, the smell of fresh cut grass, the soft pillow at night.

Something in my head was truly wrong before, but the work I have done has helped to reset things. I might still want a little more, but I'm learning that I don't NEED it. I don't need it to physically survive, and I don't need it to be happy.

This is a solvable problem. If you are still at the peanutbutter cup stage, do not despair, and do not blame yourself for where you are right now. You have done the best you can with what you knew up until this point. As you learn more, you can do better.

Bathe yourself in kindness, although not in the form of carbohydrates. You are beautiful, and you are worth the effort it will take to get better. And when you do, you will save someone else. Stay with this. It's so hard. But you can do this terrible awful hard thing.

"YOU CAN'T HATE YOURSELF INTO A VERSION OF YOURSELF YOU CAN LOVE"

Ladies and gentlemen, that's today's BAM moment for me.

I've spent some time analyzing why years and years of efforts to control my addiction failed, and if I had to pick the most salient point, this would be it.

I tried a lot of different approaches, but one common element was the self loathing that pervaded the whole process, each and every time.

It has worked this time because I have wrapped myself in love. I am treating this fragile vessel that holds my soul with respect and care.

That doesn't mean I'm making excuses for bad behavior, or being selfish, or over indulging in unhealthy things because they feel good in the moment.

It just means I finally understand that I am worth the effort. And I understand that I am someone who has things to offer even before I'm 'perfect' - which I put in quotes because I understand now that was never the goal.

YOU WANT THE TRUTH? YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH

A common thread among us is that we are, at the beginning of our journeys at least, not honest with ourselves about how much we eat when we binge.

When you look into tips for dieting, you're often told to write down everything you eat for a few days so that you can see what your starting point is, and analyze your diet.

For years, I refused to do that. I refused to step on a scale, or measure my hips with a measuring tape. Because anytime I did, I gave up.

I got myself past that roadblock - actually, I haven't measured the hips, now that I think of it.

But in the process, I began to wonder about the purpose of denial, and I did some reading on the subject. As always, my reading is scattered and would not meet academic standards for research. But it did give me an insight I'd like to share today.

We go into denial when we simply can't face something, when it's too overwhelming to process. We do it when we can't admit to reality.

You already know that part, of course. But have you really thought about it?

If you're here on this forum, I'm going to suggest that, like me, there might be a truth in here that you need.

We aren't refusing to be honest about our food intake because we're weak or because we're liars or bad people, although it can be interpreted that way. Certainly I accused myself of those things many times over the years when I would have emotional meltdowns about my food addiction.

We cover up our addiction (to ourselves) because we are protecting ourselves from something that, at that moment, we instinctively understand we can't handle - yet. (It is a family rule to add 'yet' to statements that begin with a variant of "I can't........") I don't mean protecting in the sense that the truth is icky - I mean that we instinctively know that sometimes, facing it will cause us to shut down entirely.

That's where I am with the hip measurement.

Do you see the distinction? It's subtle, but it's important.

Look, I've started to 'fix' this addiction thing at least a hundred times over the past forty years. I'm not kidding. Why, It's probably much more; that would only be 2.5 attempts per year. So....hundreds. Hundreds. Possibly thousands.

And here's what would happen: I'd get disgusted with myself about my eating, I'd write something eloquent in my journal, I'd throw out certain foods, I'd buy the 'goal' dress and hang it up, I'd make the charts, I'd plan the exercises. You know. You've done it too.

And then a few days in, I'd think oh......oh, I need to know where I'm starting. So I'd get on the scale - omigod. So much worse than I thought, Impossible. I'd figure out how many calories I'd consumed in the previous few days. Horror, absolute horror, and shame.

And then, the tape measure. The terrible, terrible tape measure. Let's be thorough, I'd think, and so I'd make a list of all measurable body parts. And I'd work through that list, writing down the terrible numbers.

And I'd sob uncontrollably. No one in my family would ever be aware of this happening. I never shared this agony with a friend. But I would just collapse. I would be so overwhelmed. And then, inevitably, all of my resolutions and hopes and plans and affirmations would dissolve, and I've give up.

This time around, I resolved to be much more careful with myself. I knew that honesty mattered. I knew that I had to be honest with myself. But, i also knew that I couldn't face that effing tape measure.

I was prepared to be honest about my overeating. I was prepared to be honest about my binging. I chose to share on this forum, and I chose to share with a therapist, and a few selected friends.

But I couldn't face my ass, so to speak.

My last vestige of denial has been my butt. It's substantial. It always has been, but up until maybe ten years ago it seemed proportional to the rest of me at least. Now, not so much. I got a shelf going on back there now. It's not good.

I've stepped on the scale morning and night (Note: that's a terrible idea for a lot of people. For me it's a good thing. Know yourself.) but I've not looked into the rearview mirror for a long, long time. I can't see it, so it's not there, you know? Classic avoidance.

But here's the thing: I have allowed myself this avoidance, because I now understand that I wasn't ready for the truth. I realized that I was protecting myself, and.....that was okay. I knew I needed to face up to it at some point. But I also knew that things like blood sugar readings and my actual weight were far more important in terms of measuring my health, and that this one bit of denial to which I still clung was not as essential to my progress. And if I wasn't careful, I might freeze up again, I' might panic, I might give up entirely.

It is okay to protect yourself sometimes, as long as you're moving towards not doing so.

It's okay to spend the first 48 hours after a breakup thinking oh, he'll come back to me - as long as you eventually, slowly, start entertaining the thought that maybe he won't, and maybe that's okay, and maybe this is a good thing after all, and maybe there's someone else out there for me, and so on. You see? Initially it's so terribly painful that the only way you can function is to hold onto a false hope, to be in denial - and you let yourself ease out of that slowly.

It's okay to be in denial for a bit after a terrible diagnosis - as long as you start, at your own safe pace, processing it and dealing with it at some point.

You need to be ready to move out of denial. You need to be strong, and to prepare yourself. And maybe, maybe, do so incrementally. I'm over a year into this hard work and I have not yet measured my butt with the tape measure. Because I knew I couldn't face it, and that it could throw me into a tailspin. So I've left that for last, the last bit of honesty, the last reality to face.

Look at your denial, see what form yours is taking - and then PLAN. Plan how you're going to ease yourself out of that cocoon. Figure out how to chip away a tiny bit at a time. It's doable. It just takes some work.

I put the tape measure on the computer table a week ago, just to get used to seeing it. The first day, it was literally making me feel clammy. Today, I'm ready to do this.

So. Drumroll.......fifty inches. Fifty. 5-0. That's bad. That's one big butt. However, I was able to drop my jeans without unzipping them to measure, since I've lost enough weight that my 'home' pair of jeans is pretty loose now. So as bad as it is, it was probably worse when I started. There's s small comfort in that.

And after all the hard work I've done in the last 16 months, learning to accept and love myself, learning to move in the right direction........I can laugh at that number, I can look at it on the screen and flip it the bird, I can pat my butt with almost-fondness and say okay, toots, you're in the crosshairs now, that fifty is now going to last too long. I can do this.

Horrific at that number is, it feels really, really good to have faced it - because I know that my hard work made it possible to do so.

I am sitting here crying as I read your posts as I feel such a strong connection...I feel so much better tonight knowing I am not alone! Thank you!

EVERYONE POOPS

Do you remember that book? To say that it was important in my house would be a gross understatement. My children (and eventually the grandlovies) just adored it. The entire plot, of course, is summed up in the title. There are charming illustrations of various animals pooping, and yes, I understand that 'charming" and "pooping" are not often in the same sentence, but you have to trust me on this.

I was curious, at the time, about the book's appeal. When my kids came across it, they were older, and anything with the word 'poop' or 'fart' would trigger nonstop giggles. But the grands were much younger when they encountered the book, and they were fascinated by it Why, I wondered?

I finally realized that it helped them understand that pooping business, which can seem overwhelming to a toddler - I mean, so many people get so wound up about one's status, poop-wise, and one probably begins to think the world revolves around a stinky diaper, or whether one managed to use the potty - anyway, the book normalized it, very casually showed that it's a universal experience, reassured anxious small persons that it's nothing to worry about.

Perhaps you haven't been around small persons regularly, but i can tell you that some of them really do get quite anxious about pooping; they'll hide when they have to, or they'll pretend they haven't, despite lugging obvious evidence behind them in their diapers. It'a a natural function, and developing a sense of shame about it doesn't help anything.

And thus it is with our addiction, my dear friends.'

Everyone is a mess. Everyone. Everyone is not an addict, and every addict does not abuse food - but our commonality is that everyone is a hot mess.

Some messes are obvious. Some less so. You might even make the argument that the unseen ones can be harder to bear, because those people look 'perfect' to the rest of us, and perhaps we withhold compassion, or we hold them to different standards, or we simply don't allow them the grace of being imperfect and loved. I don't know.

What I am certain about is that we are all a mess. Should you find an actual human being who tells you that they have absolutely no messes at all - that they don't poop, so to speak - then that person is a deluded, insufferable prick, am I right? And that, itself, is a mess right there. I think I'd rather overeat.

Most philosophies begin with some variant of 'shit happens'. It might be worded differently. It might be "Pain is inevitable" or 'humans will die' or something like that, but most seem to have an early recognition that we are mortal and flawed.

Does that sound depressing? It should not. It's actually a wonderfully liberating thing: we are all in this together. We are all a mess. We all have problems. We will always have problems. Our challenge is to lift each other up, help each other along, yes?

But I digress; i wanted to focus simply on the existence of the problems.

Addiction makes you feel totally alone in the world. Addiction tends to encourage dishonesty, which drives us even further from other people. Addiction thrives in denial. We can't even admit the scope of the problem to ourselves, let alone anyone else. We're positive no one else out there has ever been this disgusting, this weak, this much of a pig, this revolting, this unlovable. We can't control our behavior at the moment, so we despair of ever being able to do so long term. Surely all these other people pushing carts through the grocery store today don't have problems like this.

But you know that's wrong, just like you know that everyone poops. We all carry burdens, we all make terrible mistakes, we all drop the ball. There is no point being ashamed of being human - and that's a huge part of what being human IS: to be burdened, to err, to disappoint. It's not the whole picture, but there's no point pretending it isn't a part of it. That's as foolish as the toddler who hides in the closet to poop, pretending it isn't happening.

Without evidence other than instinct, I'll say that no child was every potty trained until they understood that bodily functions are in fact universal and not a source of shame. And I'll go out on a limb and say that no addict has been cured who has not first grasped that same concept.

You are not alone. We are all a mess. We do bad things, sometimes, but that does not make us inherently bad people. It just makes us human. And we can do better things. We are not hopeless, we are not stuck where we are right now. Hold on, friends. We can do this.

IT'S NOT THE FOOD. IT NEVER WAS.

I built a commercial kitchen on my farm and developed a line of thirty different bottled concentrates, with which a person can make herb and fruit infused lemonade by just adding water or seltzer. They are wonderful mixers with alcohol. Over the last few years, this product has become the financial mainstay of the farm (it uses ingredients I grow here) and has replaced the more physically arduous growing and selling of market vegetables more and more each year. This year, I decided to end the CSA, which delivers weekly veg to 50 families. I'll still grow and sell veg from the stand here on the farm, but from this point forward, the main focus is the lemonades. (I sell ready-to-drink as well at events, and I wholesale the bottles to gift shops and sell larger quantities of the concentrates to bars and restaurants, too.)

And I worry.

I worry because I'm trying to eat healthy foods and promote better decision-making and release from addiction. And I'm selling a product that's high(ish) in sugar and can easily be added to alcohol. Am I leading people into a bad place? Am I encouraging them to abuse food and alcohol?

If I thought the answer was yes, I've have pulled the plug on it.

But over time, I realized that I could be comfortable with what I was selling by being very upfront about it: this is a treat. This is NOT your everyday, several-times-a-day beverage. If you add it to alcohol, you really don't need much liquor at all; it's not a get-drunk product, it's something to make an occasional festive, celebratory drink, You put a little toot of rum in the Coconut Rose lemonade. A splash of vodka in the Blueberry Basil. Make a mimosa with the Violet and a little champagne. But you don't need much.

Now, when people ask about the sugar content (because they don't read the actual label) I tell them that yes, it contains sugar, and I have not been able to develop a sugar-free product that meets my standards at a reasonable price point. I point out that they can use as little of the concentrate as they wish - make a flavored water or seltzer instead of a strong lemonade.

So, yes, the product itself has sugar in it, and I personally don't consume much sugar anymore as it is a trigger for me. I do get the seeming hypocrisy of that, but.,.......it's not the sugar. It's how it's being used It's the choices you make about what you do with it.

Now, where am I going with all of this? It sounds dreadfully like a commercial for my farm, and that's not the intent! (I don't sell online or anything anyway. No spamming here!.)

No, I'm writing about this today because we all have to be really, really careful that we don't start thinking that food, itself, is a bad thing. If we do, we'll end up with a different kind of problem. A read-through of the last year or so's posts here will bring up a few from people who have vacillated between bingeing and anorexia. We all have to be careful that we aren't demonizing food, itself.

I'll suggest that in the absence of the kind of chemical brain disturbance that characterizes alcohol or drug abuse, where even a tiny amount of the substance can set an addict off - in the absence of that, it's fair to say that all food and drink is okay. BUT, it's part of an equation, for you and me, that includes two other factors: amo9unt and frequency.

An alcoholic can say no more, never again. A food addict cannot. We know this, we've all bitched about it here from time to time.

But let's take it one step further: that's not only the way it is, it's okay. And it's not only okay......it's good. Great, even.

Now, I'm a good bit down this recovery journey by now. In the beginning, it's true, I could not eat one potato chip without going into full scale Hulk mode and eating an entire family size bag.

But I've done the work. And now I know that I actually don't want to live in a world without potato chips. But, here's the key: I now control the amount and the frequency.

I started by deciding I would never eat bad ones again, ever: if they're stale or less-than-perfect, I'll pass. Then, I bought the tiny lunchbox packages, cringing at the environmental impact of all that extra plastic - the bags that contain, like, nine chips. I learned to eat slowly. I learned to stop. I learned to space those tiny tiny bags out further and further - at first, I had one every day, and oh how i watched the clock waiting for the next one! (pathetic)

But one day I actually forgot to have my 'treat'. And when I realized it, i understood that I'd stopped craving the chips, I'd just fallen into a routine of expecting them. Another lightbulb went off.

Now, I occasionally want some, and when I do I distract myself once or twice, to be sure I really want them, but them I'll get a small amount, and enjoy them. And if I do that this week, I probably won't next week or even the week after.

I've stopped buying bad chocolate, too, but I'll buy one single piece of Godiva chocolate when I'm in a local town that has an upscale sandy store.

They are not bad things. They are neutral. But frequency and volume have to be factored in, because those things can make a neutral thing bad.

It might sound like I'm bogging down in semantics, but as someone who has finally gotten control of this addiction crap, I'm telling you a true thing here: be careful not to demonize the food itself. that bagel isn't bad. Those fries aren't bad. That pizza isn't bad. They're all neutral. having any of them too often in too large a quantity is bad it's very bad for us. And it might be necessary (it was for me) to avoid them entirely for a time until you get control of the quantity / frequency factors. But you can do that.

There is a world ahead of you which contains all the lovely things, which allows you to accept the invitations, try the new restaurant, join the family, try the amazing recipe. You aren't learning to live without things that taste good. You're learning to control how often and how much of them you eat. (There's an additional factor, too, in how much and how intensely you exercise, which can be a part of this equation too.)

I think I resisted working full-out on the addiction because I feared that it meant I would never again be able to enjoy things. That was wrong.

All the beautiful things are still part of our world. It's okay.

THIS.

"There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is, nor how valuable it is, nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open."


Martha Graham


+++


I can't improve on that, but you may get a smile out of hearing how I came across it. I was at my favorite used bookstore, one of my few remaining vices, and I picked up a copy of "Brain Droppings" by the comic George Carlin. Lately I've been reading quotes of his that seem to speak directly to today's politics despite having been written a few decades ago, and I thought I'd ready one of his books. Plus, I sort of remembered hearing him recite some mildly off-color limericks on Johnny Carson, years ago, and laughing at them with my parents. Something about a young man from St. Maarten who couldn't stop faarten.......you get the drift, no pun intended. So here I am looking for a fart-themed limerick, but there on the first page is this extraordinary quote from the choreographer Martha Graham. I have stopped suspecting that the universe is trying to help me by sending me clues. Now I'm sure of it.


And let's take one moment to focus especially on the line "it is not your business to determine how good it is." Because WE suck at that anyway, don't we? We are, partly, in the grips of addiction becuase we don't think we're good enough, and we are partly, unable to stop our behavior becuase we don't think we're good enough, and we are, partly, telling ourselves we're no good because we keep repeating self-destructive behaviors.


And maybe maybe maybe IT ISN'T OUR JOB TO JUDGE THAT. Maybe it's just our job to be the best 'us' we can, and let the chips, so to speak, fall where they may. Frankly, if I'd adopted the attitude sooner, a hell of a lot of chips, literal ones, would have remained on the shelves of the little store in town.


How about if just for today, I be the best me I can be, and you be the best you - 'best' being defined as 'a little bit better than yesterday', because that's the best we can do today - and let's stop worrying about whether or not we're good enough?


The irony. A life-changing quote from the elegant Martha Graham in a book by George Carlin, all because I wanted to find his limericks about farts.

A HUNDRED CUPS OF COFFEE

One of the things that simultaneously annoys me about myself but at the exact same time deep down makes me happy is my propensity for impulsive projects. It's how I walked a marathon when I was fat and fifty. It's how I switched to farming. It's how I started writing books. Some ideas fizzle out but sometimes, you know, sometimes something pretty cool happens.

Too soon to be sure, but I think this one's going to be freaking amazing:

You already know the background, about how I'm 16 months into recovery. You already know I've identified loneliness and low self-esteem as two of many triggers. You already know I'm systematically cutting back on things in my life that are bad for me.

So I've realized that I'm left with very few vices / comforts, and that chief among the remaining ones are good coffee and good friends. I haven't much of a social life really, but this past week purely coincidentally I met three people for brunch or lunch and had a chance to catch up and have good conversations.

It meant a lot to me, and I realized that I needed to do more of that. I need things to anticipate, but I haven't a lot of money for big trips or things like that. It's not about the coffee and it's not even about having people listen to me - it's about me listening to them. I will be a better person if I do more of that. And I think people are starving for it.

So I wrote a post for Facebook, asking if I could buy anyone a cup of coffee, that I had a goal of spending much of the late fall and winter catching up with good friends, that I had this vision of sitting in warm cozy coffeehouses learning more about the very amazing people in my life.

Before I hit send, I had that wash of feeling come over me that I know you know all about: omigod I'm a dork no one will respond and I'll look pathetic and this is so lame and people will laugh at me and this is dumb. Like, all in one breath.

But - as I am not sixteen months into a SHIT TON of hard work recovering from self esteem issues that have effed me up and shoved me toward addiction, I thought - what the hell. Why not try. If no one responds, I will go to cozy, quirky coffeehouses by myself once or twice a week this winter and perhaps strike up a conversation with a stranger. If I'm in the city, perhaps I'll buy a cup of coffee for a homeless person. Whatever. I'll make this work.

Well, I posted thirty minutes ago, and my facebook page is pretty much exploding. I can't keep up with the messages. I am already booked for coffee nine times, including this Sat, Sun and Mon. (I certainly don't intend to do this every single day, but I did happen to have time those three mornings.)

Four people have 'stolen' the idea and posted on their own pages in different cities. They're getting great responses too. This isn't about ME. I think it's that we are all so lonely and starved for conversation that truly matters, that is supportive and kind. We are all so sick of the divisive rhetoric here in the US. We are tired of the rain here on the East Coast. We need comfort and companionship. We are ready for something like this.

So, I offer this story for you to consider, about taking a risk and reaching out. It is not for you if you are still in the grips of the kind of personal insecurity that strangled me when I was at the worst of the addiction. It's a little risky for that, perhaps. But know that your time will come when you can reach out, and when you do, there will be someone grabbing at the other end of the lifeline, okay?

I'll post an update about how this all works out at some point.

THIS IS HARD WORK. DON'T FORGET THAT.

I usually tap out a post and do a cursory proofreading (often cringing at typos later) but for some reason I'm struggling a bit with this one.

What I want to say is captured in the title.

I want to tell you that I keep running into people who think that there is a magic answer to battling food addiction. They ask me what the 'secret' is. I was there, myself, at one point. I'm pretty sure I believe that if my declaration of intent, often tearful in front of the bathroom mirror, was heartfelt enough, why then, things would magically get better. If I wrote a passionate journal entry about 'really meaning it this time', then, surely I really meant it, right, and that meant that things were going to be okay now?

Or, I thought that if I did one or two things, there would be a magic turnaround. I just had to rearrange the pantry, or make a list when I went to the grocery store, or drink a little more water. All good things, of course. But not magic bullets.

I want to tell you that the past 16 months have been really, really hard work. that I've often thought about giving up. thought I was a failure, would never get a handle on it, wasn't worth saving.

I wanted to write about specific terrible moments when I thought about giving up, or when I was so obsessed with one piece of leftover cake in the pantry that I could accomplish anything at all, or when I literally thought I was losing my mind because I couldn't stop thinking about food. I want to tell you about the paralysis of literally arguing with myself out loud because I wanted food and didn't want it. I want to tell you about wondering if I'd ever get to sleep because I was sure I was starving even though I'd eaten a perfectly healthy and normal dinner, and then realizing that, and thinking oh my god, I will never get better.

I want to write of the exhaustion of hypervigilance. Of never being able to relax, because a trigger could be coming at you any second.

I want to write of digging into some awful family history that's relevant to my addiction issues, and coming to terms with some things that have affected me my whole life, but which were terrible terrible things to look at squarely.

And see, I simultaneously want you to know these things, and I don't.

The don't is easier to explain. I don't want you to be scared and to think it's not possible to change. It is. I have. It has even gotten easier.

But the reason I want to tell you these things is even more important. If you don't grasp the magnitude of the take ahead of you, you will inevitably be disappointed because there will inevitably be setbacks. It would be like starting out on the Appalachian trail thinking it was just a short jaunt. And then accomplishing something, but quitting because you haven't realized how enormous the entirely is.

And our addict thinking is such that when we hit a roadblock, we make bad choices, and then the little voice starts: you're a loser. You might as well wallow in your gluttony because it isn't going to change. You should be ashamed of yourself, you loser. Here, eat this: it will make you feel better. You ate all that? What a loser.

Think about this, too: if I ask you to describe a picture of a recovering drug addict at their worst moment, I bet you could. Let's see: sweating face, clenched teeth. Wild eyes. Maybe twisting something in the hands - bedsheets, yes, that will work. Back arched, maybe. You see, we've got that picture from television or movies. The Good Person will be nearby saying occasional helpful things, pr perhaps wiping a fevered brow with a cool cloth.

We've read the books about recovery from alcohol abuse. I'm thinking, now, of Anne Lamott's simultaneously heartbreaking and tragically funny essay about buying and hiding bottles.

But we don't really even have a picture in our heads about recovering from food abuse, though, do we? There's no Hallmark movies or Oprah Book-of-the-Month picks about it, No blueprint. No role model.

So we don't know what it looks like. We don't realize how many ups and downs there are going to be. We forget we're sailboats, criss-crossing back and forth but going, generally toward our destination even if we're tacking back and forth all the while.

Our people don't even quite know what to do with us, if they even take it seriously to begin with. I'm having a borderline day today, struggling a bit, and the husband just sent a text: while I'm out running errands this afternoon, could I stop and pick up bagels? And we're out of munchies so maybe a bag of cheese curls? And some Danish would be nice.

I could rip his teeth out of his head right about now with a pair of rusty pliers. And of course he'd have no idea why.

But HE hasn't seen the Hallmark movie showing noble loved ones supporting a food addict, because there isn't one.

We are running our little sailboats in uncharted waters here, my friends.

I guess what I want to say is this: it's okay. You're going to fuck up. You're going to backslide. You're going to hate yourself, and give up temporarily. This is all part of the process. It. Is. Okay. You can get better. But it is really, really hard work. If I had really understood those last two sentences, i would have gotten better decades ago.

(This morning, I met a former student at a beautiful little cafe for coffee. They had a pastry case full of stunningly beautiful desserts. Alex had one. I just had my black coffee. I lived. It can be done.)

JUST PUT YOUR DAMN PANTS ON

I believe that my inability to properly adult and my food addiction are connected, if for no other reason that the stress caused by the first exacerbates the second. Thus, my work this past year and a half has been to try to effect change in both areas, especially when there is overlap.

And the "put your damn pants on" technique has worked for both.

It started with my efforts to walk/jog/run on a regular basis. I felt this was necessary for understandable reasons: mood enhancement, stronger heart, weight reduction, discipline, better for my horn playing. With the exception of the last one, those are pretty universal reasons, I imagine.

And I hated it. Usually once I got going I was okay but I always dreaded it starting. A good friend who's a serious marathoner told me that everyone hates the first and last mile, and that helped me somewhat, but then I remembered I barely go two miles anyway. Sigh.

What I learned to do was to tell myself to just put my pants on. I generally wear jeans, but exercise in sweatpants. So that was the first step toward actually doing the exercise. When I couldn't get my head around the idea of actually doing so, I'd tell myself to just put the pants on. And then I might as well put on the sneakers I save for exercising, as opposed to my barn sneakers or leave-the-farm shoes. Okay, I'm still not committing to run or walk, but I'm dressed for it.

I won't lie, there were days when I truly only got that far. But I learned to tell myself "just walk to the end of the driveway. Just do that, And if you want to turn around and come back inside, you can." And yes, that actually happened once or twice.

But mostly, once dressed for it, and standing at the start line, I just sort of started plodding ahead a few steps, and then just kept going.

My brain could not, and still sometimes cannot, handle thinking about going outside to run. But I can always put on my pants.

I have identified "Step 1" for a number of other things. I hate making or returning phone calls. Step 1 isn't scary, though: have a coffee and make a list of necessary calls. Write down all the numbers, and write down a few key words that you need to communicate. (I really do have a phone phobia thing, and tend to clutch and stammer, so this is necessary.) I'm not committing to making the calls, you see, I'm just making the list. And once the list is done and sitting on the kitchen island, then yes, it seems to be easier to just get it over with.

I'm not good at routinely cleaning, but step 1 is to assemble all the necessaries and put them together. Because yes, the broom often goes walkies and it takes a few minutes to remember where it was used most recently. The spray bottle with the mixture of ammonia and vinegar for cleaning windows is usually empty when I need it, and the vacuum bag is always full. So Step 1, which is not overwhelming, is to get all the things together. Step 2 is to pick up the shoes and newspapers and dog toys and so on that are all over the floors. If I can break it down into smaller steps, I can manage it.

When I get home from a rehearsal or gig (usually 4-5 a week) I immediately open my case and set my horn up on the practice stand. I practice so much more when I don't have to open the case, when it's already assembled and ready to go.

I'm trying to do 100 walks at the nearby nature sanctuary trail, and I don't always feel like it, but I will drive to the parking lot before I let myself say no, I'm not walking today. And of course once I get there, I just start walking.

But how to translate this insight to food addiction?

After all, a lot of what we have to do is to NOT do something, and that's harder, isn't it? Harder to prove a negative, harder to accomplish a 'don't do' than a 'do'.

And harder to define success. If I resisted temptation for 11 hours but succumbed during the 12th, but previously only went 6 hours without bingeing, is that a success? I mean, I still ate the M&M's, I just waited longer than usual before doing so. Is that a win, or not?

I believe that it's important to define 'putting on your pants' in terms of your food addiction. And like pant sizes and styles, your answer will differ from mine. But finding the answer is as universally important as, well, wearing pants.

In re my fast food addiction, I once thought step 1 was to not have cash on hand when I'm running errands, But then I realized I could use a credit card, so that wasn't effective. Now, Step 1 when a fast food craving hits is this: drive home. Drive home, and sit in the driveway. If you REALLY want that chicken sandwich at Wendy's, you can go back for it; this would only be a delay of perhaps fifteen minutes. Well, of course, by the time I get home I might still sort of want it, but the immediacy is gone, and driving the 12 miles round trip now seems wasteful, and the dog probably needs to come out and tinkle, and so on. I have not, yet, driven back to Wendy's with this rule.

When I have the urge to house something awful from the pantry, step 1 is to drink two full glasses of water. (I tried just one, but that didn't do it. By the end of the second one, the hunger-signal is usually turned off.)

I have a few other 'step1's' that are effective. One is to dance and sing to James Brown's "I Feel Good" before toasting the second half of a bagel (I'm limiting carbs, and have switched from a whole bagel in the mornings to a half plus a piece of fruit. But on the days when I cut a whole one in half, the second half always, always sings a song of temptation.)

The key here is that your job is never, ever "don't eat." We need to eat to live. We have to be hyper aware of the danger of falling into an opposite kind of food problem; our messed up psyches put us at risk for anorexic behaviors or other extremes.

Our job is to not OVEReat. To not self-medicate with cookies, or placate our demons with cupcakes, or mask our loneliness with pizza.

Defining Step 1 is hard, and it's an individual thing, but it might include creating space between you and the Food Lust Object, which can take the form of physical distance (literally leave the room . house / desk for a bit) or time (you must wait x number of minutes before deciding if you really want it; increase the number of minutes each time.) You may be able to distract yourself with a chore (here, there is always laundry to be folded, so sometimes that's the rule before giving in to a craving) or replace the unhealthy Lust Object with a better choice (drink some water first).

I know someone who lights incense when she feels like drinking. She started because she hoped that the smell would interfere with her enjoyment of drinking, which always started, for her, with inhaling the whiskey fumes. Now, the smell of the incense itself sort of reboots her brain a bit. Is it her total answer? Of course not,. But it's her Step 1.

You might have a helpful reading that you can look at every time you feel like bingeing, and your Step 1 could be to read it.

Another alcoholic friend has learned to change clothes in the evening if he feels like he's going to start drinking. his danger time is always about 8 pm if he hasn't any plans, and he usually starts drinking in his jammies. So now he shaves and put on a shirt and tie and jacket or whatever until it's time for bed.
Yes, it's silly. But to him, it signals a fresh start on things.

Your Step 1 might need to depend on where you are: even I don't break into James Brown in the public library. Your life might allow your step 1 to be a nap, but a young single parent hasn't that luxury. So, you figure out you.

Remember, we're trying to establish new habits, and new habits truly do become muscle-memory, 'thoughtless' routines after a point in time. Defining a habit in terms of 'not', like 'not bingeing', is nearly impossible, of course.

But establishing your Step 1 as a habit AND linking it in your mind to not bingeing is a very, very possible thing. I am at the point, right now, where I know that for the rest of my life if I hear James Brown sing "I Feel Good," I'll put down any food I'm eating and wait a bit before I finish - it's that strong an association by now. And that's exactly what we need to have happen here.

Find your Step 1.

"NOW I CAN START EATI--- OH, WAIT, WAIT!"

Even after all this time, I still find triggers.

Today I bought out CostCo. There will be at least 24 at the table for Thanksgiving and despite raising turkeys and vegetables and baking bread and making pies from scratch apparently I still needed to buy All The Things. One family of five is coming on Monday and staying for a full week. Their offspring, my grandlovies, are human vacuum cleaners who can hoover up an incredible amount of food. I estimate that the little beasts will eat at least 12 bananas and four pounds of grapes and 21 cups of yogurt in one week, just to name three things that somehow don't actually count as meals. They seem to burn thousands upon thousands of calories a day, because they're thin and ferociously athletic and strong. Not my genes, I guess. Lucky them.

And I hate to shop, so when I do it's a major undertaking and involves a lot of non food items like cleaning supplies and foil paper and so on. Loading the car was like playing real-life Tetris. It was so overwhelming that when I got home I sat in the driveway for about ten minutes drinking a coffee and steeling myself to unpack it all.

And please understand this is simply a set-up for the insight I just had - it is absolutely not a complaint. I wish the whole world had enough food and I'm grateful that I could manage to do this.

But, so. So I get it all inside, tripping over various cats and dogs trying to be helpful, tracking snow and mud everywhere, get all the frozen things to the freezers, all the fridge items safely refrigerated, and so on. I even made a list so I didn't forget about anything over the next ten hectic days of Thanksgiving. I learned that trick the year that I splurged on some expensive smoked salmon and then totally forgot about it.........we thought something died behind the refrigerator two months later. It was awful.

So I get it all put away, and written down, and even figured out menus for the next few weeks.

And then, omigod, then this clear-as-daylight thought came into my head: Now I can eat.

As if the next logical step, OBviously, was to shove some of this food into my face. A face which had just eaten lunch while out running all these errands, by the way, a nice healthy and filling lunch, less than fifteen minutes before I came home.

But it was so automatic! Imagine Mr. Burns from the Simpsons gleefully rubbing his hands together, that's what I looked like in that one split second, standing in front of my now overstuffed fridge. Bwa ha ha! Food! I control all the food! All mine!

Happily, I have been working on this shit for nearly a year and a half. I was able to talk myself down from the ledge and placate the Beast with a can of seltzer. But before I started working on this, eating would have been an automatic response to having just made a massive grocery run. I would have, I'm not kidding, easily consumed 3,000 calories, gorging for two or three hours while I puttered around unpacking. And then I would have cheerfully made dinner and eaten plenty of that.

I didn't need to eat, I wasn't hungry, it was 'just what you do'. I wonder how much food has gone into my body simply because it was the 'next logical step'. Because someone put a slice of cheesecake in front of me, or the meeting adjourned for the catered lunch, or my market helper brought cookies to share, or because the clock said it was dinnertime.

I caught myself during yesterday's snowstorm (any of you on the East Coast? Whew. Three hours to drive eight miles?) Anyway, during the stretches when I was at home with snow just coming down like crazy, it was a real struggle. The desire for hot coffee after shoveling turned into an urge for hot chocolate instead and maybe some candy and ooooh warm bread........I managed to stick to the coffee.

Because I didn't need the food or even really want it. I wanted comfort. I wanted to be soothed, I wanted to know that my loved ones would all get through their commutes okay, I wanted to know that the greenhouse would hold up under the heavy snow. I wanted to be warm, I wanted to cocoon with blankets and dogs and carbs. Good books and wine by the fireplace, that sort of thing. But I wanted the security and the atmosphere, not specifically the can of cashews.

It's getting a little better every day. It will always be a struggle, but I think I am getting better at it all the time.