It was December 31, 2008. The holidays were nearly over, and it couldn't happen soon enough for me. My latest attempt at weight loss -- another shot at the Atkins Diet -- had died an ugly and violent death over Thanksgiving, when somehow it seemed OK to consume the forbidden flour and sugar products in quantities again. Turkey sandwiches with major mayo, pumpkin pie, dressing, whatever. . .
So, you might ask, what's the problem? It's Thanksgiving, and that's perfectly normal. People expect to put on a few pounds over the holidays. It's an American tradition. We work a little extra hard during the new year to take those pounds away.
If this is your story, you're a fortunate one. For me, though, that kind of eating was becoming lethal. Literally. Yes, I write poetry and sing songs and have been accused of being hyperbolic, and it's probably true, but in this instance, believe me, it was very real. My life was near an end, and frankly, it couldn't have come soon enough at that point. I was done with the struggle. I couldn't move without pain, couldn't lie or sit without pain, my moods were out of control, I looked horrible, felt worse, and was in the best relationship of my life that I couldn't enjoy at all, because of my condition.
A condition I didn't have a name for yet, but would the very next day.
As I played my New Year's Eve gig that Tuesday night, I knew something had to change. I couldn't stand and play guitar without severe discomfort for more than a few minutes at a time. I had to hold my guitar in different ways, because it rested on my bloated belly in unfamiliar ways. I couldn't do any moves that resembled sexy; all I could do was move around and look like an overexcited, bloated clown. I had great vocal power, thanks to all that extra diaphragm, but that was hardly compensation for what I looked like now. During the breaks, I scoured the tables with food for the cheese, the bread, the cookies. . . anything that wasn't a vegetable. Because, you see, I was working, so could afford to consume anything. I'd work it off.
I got home, lumbered into bed, thankful my wife was away at a celebration of her own so I wouldn't have to feel ashamed to be naked in her presence (we had only been married less than two years!), and fell into a fitful sleep. I had to be up early to attend a meeting.
January 1, 2009, 9:25 a.m. I walked into a meeting room in a church in Walnut Creek, California, a prosperous San Francisco suburb not far from my blue-collar town of Martinez. It was full of women chatting excitedly with each other. I took a chair near the back, on the aisle, and sat down as the meeting began. I was so nervous, felt so out of place, and was careful to remind myself I was only there to check things out. A very attractive woman began speaking, telling her story. She said things that were hard to believe -- said she had been over 200 pounds, and now she was 125 pounds, and had been for several years. She said that, while the weight loss was great, the program she was in was far more important for its spiritual aspect, and the fellowship she shared. This sounded like a cult, but that weight loss thing really appealed to me. What had she done, I wondered? Then other women got up and shared their stories. More tales of 120, 130 pounds lost. More women looking slim and great. More tales of serenity and fellowship. Some tears, some laughter, lots of victories. I wanted this.
At that point, a woman walked up to me and asked me my name. She was slim, attractive and serious. She asked me if I was interested in the program. I said I was thinking about it. She said I should do that, should come back for another meeting. I heard my voice say to her that I think I had found my home. She asked me if I needed a sponsor. I said yes, and she offered to be my sponsor. I thanked her, and the next thing I knew I was staring at my new food plan, and her phone number. I would call her each morning to commit to my food for the day, she said. And I would attend three meetings a week. And there were more things, but we would talk about those later.
That afternoon, my wife came home and I could hardly contain myself. I blurted out all the things I had heard, and shared with her my new program, and to my dismay, my wife was not at all happy. Her best friend was in this program, too, and she didn't like the changes it brought about in her. My first major obstacle bloomed large before me.
So where was I? What had I found? My fellows and I call it "program." To the world, it's called Food Addicts Anonymous. It's the Marine Corps of 12-step food programs. It's not for the faint of heart. And it's not for those who just want to lose a little weight. It's for those of us who are truly addicted to food, and who are quite literally a few steps from death. Those of us who cannot, no matter how hard we try, keep that fork, that spoon away from our mouths. Those of us who, with the very best intentions, wind up crying in a burger joint on the way home to dinner, because we just can't help ourselves. Those of us who throw dignity out the window and have a third piece of cream pie because the comfort it offers is much more than the humiliation it portends. Those of us who need medication because our bodies are now the enemy. Those of us who learn not to care anymore about the lengths we go to to find clothes that fit, cars we can fit into, and chairs that don't get up with us. We are food addicts, and we suffer a kind of hell that non food addicts cannot know. Unlike other addictions, we are strung out on a substance that is absolutely necessary for survival. One we cannot avoid or refuse. One we cannot live without, and one that is most certainly killing us.
More later.
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