Recently, I discovered a surprising note on my computer from over 35 years ago. With minor edits, I offer it below. It speaks for itself.
As I sit here at my computer, the phrase “compulsive overeater” runs through my mind. What does it mean? That I’m compelled to eat. That I cannot stop. Hard to believe, for sure. I can’t stop eating. Maybe just for an hour or two, when my stomach is so distended, and all the junk I’ve stuffed down my throat feels like its backing up into my lungs. Then I think, “I can stop.” And I do stop. Until the next food thought. And then, somehow I’m in a state of mind where I simply obey that thought. I lie to myself, and justify eating by saying “I’ll stop tomorrow,” except its been almost two weeks of “tomorrows,” and I’m still eating.
I’m choosing to eat. I don’t want to stop. I want to stop. None of this seems to matter. I’ve become a slave to food again. Again. I always have been. Only, for large periods of time I’ve been the fortunate and blessed recipient of a hiatus from the compulsion to eat, eat, eat.
My thoughts are distorted
I’m in relapse hell. My thinking is muddy. My thoughts are distorted by all the sugar and starch I’ve consumed lately. Yes, I can formulate coherent sentences. I can even manage to fool other people into thinking I’m doing well. But I know the truth. I know what I’ve been shoveling into my system.
And the painful irony is that I know intellectually how to stop. Just read the OA literature, or make a few phone calls. Or write. Maybe talk to someone. Read something else. Do anything! Except my heart isn’t in it.
I don’t really know where my heart is. Where is my heart? What am I doing? I don’t really want this, do I? What am I escaping from? The answers are always so simple. Pain. I’m escaping from pain, and from taking responsibility. I don’t want to face my life. I’m running away. Avoiding something. And I’m doing it with food. And I feel so very sad about this. So terribly, terribly sad.
A waste of my life
What am I avoiding? Feelings? Yes, feelings. This moment, I’m willing to feel. Overeating is such a waste of time. A waste of a life — my life! Overeating is a waste of mind power. But that’s all I can think of. Eating. What will I eat next? What can I eat now? Do I have enough food to last the evening? Enough money to buy more? Might as well try this flavor while I’m in binge mode. Just one more container of ice-cream. Just one more mouthful of whatever. Might as well finish it.
When I say the word God, tears come to my eyes. I’m way out of touch. Almost unreachable. I believe in a power greater than myself. But I don’t feel connected to that power. Eventually I’ll be okay, but right now I can’t even imagine it. I know I’m a compulsive eater, and that no amount of food can fill the void I’m trying to fill with food. And most importantly, I know I don’t really have a void. What I have is a fullness. I’m full, not only of food, but of anger and sadness and rage, rage, rage. May God help me.
I don’t deserve it …
Hate. So much hate. And a voice inside my head that cries “Don’t do well!” “Don’t succeed!” “You’d better not do good!” “You don’t deserve it!” I don’t want to believe that. I want to believe that I do deserve to succeed and do well. I want to believe that I don’t harbor these self-destructive thoughts. But the truth is, I do! And I don’t want to.
And I don’t know how to let these destructive thoughts go. I’m scared, God. I’m scared. My faith is like empty words. My willingness is even emptier. Lead me through this, and out of this, if you will. Please. Please do not abandon me.
And that is my rage. Choking. Gagging. I spit the words out. Please do not abandon me. I can barely breathe as I write this. Please do not abandon me.
I know when I overeat, when I turn to the food, in effect I am abandoning me. I am abandoning my contact with you, God. And yet I do it. You see, I’m used to feeling abandoned. Discarded. Used. I’ve felt that way all my life. I’ve created situations, events, relationships, in which I’d feel abandoned, betrayed, left. Or at least they seemed that way to me.
I can’t make it on my own …
Please do not abandon me. For if you do, then I’ll have no one. Only me. And I can’t make it on my own. Except to survive. I just survive. That’s all.
When I overeat, I have no thoughts for anyone else on the planet. None. Oh, maybe a passing thought, one that flits by pretty quickly in between food thoughts. I get little pleasure out of overeating. And what little there is doesn’t last long. Yet I’m hooked on eating. Eat, eat, eat.
So, I write this, instead of watching a maudlin TV show. I’m writing this. I don’t want to do anything else. Not right now. Just this.
I think of a line from a play I did at university, with angry words. That part helped me express perhaps just a tiny smudge of my rage. I can barely type the word rage. I keep spelling “rage” and “sad” wrong. Freudian slips?
I don’t know. I don’t want to write anymore.
