CHAPTER TWO:
Acceptance—Real People in the Real World
They will rebuild the ancient ruins and restore the places long devastated; they will renew the ruined cities that have been devastated for generations. (Isaiah 6l:4, New International Version)
Live and Learn
In the beginning was the word…and the word was “food.” It was not logical, fruitful or fulfilling, but passed from one generation to the next: “Food will make you feel better.” Children learn to live from their parents, as they learned to live from their parents.
Have you ever heard “the ham story”? A mother and daughter are in the kitchen doing some preliminary preparations for a family celebration. As a normal procedure, the mom cut the ends off the ham and puts it in the oven. The daughter asks, “Mommy, why do you do that?”
She shrugs her shoulders and without much thought she says, “Because that’s what my mother does.” The daughter goes into the living room where the other family members are mingling and addresses her grandmother. “Grandma, why do you cut the ends off a ham?” Her response comes without any question, “Because that’s what my mother does.” They turn to her mother, three generations down the line, for the answer. With a shy, almost embarrassed smile, the great grandmother says, “My roasting pan is rather small; I have to cut the ends off any ham weighing more than five-pounds in order to fit it into my pan.”
Too often we don’t question the why and wherefore of things. It is like using autopilot in an airplane. The pilot rests in the fact that the plane has been programmed properly. The question arises in our lives: What’s the programming? What have we been taught through the years? When we open our eyes and see the truth—the whole truth—we have an opportunity to change. Cutting the cords to our self-destructive past performances, we grow confident in our God-given abilities and strengths. People don’t know what they don’t know. We live and learn.
My family was the typical mother, father, two boys and a girl scenario. As respected members of the community and the church, we lived in a nice little town in a quaint little house in New England. My mother was my hero. She was kind, caring, considerate and my best friend. Although she was not obese, my grandmother, all my aunts and most of my cousins were huge. Food was the answer to any problem in my family.
My twin brother, Ricky, resembled Mom with his small frame, light complexion and blond curly hair. The family humorists say that when we were in my mother’s womb, I must have squished poor little Ricky in the corner…“that’s why he’s so scrawny.” Ricky was a sensitive child who struggled academically. It was my job to take care of him. I was known to say, “Ricky will have a cookie.” Little Ricky was not like me; it was a bother for him to eat meals, and snacks were a waste of time. I loved my little brother, but felt rejected when he said, “You eat it.” Yet, I was happy to have more food. It was my consolation prize.
John, my older brother, was reasonably proportioned with light wiry hair and glasses. We had little in common. John was an intellectual. In my eyes, he lacked compassion. It hurt when he sang, “Tubby, Tubby two by four, couldn’t get through the garden door.” I was not exceptionally overweight as a child, but when he sang, I felt huge, unacceptable and unlovable.
Dad was a charmer and the love of my young life. He was tall, dark and handsome. At six feet, three inches and two hundred forty pounds, Dad towered over Mom. He seemed invincible, yet he was like a teddy bear—soft and cuddly. I was certainly Daddy’s little girl.
As far back as I can remember Mom controlled our sweets by distributing allotted snacks. I politely ate my small, respectable bowl of ice cream or my one or two cookies with the family. Later, with no one in sight, I ignored the rules. Holding my spoon in one hand, the half-gallon of ice cream in the other, I ate. Be it a box of cookies or a pan of brownies, it didn’t matter—I never intended to eat the whole bag or box of anything, but I was compelled. I could not stop. Panic and despair followed each episode. Constant battles warred in my head. To eat or not to eat, that was the question.
Halloween was a given—I ate. Pillowcase in hand, I was on a mission. When the porch lights went out, we hurried home to empty our bags on the living room floor. I cannot eat my brothers’ candy this year. If I got caught, I would be mortified. Mom told us to eat one piece a day. I tried. I really tried. My candy was gone in a day. Then I snuck into my brothers’ bags and ate theirs. The love of food won over rational thinking every time. I kept looking for logic as I asked over and over again, “What is wrong with me?”
I was fat (in my opinion), and I had two left feet. I hated being fat and clumsy, but I delighted in my family’s reaction when I skinned my knee or bumped my head. My grandfather bought me candy and goodies every time I got hurt. Grandpa’s rule was more pain, more gain. Once I tripped and fell on a piece of glass, cutting my elbow right to the bone. I waited anxiously for Grandpa’s response. He gave me one dollar—a lousy dollar! I felt separated from Grandpa’s love. To me, sugary treats looked like love, smelled like love and felt like love.
Family celebrations were wonderful. I happily volunteered to assist Mom anytime we entertained guests in our home. My delight was wrapped in thinking about, preparing and eating the food. I licked the spoons, cleaned the bowls with my fingers and sampled the results. As a young teenager, arranging the pastries on platters was my job. All the imperfect pieces, or ones with the slightly burnt edges, were mine. I loved being behind the scene. No small talk for me. I had a plan and a goal: keep everyone happy—feed them, feed me.
By evening I felt unacceptable, undesirable and unlovable. Therefore, cleanup was certainly better than talking with the people or hiding in a corner hoping to remain unnoticed. I took advantage of all the leftovers and ate off the guests’ half-finished plates. I was stuffed to the brim dreading the next day when my new diet was to begin.
“Wake up, Pammy. It’s time to get ready for church.” I jumped out of bed and started rummaging through my closet. What am I going to wear? I wish I were thin. I wish I hadn’t eaten so much food yesterday, but it was a party—everyone eats at parties. Please, God, help me stay on my diet today.
Dressed in my brown hide-it-all jumper, I sat and listened to another sermon on God’s love. I wonder what the snack will be at coffee hour? God, help me to stay on my diet today. Week after week, we sat in our family pew—the one invisibly marked with our name on it—listening to a similar message: if you follow the Ten Commandments and live a good life, all will be well. God was watching over his children, and heaven is a nice place where people go when they die. When is the pastor going to say, “Amen”? I am getting hungry. The usual greetings, the casual chitchat and I was out the door investigating the food choices at coffee hour. I politely ate my two cookies. Not satisfied, I decided to rethink my plan. Maybe two more…I’ll skip my bread at lunch. I’ll say, “I’m getting these cookies for Ricky.” Still wanting more, I grabbed a few and slid them into my purse for later. Monday is a better day to start my diet anyway. Nobody starts a diet on Sunday. Today I’ll eat. Tomorrow I’ll diet. People may have noticed my behavior. At first I cared, then it didn’t matter. I needed more food.
Dad and John continually implied I would be happy if I were thin. I heard, “You have a pretty face. It’s too bad you cannot control your weight.” Lovingly John referred to me as pleasantly plump, which meant I was nice, but fat. Nearing my first year of high school, John became disgusted with my attempts to diet. He said, “You can’t lose weight. Why bother? I’ll give you twenty-five dollars if you lose twenty-five pounds.” He had no intention of losing his precious twenty-five dollars. He was arrogant and insensitive. I was stubborn and headstrong. I’ll show you. Don’t tell me I can’t do it. We were both amazed when I won the prize. I enjoyed a thin body for a few weeks or was it days?
I was a mystery to Mom and Dad. They tried to encourage me. I continued to fail. I appeared strong in public, but behind closed doors I ate. I hid my boxes, bags and containers of food. Discouraged, embarrassed and humiliated I continued to cry, “What is wrong with me?”
Humpty Dumpty Had a Great Fall
Hope soared as I entered my junior year of high school. The peer pressure and my interest in boys created a positive mind-set. I was able to maintain a reasonable body weight for the first time in my life. I felt attractive. I found some friends, dated some respectable boys and participated in social events typical for my age. Then my world fell apart.
It was the summer of my senior year. Mom went into the hospital for a hysterectomy. The doctor said it was a common surgical procedure. There was no need to worry. Five or six days later, the bomb dropped—What do you mean she’s dead? You said it was a common, everyday operation. What am I going to do? Mom was my best friend. Why did she have to die? It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.
Alone in my room, I cried. Mom’s words resounded in my head, “Have a cookie, Pammy, that will make you feel better.” My self-esteem diminished. My self-control dropped out of sight. Alone and afraid I tried to hold the house together as chief cook and bottle washer. My dad and brothers tried their best to be supportive and encouraging, but it was tough. We all had our struggles to face.
My dieting dilemma returned with an added quest—where is my perfect mate? After graduation from high school, I opted for a full-time job as a secretary at a well-known distribution center. My goal in life was to get married and have lots of children. I envied my married friends who were starting families. They looked happy and content. They had a purpose. I needed a purpose.
I wandered through life searching for the answer to the question, “How can I get thin.” If I were thin, I would be happy. (Someone would love me. I would get married and have my babies.) I spent my time at diet programs, exercise studios, health facilities, singles clubs, church socials, bars or shopping at the mall hoping to bump into someone special. No luck. As the months sped by, I sunk lower and lower into a pit of despair.
Daily work was exceptionally boring with typing, dictation and filing. I need something to eat. It was around two o’clock in the afternoon. I pumped my handful of quarters into the candy machine and hit the button five times. I tucked the candy into my purse and proceeded to the ladies room. I can’t let anyone see me eating five candy bars. What would they think of me? Hiding in one of the stalls, I quickly unwrapped and devoured all five in a matter of minutes hoping no one would interrupt my self-indulgent spree. Distraught with yet another episode of overeating, I went back to my desk and waited for the day to end. After work I visited the mall hoping to gain a new perspective.
As I was walking into the front entrance, a fine-looking young man with beautiful brown eyes and light wavy hair approached me. He introduced himself and asked if he could talk to me for a minute. His name was Gary. My heart started beating. Is this the one? Is this my perfect mate?
It wasn’t a minute into the conversation when I realized he was a “holy roller”—a zealous spokesman for God. I told him I was fine; I went to church (or I used to go). I didn’t drink. I had never smoked. I never did drugs. I was a nice person.
He opened his tattered Bible and read some verses. Mesmerized I heard that everyone needs God. Everyone makes mistakes. God sent His only son, Jesus, to die an awful death on the cross to pay the price for our sins. He asked a simple question, “If you died tonight, are you sure you are going to heaven?” I thought for a minute and replied, “All people go to heaven, unless they are really bad, and God probably forgives them, too. God is a forgiving God.” Gary looked at me in amazement. I nervously proclaimed, “I am a good girl.” Defending my status, I started to blurt out some kind and loving things I did for people. He stopped me short and said, “You cannot earn your way to heaven.”
I was getting annoyed. I spouted off in a brewing huff, “How do YOU know you are going to heaven?” He didn’t react to my brash attitude. His calm demeanor stayed firm as he explained his position. “I acknowledged my need for God, admitted I was a sinner and asked God’s forgiveness. I know from the Word of God, The Bible, Jesus died for my sins. I invited Him into my heart. He is my Lord and Savior.”
Gary showed me some versus in the Bible: God’s Purpose: Romans 5:l, John 3:l6, Our Problem: Romans 3:23, 6:23, Our Powerlessness: Proverbs l4:l2, Isaiah 59:2, The Solution: l Timothy 2:5, l Peter 3:l8a, Romans 5:8, Our Choice: Revelations 3:20, John l:l2, Romans l0:9, Assurance: Romans l0:l3, Ephesians 2:8-9.
After some heartfelt twinges, I asked him what I needed to do to get right with God. He said it was simple. “If you believe what I have told you, tell God how you feel.” I sat and pondered my choices. In a few brief moments, I knew what I needed to do. Timidly I welcomed Jesus into my heart and my life.
“God, I have made lots of mistakes in my life. I am sorry. The Bible tells me that everyone makes mistakes; it is the human condition. No matter how hard I try, I cannot be perfect. That’s why I need you, Lord Jesus. Please help me to know and do Your will today. I thought that everyone went to heaven when they died. I now see Your message of hope is for believers. I believe that the Bible is The Word of God. I believe that You died so that I could live. Your Holy Spirit will guide me and help me in this life, and I will see You face-to-face one day in the next. Thank You, Lord, for this amazing gift. Amen.”
Thirsty for more information about God, I went to the religious bookstore with eager anticipation and purchased a beautiful, leather-bound Bible. A woman in the store suggested the King James Version. I had my name boldly imprinted on the cover. I knew my life would never be the same again.
Alone in my room, I opened my precious new Bible. I started reading...Adam and Eve, Cain, Abel and Seth—what do they have to do with my life? I glanced ahead, flipped through some pages. It was like a foreign language to me. Confused and disappointed, I put the Bible on my bedside table and continued my search for the perfect diet and the perfect mate.
Jack and Jill Went Up the Hill
Years went by. Dad married one of the secretaries where he worked. John married a girl he met in college. And Ricky married a girl from the lake where we had our summer home. Still alone, I sat in my apartment and wept. “What is wrong with me?”
Thank God for my job. Five years as the secretary to the purchasing agent at a large well-known distribution center proved I had some worth and value. I loved my job and I did it well.
“Pam, did you hear about the new job?” The word spread quickly; a new position was created in the warehouse of two hundred fifty men (and a few women). If you want a man, go where the men are. It was a division of the Personnel Department, a one-girl office. I was overly qualified, but the company agreed to move me laterally. I wanted that job.
I had constant contact with men. I was the woman to see for any personnel problems or concerns. My title was Administrative Assistant, which meant receptionist, payroll clerk, insurance claims coordinator, secretary to the warehouse manager and generally speaking, girl-Friday. It was the perfect job for me.
Carl was the working supervisor of the Parcel Post Department. “Hi, Carl, how’s it going today?” I said. He was friendly, but not my type—small, kind of gruff-looking, divorced with four children. We found common ground by the copy machine. I had problems. He had problems. In time we became dependent on each other. It only made sense that we should marry, so we did.
Carl knew my heart. We had talked about children for hours before we were married. I would be an at-home mom. He liked being a dad. Due to complicated circumstances, it was difficult to fulfill his role as a father to his four girls, and I was too self-centered to understand my responsibilities as stepmother.
Daniel was born in 1980. Being Mom was not as I had expected. Nothing ever was. It was hard work and we had serious problems. Carl drank and I ate. Daniel needed a playmate. Joseph was born in 1983.
My parenting skills were as I had been taught from my own experiences.
“Here, Danny, have a cookie. That will make you feel better.” It was the “don’t feel” answer to any problem. I taught my boys well. They were invited to my eating frenzies, respectably called a party. We planned a celebration for one reason or another and bought the appropriate party supplies—lots of food. Still having every intention of enjoying only one piece or bowl, we began the festivities. It was fun for the first five minutes. The boys ate their treats and wandered off to play leaving me alone with the food. One slice of cake was never enough. I slivered a little from one side, slivered a little from the other; eventually I devoured the whole thing or the familiar regime with ice cream—one spoonful led to two, to three, to consuming the whole container. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired, but I could not stop overeating. I tried. God knows I tried day after day. My overeating splurges evolved into a way of life, coupled with frustration, hurt, disappointment and rage.
My poor children, God bless them, they had a loving mother one minute (when my diet was going well), or a screaming maniac the next (when my diet was abandoned one more time). I was physically and emotionally exhausted, hopeless and full of despair.
My binges were more often and more severe. Raw chocolate chip cookie dough, chocolate fudge frosting and a half-gallon of ice cream—that’s where I began—anything edible followed. I ate until the food was gone or I passed out, whichever came first.
Desperate and fearful for my health and life, alone in the confines of my mind, I begged God to show me a way out of my misery. Help me, Lord. I do not want to die and abandon my children. There has to be more to life than this. I am begging you, Lord. Help me, please.
I didn’t know many verses in the Bible, but I remembered Mom wearing a necklace with a mustard seed pendent. She told me the story about faith. She said, “If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, God can help you.”
“…Anything is possible if you have faith… I do have faith; oh, help me to have more!” (Mark 9:23-24, The Living Bible)
Jack Fell Down
I felt like a single parent, fully responsible for the children and our home. Carl worked most days and nights. One day he came home all excited. His words gushed like a babbling brook, “Baby [we always called each other “baby”] Baby, I got a job. It’s our dream-come-true. I’ll be working at the utility company. For six months it will be tough, but after that we’ll be fine.” Yahoo, we are finally on our way to happiness. Thank you, God. We rejoiced and were glad.
The months rolled by. Nothing changed. He still worked lots of hours, came home and passed out on the couch. His new job was flexible. He could have come home after work, sometimes as early as 11:30 A.M., but he never wanted to be with the “bunches of children hanging on the furniture.” That’s how he described the daycare.
“Dad, can the boys and I come stay with you for a few days? I am leaving Carl.” Sad as the situation was, my father welcomed us with open arms. I love my daddy. I am still his little girl.
Outside of close family members (Dad, my stepmother and my stepsister, Lorri), no one knew I was troubled, not even Carl. I had been taught to keep secrets. My mother would say, “We don’t talk about our problems; we don’t show the neighbors our dirty laundry.” Simplified, “Shut up. Keep the peace at all cost.”
Carl went fishing. He came home to a note on the table. “We’re at Dad’s. I won’t be back.” Shocked and dismayed, he was breathless. I blamed all our problems on him and his drinking. (If he were sober, we would have that storybook family life like Ozzie and Harriet, and I wouldn’t overeat. I would be fine, if he would just stop drinking.)
Carl asked if I would help him get sober. He said, “Baby, come home for three months. If I take even one drink, you can leave.” I loved him. I hated the alcohol. It was a fair deal.
A banner hung from the blackboard, “The Twelve Steps.” My eyes were drawn to the words, “Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.” Sanity…what’s that?
With apprehension and fear, we attended a recovery group for alcoholics. I went to support and encourage Carl’s newfound hope of sobriety. We found some seats in the dreary, smoke-filled room. I glanced around at our counterparts. It was certainly a mixed bag of people, mostly regular folk like us.
Men and women shared bits and pieces of their lives—the good, bad and the ugly. I heard some amazing things that first night. “Alcoholism is a debilitating sickness. It is progressive and can be fatal. It affects the whole family.” I cried and I laughed. Somewhat baffled, I knew these people were talking directly to ME. I marveled at their honesty. These people are showing me their “dirty laundry.” They have secrets like me. I am not unique. Carl is not the only addict in this family.
One woman was talking about having “just one glass” of wine with a meal. “…after all, it was a celebration.” She could not stop. I could relate. One piece of birthday cake or one cookie…stopping never happened for me either.
The man dressed in black was discouraged. I nodded in agreement when he said, “What is wrong with me?” He tried to do controlled drinking. “I’ll only drink beer (no hard stuff),” “I’ll only drink after 8 P.M.,” “I’ll dilute the alcohol in milk.” He failed every time.
“When a normal person discovers he has a flat tire, he calls the garage. When I get a flat, I call suicide prevention.” Yup, that’s me, too…extreme in everything. A calm sense of peace came over me. I felt hopeful. Carl was dry. Maybe I could win over my addiction, too. “It is just one day at a time.” Tomorrow I’ll begin my diet.
The meeting ended with the Serenity Prayer:
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. (Reinhold Niebuhr)
A good-intentioned friend visited us and gave Carl a book that he referred to as “The Big Book.” He said that he was an alcoholic and this was the “Bible” of the program that worked for him. I grabbed it before Carl could say a word and said, “Can I read it? I know that I am an addict; sweets are my alcohol.” Our friend released it to me with a smile. However, Carl looked at me as if I were crazy. He rolled his eyes and said sternly, “Food is not like alcohol.” Under my breath I mumbled, “I’ll show you.” I was serious and confident God had given me my answer.
As soon as I was alone, I read Bill’s story. He was the founding father of Alcoholics Anonymous, an interesting man, mixed-up and unbalanced like me. I recognized my warped, exaggerated imagination, my lost reasoning and my lack of self-control. I am an addict. Addiction is addiction. I know God wants me to be happy and healthy. Diets don’t work. Okay, God, help me to apply these principles to my food problem. “The Twelve Steps are the map of the program” echoed in my mind.”
Step one: We admitted we were powerless over food—that our lives had become unmanageable. No doubt. I think about food day and night. I try to control myself, but I cannot stop overeating even though I know bingeing and starving is harmful—possibly fatal. I don’t want to die. I don’t know how to live.
I pondered Step two: Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. According to Webster’s Dictionary, sanity is freedom from mental derangement, being reasonable and sensible. I need sanity in my life. A memory of my mother flashed before me. She was teaching me lullabies one restless night. “Jesus loves me this I know for the Bible tells me so.” I believe in a power greater than myself—I believe in God. Yes, most assuredly. I will never forget my experience in the mall years ago, and I know God brought me to Alcoholics Anonymous to teach me how to live without excess food. I will learn to live as a recovering addict.
Step three: Made the decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him. Okay, God, I believe you want me to be free from my addiction. I will stop eating my “alcohol”—I will stop eating sugar-laden junk food. The program emphasizes one day at a time. I made the decision: no sugar for one day.
My day began with a healthy breakfast: a grilled bagel, an egg and a banana with my pot of coffee. I felt fine for about ten minutes. Then my head started to spin. By noon I was eating anything and everything once again. I am not an alcoholic. Food is different, not like alcohol or drugs. People who drink excessively act inappropriately, trip and stumble, slur their words, pass out on park benches; no one even knows I have a problem. Besides, how bad can it be? Every church has sweets and treats mingled into celebrations, meetings and social affairs. People are asked to enjoy the food. To apply the steps of Alcoholics Anonymous to my problem is foolish thinking. Carl is right. I am crazy. I was grasping at straws—desperate thinking. Food is not like alcohol. There must be another answer for me.