CHAPTER FOUR
Action—A Work in Progress
Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight. (Proverbs 3:5-6, New International Version)
Baby Steps
The 12-step program is not “religious,” but it is a spiritual journey. The recovering addict is restored, rejuvenated and revived to physical and emotional health through trust and confidence in a spiritual connection with “a higher power.” When we surrender, we begin the process of letting go of our attempts to control our environment. Accepting that there is “a higher power” is a baby step toward finding and knowing God.
Food addicts surrender to a food plan through the help of recovering food addicts. We humbly admit that we tried to stop overeating by stringent resolves to diet time and time again, but we failed. Each time we fell on our faces, we were more frustrated and more desperate. When we gave up, recovering food addicts helped us to see that we have a physical, emotional and spiritual malady. In time we see God, as we understand Him, working in our lives.
I have witnessed awesome transformations; the light of God’s glory opened the eyes of people who were blinded by hurt, anger and resentment. Slowly, little awakenings—casual thoughts and realizations—touch the hearts of the skeptics. As they remain abstinent day after day, negative thinking dissipates as positive, life-giving strength flows in. They learn to “let go and let God” in everything.
This is the how and why of it. First of all, we had to quit playing God. It didn’t work. Next, we decided that hereafter in this drama of life, God was going to be our Director. He is the Principal; we are His agents. He is the Father, and we are His children. Most good ideas are simple, and this concept was the keystone of the new and triumphant arch through which we pass to freedom. (Alcoholics Anonymous, Third Edition, page 62)
Grocery list in hand, I gathered my gumption and walked into the grocery store quivering in fear. History is history. How many times had I walked into a marketplace fully intending to buy the right foods for my diet of the day? How many times did the sight of some scrumptious temptation tantalize my taste buds? In the blink of an eye, I would choose to wait one more day and splurge one more time.
Today is different. I have a choice. Life or death…I choose life. Please, God, help me buy only the foods I need today. I can’t do this alone. Give me the strength and willingness to ignore the aisles of junk foods. I need to focus my attention on this new diet…oh, I mean “food plan.” I am not on a diet anymore. This is a way of life—a lifestyle change.
Oat bran, oatmeal and rice…my grocery list began. Easy enough, I found the boxes and bags without a hitch. Lots of vegetables and some fruits…I marched to the fresh produce department. My mouth began salivating when I spied the delectable rosy red apples. Carefully inspecting the biggest, most beautiful ones, I placed my exquisite find in a plastic bag and cradled it in the palm of my hand. If I only get one apple, it’s going to be luscious.
Potatoes were next on my list. I loved the robust flavor of russet potatoes. The hearty skins were chewy, and the inners were firm—solid—more money for your buck, so to speak. I rummaged through the raunchy selection. Asking the store clerk for help, he went to the storeroom and brought out another pile to add to the slim pickings. I found my prize—a gorgeous, brunette beauty, probably ten or twelve ounces, no word of a lie. I tossed some salad fixings into my carriage, grabbed some carrots and proceeded to the condiments.
Not expecting much of a response, I approached the little girl stocking the shelves. “Do you know where I could find a low-calorie salad dressing without sugar or artificial sweetener? She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “I don’t know and I don’t care.” My diet mentality wanted it all—no calories, no sugar, no artificial sweetener.
I began my hunt for the perfect salad dressing. It was mission impossible. After examining label after label, I reluctantly succumbed to the truth—every low-calorie, low-fat salad dressing had one “no-no” or another. I settled for Paul Newman’s Original. It was not low in calories, but it was free from sugar and artificial sweetener, plus the proceeds were contributed to a good cause. I closed the door on that subject and moved to the next item on my list.
Plain yogurt…sounds like swamp food to me. If I can find one with fruit and no sugar or artificial sweetener, that will be good enough. Scouring the labels on each container, I was determined to find one that would fit the bill. No luck, another surrender. Plain yogurt will be fine. My sponsor said that it is only food—like gas for the tank of my car. I wonder if I’ll ever feel that way.
Only a few more things left to buy…chicken, eggs, ground beef and tuna. It was a simple stroll down the refrigerator aisle with a slight detour to grab the tuna. I was ready to check out. As I worked my way to the front of the store, I picked up a few groceries for the family.
My sponsor’s words warbled in my head. My food is my food and everything else is not my food. It is not an option to overeat, no matter what is happening in my circumstances or how I feel. On purpose, I chose a check out line free from temptations. With a bold sense of accomplishment, I paid for my food and sauntered out the door elated. I did it…we did it. Thank you, God. Willingness replaced my defiance. Faith replaced my fear.
Easy Does It
“Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy.” Yes, John Denver, I concur. With a leap in my step and joy in my heart, I jumped out of bed raring to go. I put the coffee on and fell to my knees in humble adoration and gratitude. “Lord, thank you, thank you, thank you. I will be forever grateful. You have answered my prayer.” With a sly smile and a chuckle, I tacked on, “Why did You wait so long?” Then I continued, “I know…You know what You’re doing. I am stubborn, but I am listening today.”
The sun was shining as it had never shone before…for me anyway. The toasty warm brilliance felt as if God had wrapped His loving arms around my entire being. Joy filled me to the brim.
It was 8 A.M., time to call my sponsor. My food plan was simple—The 301 Plan—three meals a day with nothing in between (except black coffee, tea or water) one day at a time.
Breakfast: one serving of oatmeal or oat bran, 1 cup of plain yogurt and a fruit
Lunch: ½ cup protein, 1 cup cooked vegetables, 2 cups salad with l T. salad dressing
Dinner: same as lunch with one addition—a potato or l/2 cup of rice
I poured my coffee, splashed a little milk in it and dialed the number. I don’t think a little milk could hurt. It’s not sugar or flour. Milk is okay. It took two seconds to report my food. My heart started palpating. Swallowing my self-sufficiency, I peeped, “Is it okay if I dribble a tad of skim milk in my coffee?” She retorted most emphatically, “The plan is three meals a day with nothing in between. Milk is food.” The words were like daggers piercing my heart. My spine arched; my intentions hung in the air. Somberly I bid her farewell and hung up the phone.
I stared at my half-finished cup of coffee. She is over the edge, maybe even crazy. Skim milk only has 80 calories in a whole cup. God entered the scene with His sympathetic spirit and nudged me ever so gently, “Can you do it for one day?” Still negotiating, I muttered, “Maybe.”
Angrily I opened my Big Book to Chapter Five, How It Works. I read about surrender, needing help, needing God. Then it came to me—
Half measures availed us nothing. We stood at the turning point. We asked His protection and care with complete abandon.” (Alcoholics Anonymous, Third Edition, page 59)
“Okay, Lord, I will give you my milk, too…but I’m not happy about it.”
Amusingly enough, my coffee tasted more enticing and better than ever. It took three gulps before I professed, “This will be okay. I like it. I can do this.” I had hurdled my first obstacle, and I didn’t die. I fell to my knees and said, “Thank you, God.”
Our mini-van was strategically packed with cooler, grill, special cooking supplies and the usual bags and baggage. We were ready to roll. One amazing week of abstinence under my not-so-tight belt, I faced my first vacation without food. As I adjusted my seat belt, I drifted into a trance—totally engrossed in self-pity. What am I going to do for a whole week at the beach? Vacations were supposed to be fun. How in the world do you have fun without food? It was a mystery to me.
Carl and the boys loved the beach. Dan was eight and Joe was six at the time. We had vacationed near the ocean every year since before the children were born. It was tradition. With joyful anticipation, Carl engaged the boys in conversation. I faked a smile; they reminisced about their walks on the beach, the sand castles, the fishing and the food. I contributed nothing. Vacations were all about eating in my book.
As we traveled from one town to the next, Dan and Joe munched on their packets of travel supplies. Little bags of penny candy kept them occupied and content until we reached our first milestone. “Are we at McDonald’s yet, Mommy? I’m hungry.” Daniel began. Carl grumbled disgustedly, “You are just like your mother…eating in wait for your next meal.” My eyes rolled towards the sky and I mumbled, “Lord, help me.” They had learned from the master. I wished things were different. Carl is right. The boys are just like me. God bless them.
After a moment of pity and sadness for the boys and myself, I announced, “I can’t change yesterday, but I can change today.” Carl’s disbelieving eyes darted in my direction as if to say, “I’ve heard that before.” I was not credible. My words held empty promises for too many years. It didn’t matter. At that moment his nonverbal conviction hurt. Feeling perturbed, I proclaimed, “This time is different.”
Poor Carl. I was a tough cookie to deal with—a pandemonium of fear and insecurity—I was up one minute and down the next. Just a simple misunderstood look would force him to run for cover. I never physically threw things or hurt anyone, but my eyes shot daggers, and my words and body language could be dismal. To say I was “temperamental” would be polite.
After Carl’s hurtful glance, we sat in silence while I tried to gather my composure. Lord, help me. I want to have a fun vacation with the family. We pulled into the parking lot of McDonald’s. My dinner was ready and waiting in my new, carefully chosen compact cooler with my hand-picked, color-coordinated plastic containers. Carl laughed when he eyed my precision custom packing job. I laughed with him. I was not insulted this time. It was comical and a tad over the edge. I had spent too much time obsessing over the perfect travel gear for my new way of life. It appeased me somehow to have special equipment. My sponsor said that I needed to spend as much time in recovery as I had in the disease. This year I bought supplies instead of food. It was a big step for me to pack my meal and then actually eat it. The Big Mac’s looked mighty appealing.
The vacation was not fun. I walked and talked, but wanted to crawl out of my skin. On every corner and every side street I saw someone eating something. All my favorite vacation foods were dancing in the air, singing an inviting chant, “Just have one. You’re on vacation. You deserve to have fun.”
One minute at a time, I resisted the temptation. In moments of surrender, I stopped to feel the sunshine on my shoulders, and I thanked God. More often, I was agitated and downright angry. Why do I have this disease? I hoped for relief. People told me it would come…in God’s time. Trying to look on the bright side, I decided to approach the vacation as a challenge—an opportunity to practice my program.
The Jury is Out
“Baby, you’re no fun anymore,” Carl complained. Fun to us meant eating.
Sometimes at nice restaurants, sometimes here, there and everywhere—strolling along the beach, camping in front of the fire, a drive to get ice cream, take-out with a movie at home. Even though my husband was not a compulsive overeater like me, he was most assuredly an eating buddy of mine.
The day arrived when he lovingly suggested that we go out to dinner. I cringed and suggested that he order take-out— pizza or Chinese food. “I’ll be happy to pick it up and bring it home.” Trying to encourage him to consider the advantages, I added, “You can unwind, kick off your shoes and get comfortable.” My ulterior motive—I could then have my planned food. He rolled his eyes in dismay. It was as if he needed his dance partner. We all know you can’t dance alone—slow dancing anyway. He wanted his bosom buddy to come home.
In those first few months of abstinence, my poor husband was kicked aside like a worn-out shoe. My experienced counterpart was no longer needed. It took every ounce of effort for me to survive without overeating. My sponsor told me to stick to my guns—“Do not go out to dinner until you have at least three months of abstinence.” I conveyed her words to Carl. He was angry. “What makes her your boss?” I was a basket case full of confusion—wanting recovery, but wondering about the cost. I prayed for my answer.
Carl tried to listen to my explanation. I was afraid that I might overeat. It was as if I were talking to a wall. Carl was not like me. Only another food addict knows the devastation and pain I feel when my disease rears its ugly head…and you never know when it will appear. Time was like insurance or money in the bank. I was hoping for a stretch of confident abstinence before I was forced to step into the ring with my disease.
Tough as it was to defy my sponsor, I surrendered to my husband, and we set a date. The fight began—my desire for more food versus my desire for recovery—tough competitors. It was good versus evil, so to speak. My sponsor wasn’t happy, but she told me what to do: “Cut the meat to the size of a deck of cards. Order a baked potato and two salads. Eat one salad as an appetizer and the other with the meal. Bring your salad dressing, or have two teaspoons oil and vinegar. Most meals come with a cooked vegetable. You can eat it if it was prepared without sugar or flour. Remember the bottom line is always no sugar or flour—no gravy, no sauces, no fancy vegetables, no fancy anything.”
I said “okay” at the time, but when push came to shove, I changed my mind. Lord, I’m not doing that. Abstinence is having a plan and doing the plan. I’ll plan on having the meal served as a normal person. I will refrain from sugar and flour because I am a food addict, I’ll commit my plan to God and I’ll be fine. We put on our Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, got a baby-sitter for the boys and slipped away. Our favorite restaurant had lots of variety. I ordered a prime rib, baked potato, the green beans and two salads. I ate every bite. When the waitress asked if I were done, my husband said with a snicker, “She decided not to eat the plate.” Sounds funny now, but at the time I was not amused.
I felt as if I had done well. I stopped when the meal was over. I refrained from sugar and flour, and I didn’t eat any of the good stuff—no bread, pasta or desserts. It was healthy, abstinent food. This is fun. It’s like the date nights we had before we were married. Minutes went by. My stomach started to hurt. I ate too much. If I overeat every time I go out, I’ll never get thin. My sponsor always says that abstinence is the most important thing without exception. I was abstinent. I did what I planned. I’ll get thin in God’s time.
“Carl, when can we go out to dinner again?” I asked as we exited the parking lot of the restaurant. “That was fun.” Carl was delighted that I had enjoyed our time together. He suggested that we go every Saturday night. This began my new preoccupation, my obsession of the week. I scoured every local newspaper, the telephone book and all the beach flyers looking for the perfect place for our dinner date on Saturday night. I was being a good wife spending time with my husband and making him happy. Don’t you agree?
Restaurant dining became an anticipated delight. Buffets were first-rate, top-notch—the cream of the crop, so to speak. My commitment sounded good on paper: one plate of food, two plates of salad and no good stuff—no sugar or flour, no coleslaw, no marinated vegetables, no sauces or gravies, no hard cheese. I brought my salad dressing.
Each time I went out to dinner, I wanted to be reasonable. I had intentions of being reasonable. More times than not, I would march to the food court, heap my one plate to embarrassing proportions—lots of meat, a mound of potatoes and a pile of vegetables. Then I would get my one salad. I often complained about “the dinky salad plates.” Pieces of my salads would topple off the overloaded heaps. My husband once commented, “You know, Baby, you can go to the buffet line as many times as you want. You don’t have to stack all that food on one plate.” My piercing eye shot him dead. I wanted to yell, “SHUT UP!” Guilt-ridden, I kept silent. I was feeding the disease—overeating and justifying it. I deserved to have a good time with my husband. Abstinence—plan what you do and do what you plan. I was abstinent. Right, Lord?
“Another meeting? This is ridiculous…Saturday, Tuesday and now Thursday… Don’t those cronies know you have a life?” Carl’s anger spouted forth in a wave of dismay. It hit me; I cowered for a second, shrugged my shoulders, and I looked to the sky with a “please help me” plea. Sucking in my breath, I sighed one of those long, exasperating moans. I picked myself up and continued telling him what he could do for the boys, while I attended my meeting. “There is popcorn for the boys. Their pajamas are on the bench. If you want, I’ll put them to bed when I get home.”
“Mama, please don’t go. I need you to help me with my homework,” Dan begged as he dragged his book bag into the room, heavy from the amount of work he needed to accomplish.
“Mama, I don’t feel good.” My poor sad little one climbed on my lap and held me hostage for a minute.
Surprised and disappointed, the family heard, “I’m sorry guys, but I have to go. I love you.” I walked out the door. As I looked back, Dan and Joe’s faces were glued to the window—somberly their dejected little expressions cried out, “How could you leave us?” I suspect they wondered what had happened to their mother. I blew them a kiss from the car and I started to cry. By the time I reached the end of our street, I was sobbing uncontrollably. I parked on the side of the road and let God calm me for a spell. I was still whimpering as I walked into my third meeting of the week.
First things first—program, family, job. Abstinence is the most important thing without exception. Acceptance is the answer to all my problems today. Please, Lord, help me...
Life, as I had known it, was over. My lifelong ideas and concepts were turned upside down. Placing me, and my needs, before my family was beyond reason. My children come first; they always have, and they always will… Learning that I was not neglecting them by taking care of myself, took time and lots of practice. It was not selfish and self-centered, as I had once thought.
“Professional caretaker”—that’s me in a nutshell. Not only was taking care of people my paid job as a daycare provider for children, it was my passion—my heart’s desire. I still love-to-love people, but now I do it in a balanced, constructive way with clear motives. Years ago, my goals were undefined beyond being the best wife, mother and daycare provider in the whole wide world...whatever it took.
Dan and Joe were the loves of my life. I spent hour after hour researching how to be the best parent possible. Determined to shower them with motherly affection, I coddled them beyond their needs. In retrospect, it was my attempt to protect them. I wished I could have placed them in a giant bubble where they could ride through life sheltered from the trials and tribulations of the world.
My job as wife held a close second in the line of priorities. Carl needed me. He was doing well in his new job. That was his identity. It is the wife’s responsibility to take care of the house and home—to clean, to cook and handle all the needs of the children. How could I go to a meeting and still do my job?
I tried. It was tough for me, but I was willing to practice. It was progress, not perfection. My sponsor implied I was soft. She said that I had a warped perception of family responsibilities and an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. She said I needed to let go and ask for help. “Carl is a big boy and the father of your children. He can handle a couple of hours at home alone with the boys. They are seven and nine, certainly not babies.” She was right and I was right. Sometimes my family needed me more than I needed a meeting. Other times I needed to go. When I felt like I was deserting the ship, I trusted God to protect, nurture and love my family.
Ruffled Feathers
It was 7:03 A.M. Tossing and turning in my rumpled bed, I could hear the clock ticking like a drip of water tapping on a tin roof. Tick, tick, tick… What am I going to say to my sponsor today? She’ll be miffed. I told her I was going to the meeting last night and then I didn’t go. I’m in big trouble. I need to think of a good story…if I call her at all. The truth is the truth. I had every intention of going to the meeting, but Carl came home exhausted after working a tedious twelve-hour shift and poor Joe was sick again—wheezing up a storm. Asthma is scary. I stayed home to monitor his breathing.
Thank God we didn’t land at the hospital again. Lord, was I wrong? I didn’t overeat, although a bagel or a doughnut would hit the spot right now. I know…that would be dumb. No way am I going back to that life. Please, Lord, what should I do? I rolled out of bed and dropped to my knees. Instinctively, I heard:
Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about what happens to you. Be careful! Watch out for attacks from the Devil, your great enemy. He prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for some victim to devour. Take a firm stand against him, and be strong in your faith… (l Peter 5:7-9, New Living Translation)
God, I know You were with me last night. I made the right decision to stay home. Whatever my sponsor thinks or feels about me is none of my business. God bless her. I picked up the phone and dialed the number…
I was tempted to say, “I’m out of here…no woman is going to tell me that I should have gone to a meeting when my child is sick.” Instead, I bit my tongue and tactfully explained my circumstances for another day. Yes, my sponsor felt I could have left Joe with Carl. It was okay. I had done the right thing. As she complained, I mumbled under my breath, “Oh well. God bless her.” When she stopped talking, I told her what I was planning to eat for the day.
I learned that sponsors were perfectly imperfect people. (They can only share up to the level of their experience; they are not professionals—simply volunteers trying to help another food addict get well.) I have seen and tried to work with different types of sponsors in the program—the rigid drill sergeants appearing insensitive, judgmental and controlling or the laid-back insecure ones who are tossed and turned by the wind. They want to help, but don’t have the skills or knowledge to succeed, no less teach it to someone else—the blind leading the blind. It is rare to find successful middle ground, but it is possible. Through trial, error and perseverance, we find the answers to our personal quest: What do I need to do to stop overeating one day at a time?
My sponsor was an older woman with grown children. She could not relate to the demands and obligations of a young wife, mother and daycare provider. Her answer to any problem was “Go to more meetings.” My life was full. For me, going to three meetings a week was nearly Mission Impossible. When I skipped a meeting, regardless of the reason, I got the third degree. The gun barrel pointed to my head, she’d say, “Why didn’t you go?” If she disagreed with my decision, the lecture would follow—you know those talks where you hold the phone away from your ear, hand on your hip, waiting for the last line? I was her captive. When she released the prisoner—that’s how I felt when she finally stopped talking—I would hang up the phone feeling spanked like a disobedient child.
My sponsor acted like an overprotective mother (like me with my boys); she tried to control me like I tried to control my children. I remember one day in particular. My Dan was only eight years old…
It was one of those cold winter months in New England. Glistening snow gracefully danced in the air. The radio stationed announced, “Temperatures dropping to the teens today. Snow on the way.” Dan was getting ready for school. Our usual debate began. “Mom, I don’t need my winter coat today.” Calmly I began, “Please, Dan, it’s going to be cold today.” Back and forth we went, our voices escalating with each sentence. After a tad of bickering, I took his face in my firm hand, as I often did when I was frustrated and wanted his full attention. I squeezed his cheeks together, pointed his face in the direction of my words and I said without question, “You need your jacket today. Put it on.”
When school was over he hopped off the bus anxious to tell me about his day. Happily bounding into the house, he met my insensitive glare. Loudly I bellowed, “I told you to wear your coat! What is wrong with you?” He stopped in his tracks. His little puppy-dog eyes glazed over instantly. Jolted by rejection and disappointment, he gasped. Meekly, he uttered, “But, Mom, I wasn’t cold.” What did that have to do with it? Good children obey their parents…or was I being unreasonable?
If Dan were cold, he had a jacket to warm him. My responsibility as his mother was to supply the coat, teach him to take care of himself and let God do the rest. My job as a person committed to recovery is to listen to program guidance, ask God for help and then make self-nurturing decisions according to the situations at hand. I wished my sponsor would make suggestions in kind, loving and respectful ways, but it was not her style.
Drawing the line between reasonable love and care for the family and my own need to be supported and encouraged was difficult. It was trial and error. Some days I would stay home instead of going to a meeting. It was a wrong choice. I didn’t slide into overeating, but the ground was slippery. It was only by the grace of God that I was able to sit on my hands or pull the sheets over my head some days to avoid incredible temptations. Through my own experiences, I became more aware of my emotional triggers and it was easier to accept my misconstrued motives. I didn’t always agree with my sponsor’s advice, but I listened and I grew stronger as each day passed.
“DANIEL, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I yelled at the top of my lungs. My poor Daniel looked petrified. It was the umpteenth time that I had raised my voice that day. Why was I so angry? Disappointed and confused, I collapsed on the couch sobbing. I wanted to crawl up into a ball and die. What is wrong with me? Why am I so cruel? True, he had made a mess in the kitchen. However it was certainly not a punishable offense, nor were the other incidents cause for great alarm. Trying to practice my program, I apologized once again. It was embarrassing to say the same thing over and over, but I did it anyway. “I’m sorry that I yelled at you. I will try to say what I mean, but not say it mean.”
Dan wrapped his sweet little arms around my neck and tenderly replied, “It’s okay, Mommy, I know you love me.” My heart melted. I hugged him mercilessly—not wanting to let him go—and thanked God for my precious children.
I called my sponsor and told her my problem, “Even though I keep trying, I cannot stop yelling!” She told me to go to more meetings. “Get out of the house” was her advice. Going to another meeting was not a viable option for me. I was already struggling with my commitment to attend three meetings a week. It was tough. Typically, I’d return to a madhouse. My husband had little patience with the boys. Almost instantaneously as I walked through the door, I’d drink in the chaos and I’d think, “Give me something to eat.” Extra food was not a choice, so I got angry and resentful instead…which caused more yelling. Discouraged, I sank into a depression.
Lord, help me. I am so discouraged. I thought if I stopped overeating I would be happy. I am not happy. What do You want me to do? I felt a quickening in my heart, “Don’t give up before the miracle happens for you.” A minute went by and the phone rang. One of my friends in program was gleaming. She had found a professional counselor who was helping her understand her unique challenges. “It’s personal,” she said, “We are not all the same. We have different backgrounds and individual struggles.” I followed her lead, called the number and set up my first appointment.
My calendar was marked in red—Thursday at 5:00 P.M. In preparation for our first session, the counselor suggested writing in a journal “to see if a pattern emerged.” I bought a notebook and started scribbling some thoughts each day. Finally it was time for my first appointment. Pacing in the waiting room, my anxiety rose. I stared at the hands on the clock above the door…4:57…4:59…5:l0…
When the receptionist finally called my name, I was “armed and dangerous.” I barreled through the door firing my first question as we found our seats, “How many meetings should I attend?” It took a minute for him to speak. I think I knocked the wind out of him. Calmly and quietly, in his gentle and melodious voice, he began to teach me life-style remedies. “It is a personal decision. Many people do well with three meetings a week in the beginning. It depends on where you are with your food. If you feel as if you are going to eat, then you need to be at a meeting. Abstinence is the most important thing. When people say, “program, family, job,” they mean abstinence first—freedom from obsession and the action that manifests from it.” His voice calmed my raging spirit. I heard every word as it drifted into the room on a wave of serenity. I marveled at his peaceful state. I had come to the right place.
He went on to explain how some people replace life with meetings—it becomes the new obsession. However, he was very clear to point out that there is a transitional stage, where an addict learns how to live. “An addict needs to learn how to live without turning to his or her drug of choice.” Going to meetings, working the steps, listening to other people who are like-minded are all tools to fix sick thinking. I remember his words even today, “Why don’t you be an example of a food addict who learns how to live outside the meetings?” “Okay,” I said with my determined spirit. “That will be my goal.”
My psychologist understood addictions and encouraged me to continue my 12-step work. As I continued to attend my committed meetings each week, I could see God’s hand in my life. The promises were more tangible, even for a low-bottom addict, like me.
We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us. We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves. (Alcoholics Anonymous, Third Edition, pages 84)
The Real Deal
“Look in the mirror and say what?” My counselor replied, “Look in the mirror and say, ‘I am beautiful. I love you.’” Not for me. With much prodding, I stood in front of the mirror and painfully succumbed to the idea, “I’m okay. Jesus loves me.” That was the best I could do. I tried to imagine liking myself more, even loving myself, but not for today. I had invested years in believing I was fat and unattractive. Therefore, I was unlovable. He gave me my instructions, “Whenever you hear yourself saying those negative words, replace them with the truth, ‘I’m okay. Jesus loves me.’ In time, with lots of practice, you will be saying, ‘I am beautiful. I love you.’ It is time to start replacing self-debasing lies with positive, life-giving truths.”
“If you were to die today, what do you wish people would say about you?” Cunningly I replied, “She was thin.” Agitated, he repeated the question with emphasis. “What would you want people to say about you?” My smile left. I imagined my funeral—people milling around. After some uncomfortable silence and careful consideration, I concluded, “I would like to hear ‘She was healthy and took care of herself. She was a kind and loving person. She was a wonderful wife, mother and daycare provider.’” His warm eyes glistened. His smile and approving nod indicated I understood the question.
He jotted my words on his pad. Searching for the truth, he said, “Do you believe you are a kind and loving person?” Embarrassed, I nodded my head. I hesitated for a second to contemplate the full picture. Then I admitted more adamantly, “Yes, my heart is kind and loving, but my mouth and attitude do not always reflect my compassionate spirit. I am angry and resentful, and I yell at my children way more than I’d like to admit. What is wrong with me, doctor?” He said, “Out of the heart the mind speaks. You will learn new skills. In time you will actually feel deserving of the title, kind and loving.” Wow, huh? My broken heart felt the healing touch of hope.
He gave me an assignment—“Write it until you believe it— I am a kind and loving person. I am a kind and loving person. I am a kind and loving person. I am okay; Jesus loves me. I am okay; Jesus loves me. I am okay; Jesus loves me.” It sounded strange and a waste of time, but I said, “Okay, I’ll do it.” Today, years later, I can honestly tell you, “I am a kind and loving person. I am beautiful in God’s eyes and I know Jesus loves me.”
Self-esteem rises as we acknowledge our feelings and our own dysfunctional thinking. Feelings are not facts. Self-confidence and God-reliance comes when self-centered lies dissolve. It was time to separate fact from fiction. My counselor asked, “Do you react to what you think, want or feel…or do you respond to the facts (what you know?)” I hadn’t a clue. He said, “With God’s help, you will learn to respond to the truth.” He gave me some examples. I have listed a few that are relevant in my life.
I think I am recovered from my eating disorder (lie); I know recovery is contingent on working the program one day at a time (truth).
I think I am alone. No one loves me. I am unlovable (lie); I know I am never alone. Jesus loves me, and He has made me in his image—lovable (truth).
I want to be normal. I want something to eat (unhealthy thinking); I know I am a food addict, and excess food is not an option (truth).
I want more control around my children (unhealthy thinking); I know God is taking care of them, better than I ever could (truth).
I feel hungry even after a full meal (unhealthy thinking); I know my food plan is nutritionally well-balanced and it is enough (truth).
I feel justified to be inconsiderate. I want to yell and scream, as was my familiar way of handling feelings (unhealthy thinking); I know Jesus asks me to be kind and loving. It is okay to feel angry. It is not okay to lash out and hurt people in the midst of my emotional turmoil. I need to pray for God’s guidance, accept my responsibility or contribution to the situation, and make amends for my actions or attitude if they are inappropriate. Sometimes I have to “God bless” my counterpart and accept that life is not always fair. When I let go of my self-centered ego and follow Jesus, I am well. I am directed, and I find peace (truth).
Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight. (Proverbs 3:5-6, New International Version)
Stop, Drop and Roll
When my spirit wanted to explode, there were warning signs—I’d get a gnawing in my belly—the unkind words would start to bubble up in my gut, irritating my stomach on the way to my heart…they got ready to gush out of my mouth, when I remembered my counselor’s advice, “Wait until you can respond. Out of the heart the mind speaks.”
To react is an automatic response that rises out of one’s emotion. Hurt people hurt people. When we feel hurt, anxious, annoyed or angry, we want to retaliate. As a food addict, I hurt myself by overeating, and I hurt others by lashing out—yelling, complaining, blaming. When I stopped overeating, I recognized my dismal attitude, accepted my brokenness and tried to correct the harm I had done. Committed to recovery, I learned new life-style skills—don’t react, instead respond in kind and loving ways. Life happens—the physical maladies, the angry clerk, the inconsiderate truck driver, the too tired, sick or frustrated daycare child or the family squabble—all opportunities to react. Responding in love requires the skill of self-control.
My heart aches at times. Two examples of my growing ability to control myself come to mind. One day not long ago, being the over-protective mother that I am, I was ready to pounce on my husband for his attitude towards one of the children. Instead of attacking him with my words, I grabbed my notebook and with great vigor, wrote all the nasty things I wanted to spit at him. Later, when I settled down, I calmly and respectfully told him my thoughts. It was fruitful. He listened. In the past he didn’t hear beyond the loudness of my voice.
Communication with children holds unique challenges. I remember one day when Dan was around twelve or thirteen. Annoyed at something I had said, he strutted angrily down the hall with his nose in the air. He slammed his bedroom door and yelled, “I hate you.” Initially it hurt—a lot. Before program, I would have been furious. In recovery, I waited until I could respond. It wasn’t long before I realized that it was just a feeling—feelings are not facts. Responding graciously, I said, “I see that you are upset with me. Let me know when you want to talk. I love you.” Allowing my children to express their feelings helped me express mine—the grown-up feelings from the heart.
One Day at a Time
Over and over again I heard, “Read page 449 in the Big Book.” I read it every day as a constant reminder to let go of my anger, my defiance and my attempts to control everything and everybody—I needed to “let go and let God.”
Acceptance is the answer to all my problems today. When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, thing, or situation—some fact of my life—unacceptable to me, and I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment. (Alcoholics Anonymous, Third Edition, page 449)
Paul proclaims a similar message in his letter to the Philippians:
…I have learned how to be content (satisfied to the point where I am not disturbed or disquieted) in whatever state I am. (Philippians 4:ll, Amplified).
Practicing the program was not always easy. It was “progress, not perfection.” Serenity comes through never-ending acceptance and surrender—eyes on God with absolute dependence on His ability. “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” (Psalm 46:l, New International Version)
The first few months were disheartening—my predisposition needed a complete overhaul. People say that it takes twenty-one days to break a habit. For me, it took eons to sever the tightly braided cords that held me captive to my compulsive and obsessive nature. One day at a time, one hour at a time, one minute at a time, I walked toward the light…sometimes I crawled on my knees with barely enough strength to go on. It was tough. God never promised me a rose garden.
Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning…. (Lamentations 3:21-23, New International Version)
God helped me endure whatever temptations I faced. I sat on my hands some days. I went to bed some days. Talking on the telephone to other food addicts, going to a meeting or talking to my counselor revived my spirit and renewed my strength. Talking to God in casual conversations or more intimately on my knees, I did whatever I had to do to stay abstinent. It was the most important thing without exception. My old nature withered as the seeds of my new life blossomed. Celebrations, holidays and special days played havoc with my peace of mind. In God’s time, the fanfare died, the hoopla ended and I didn’t overeat one day at a time.
“Happy Birthday to you…Happy Birthday to you…” Dan’s fun-loving spirit and happy heart added spice to my otherwise droll day. Joe smiled contently as Dan led the way in his pre-celebration. Their shrilling voices raised the hair on the back of my neck, neither could carry a note. It didn’t matter. Their hearts rang out loud and clear in joyful anticipation of another gala event. Feeling blessed, I thanked God for my children.
The boys and I loved to plan parties. Carl customarily groaned. He was justified to dread any “blessed” event. It was not fun for him. For years my perfectionism gushed waves of demands on him—“Fix everything. Help me clean the entire house.” It took us weeks to prepare for company. I wanted “house beautiful,” and it was literally impossible to reach my absurd expectations. Try as he might to negotiate, I had a mind set in stone—Dan was turning eight and, like it or not, we were going to have a party. The date was set: October l0, l988.
My sponsor told me to focus on the fun and games—the special things we could do. “Food is not the most important thing.” She suggested buying a nice cake. She was dead set against my baking anything. She said, “Keep it very simple. Maybe even have friends and relatives bring food.” I hesitantly agreed. It sounded reasonable except for my groans. “Everyone expects me to have an elaborate spread. It is what I do best.”
I was considering my options when Daniel broke my train of thought. “Mommy, can you make me a chocolate cake this year?” Without a moment’s hesitation, I replied, “I was just thinking about that. Maybe we’ll buy your cake this year.” He scowled and said, “But, Mom, you always bake my birthday cakes.” Uh-oh, Lord, what in the world should I do? Before program, it was my job to bake for every occasion—any reason to celebrate—any excuse to eat some gooey, rich, delectable dessert. I have been free from compulsive overeating since the end of July—a little over two months now. Is this an accident waiting to happen? After some serious time on my knees, I said, “I think I can do it with God’s help.” Help me, Lord! My sponsor’s not going to like this…
I swallowed my fear and prepared myself for the demeaning attitude I received when I defied my sponsor’s wishes. Grudgingly I dialed her number. The second she picked up the phone, I blurted out the words in one burst of energy. “I am baking on Saturday. It’s Dan’s birthday. He wants a homemade cake and with God’s help, I can do it.” I stopped to breathe, asked God for help and continued at a slower pace. “It is not an option to lick my fingers or eat any leftover anything—no batter, no frosting, not even a crumb. It is not my food.”
My sponsor groaned one of those long-winded “you’ll be sorry; I can’t believe what I’m hearing” moans and suggested that I might want to find another sponsor. She told me point blank, “If you pick up even one lick, you will need to find another sponsor.” In retrospect, my sponsor’s doubts drove my determined nature to the far ends of the earth. “I’ll show her” was a thought I held onto when fighting the rising tides of temptation. Sometimes my feet left the ground in deep waters, but God became my life preserver and I stayed afloat.
The big event was scheduled for Saturday afternoon. Wanting help from other people, I was the first to raise my hand at the Saturday morning meeting. Openly I shared my intentions to bake my first cake. Some gasped as if I were about to commit suicide. Others encouraged me to use some simple techniques that had worked for them. “Be sure you eat your meal first” was an overwhelming “you have to.” One woman offered her help: “Call me. I’ll talk you through it if you want.” Someone else suggested I put a band-aid on my right index finger to remind me of God’s ability to heal my brokenness.
Respecting those who had gone before me, I listened. I ate my lunch, put a band-aid on my finger and commenced to bake my first cake in program. It was awkward. I never realized how many times I had cleaned the debris off my fingers by putting them in my mouth until it wasn’t an option. There was a mess of paper towels covered with batter and frosting by the time I was done. That band-aid—silly as it seemed—really worked. Every time my hand came close to my mouth with a finger full of anything, I saw the band-aid and thought, “I am sick. I am a food addict. This is not my food.” Chatting with God, I stayed on course.
Finally it was time for the finishing touch. “Happy Birthday, Danny” was delicately inscribed in forest green. I stood back and admired my work. God’s favor illuminated my mission. It was an awakening of sorts: A birthday cake is like an art project. I had created a masterpiece and a labor of love, no less. Considering the substance was not edible—for me anyway—it was like knitting a sweater or building a dollhouse. I was jubilant. From that moment on, I have never had a problem baking or distributing pastries at a party. My spirit soared. Praise the Lord: “I can do everything with the help of Christ who gives me the strength I need.” (Philippians 4:13, New Living)
Pleased as punch, I reveled in my accomplishment. Immediately I called my sponsor to proclaim the good news, “I did it and it’s beautiful.” My enthusiasm gushed. I was anxious to share my art project awakening, but her dead silence stunned me. I asked, “Are you there?” On the other end of the line, I was attacked by her snide interrogation, “You mean you didn’t take even one lick? That’s hard to believe.” Temporarily deflated by her accusations, I said to myself, “There is no pleasing this woman.” Lord, You know I am telling the truth…You were there. I “God blessed her” and shrugged my shoulders one more time.
My counselor often encouraged me by saying, “Take what you want and leave the rest. You need to go to the waterholes that fill you.” I telephoned the women from the meeting who had encouraged me earlier that day. I thanked them for their help and grabbed the opportunity to share my newfound revelation: “Baking is like creating an art project. I made a beautiful masterpiece today.” They marveled at my message and considered it “food for thought” in the future. I heard many testimonies of others who gained wisdom and strength from my experience.
Two people can accomplish more than twice as much as one; they get a better return for their labor. If one person falls, the other can reach out and help. But people who are alone when they fall are in real trouble…. Three are even better, for a triple-braided cord is not easily broken. (Ecclesiastes 4:9-12, New Living Translation)
As I drifted off to sleep that night, peace and joy filled my soul. The program is people helping people with dependence and trust in God’s ability. The Third Step Prayer worked again. Continue to use me, Lord Jesus, if it is Your will.
“Trick or Treat? Smell my feet. Give me something good to eat.” The children’s jovial voices chimed in unison. Halloween was Carl’s favorite holiday. He happily volunteered to chaperone the children throughout the neighborhood. My assignment—distribute the candy to the trick-or-treaters. Sounds easy. Maybe not…
Alone, with my favorite food in the whole wide world, I waited for the doorbell to ring…and I waited…It’s Halloween. Everyone eats candy on Halloween. Maybe I could have just one piece. I’ll pick my favorite treat. I’ll be fine. Just one piece won’t hurt. Who would know? What difference would it make? Lord, what should I do?
I remembered my commitment. My food is my food and everything else is not my food. I picked up the telephone. I was not alone. My friend on the other end of the line was contemplating her options, too. She said what I was thinking, “Maybe just one piece?” We talked about the trials and tribulations of being food addicts and wallowed in self-pity for a while. We were angry that we couldn’t enjoy Halloween. In time we remembered that it had been years since we actually enjoyed the food fests that accompanied the holiday, and we laughed at our crazy thinking. We both agreed that one bite is a binge for a food addict. It was not an option to overeat, even on Halloween. I hung up the telephone and thanked God for helping me fight the incredible temptations of the holiday. With renewed strength, I dialed other compulsive overeaters.
Carl, Dan and Joe returned with their hauls. My husband was a peach. He volunteered to take full responsibility of the boys’ treats. It was tough for me to let go of my need to control everything, but I knew in the pit of my being that it was the right thing to do. He distributed the candy to the boys each day (one or two pieces at a time).
Out of the goodness of his heart, Carl hid the remaining goodies (just in case I got tempted). For the first time in my life, I understood the expression, “Out of sight, out of mind.” Wow, huh? I was surprised and impressed. God deserved the credit; I was getting better at surrendering my will and my life over to His care each day, slowly… with each baby step.
The wedding was beautiful. It was a match made in heaven. On the way to the reception, I drifted off to “la-la land” and imagined being like everyone else. If I were normal, this could be fun…eating, drinking, dancing. Carl’s nudge woke me up; he was looking for directions. I told him the exit we needed to take and then I asked, “Do you ever wish we were normal?” He rolled his eyes as if to say, “Don’t ask such a stupid question.” He kept silent. I thought about page 449 in the Big Book. You need to accept life on life’s term. “Acceptance is the answer to all my problems today.” Okay, I accept that I am a food addict, and Carl is an alcoholic; Carl cannot drink alcohol, and I cannot overeat. Maybe we can help each other.
I knew what to expect—I had called the restaurant and discussed my dietary restrictions as a food addict weeks before the big day. For safety’s sake, I restated my intentions to my husband. “Carl, I can eat the chicken, the red bliss potatoes, the cooked vegetable and a dry salad. I brought my salad dressing. I know you love me and want me to be happy. I need to remember that extra food is not the answer anymore; please do not suggest any other foods. This is my plan.” My voice elevated with each line. Lord, help me to stay abstinent today. Somewhat intimidated by my spiteful spirit, he nodded his head indicating that he understood my instructions.
Carl and I had history. My dear husband got the brunt of my anger too often. He witnessed baffled and confused moments of utter dismay when my determined nature would dissolve midstream. Being far too proud to tell him I had blown another great plan, I’d often sneak eat. He hadn’t a clue. Trying to be helpful, he would say some innocent remark in hopes of supporting “the plan.” The poor man would get slapped in the face with my sneer. My nasty disposition would knock him off his feet, “Leave me alone. I’ll eat what I want. You don’t know what it’s like to be a food addict.”
He had his own cross to bear, so to speak. This was his first wedding without alcohol (and it was open bar). Our anxiety levels rose as we approached the magnificent resort. Carl couldn’t drink, and I couldn’t overeat. What a team! Almost traumatized with fearful anticipation, we agreed that a cup of coffee might be nice. The car veered off course, and we landed at the local coffee shop. We sat, almost paralyzed, and collected our thoughts.
The detour held no serious repercussions. We arrived at the reception site before the newlyweds, which was proper etiquette. Waiters and waitresses were milling around the exquisite resort offering fabulous hors d’oeuvres. Carl seemed to forget about drinking. He basked in the consumption of the culinary delights—delectable scallops wrapped in bacon, “giant jumbo, super-sized shrimp” (his words) and stuffed mushrooms. I took mine for him. It was our routine—If I couldn’t eat it, I forced my share on him. This time, he didn’t mind.
It seemed like hours later…the bride and groom entered the scene. They were introduced as Mr. and Mrs. for the first time. My stomach was growling; my patience was wearing thin. I was enviously watching the cordial little gatherings of family and friends. Everyone looked happy and content to mingle. Of course they were happy; they were stuffing themselves with all that food.
Finally—in God’s sweet time—we were invited to find our seats in the Camelot Room. The hostess told us that it was time for the meal. People munched on the fresh baked rolls still warm from the oven. Many raved over “the exquisite pecan twirls.” Impatiently I waited…and waited. Carl could see the tension mounting. The poor man—he looked scared. I felt like a simmering pot of water getting ready to boil. He tried to calm me, “Relax, it will be okay.” (He had noticed a waitress in the distance.) “They are serving the salads now.” Smiling ever so slightly, I took another sip of my water.
When the waitress placed a puny plate of greens in front of me, my eyes welled up. I whispered in anguish, “This is a garnish, not a salad.” Carl pushed his over to me, trying desperately to console me, and said, “Baby, you can have mine.” I held back my tears and uttered indignantly, “Thank you.” After what seemed like forever, the main meal was served. I sighed a “thank-you, God” and polished-off the reasonable portion of chicken, three red bliss potatoes and the four green beans that were “the cooked vegetable.” I tried, with all my might, to say, “It’s okay. Some meals are not ideal. You won’t die.” I found solace in remembering that my next meal was a normal dinner (prepared and waiting at home for whenever we returned). I had followed my plan to the best of my ability. The coffee was served and the dancing began.
We stepped onto the dance floor and shuffled our feet through one song. Without alcohol, Carl was not inclined to be in any spotlight. It was okay with me. I liked the shelter of his wing. We sat and watched the others and enjoyed some casual chitchat.
It was time to cut the wedding cake—a scrumptious-looking carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. We watched the bride and groom’s lovely interchange. My mind started roaming into dreamland. Maybe I could have a small piece. I was so “good” at lunch. Who would know? I was in trouble. I considered my commitment to my sponsor and tried to rationalize having one piece. My vegetables were skimpy at lunch; this cake is made with carrots. I can do this. I took my piece. Carl looked at me. Nervously he said, “Are you bringing some cake home for the boys?” Lord, help me. I nodded my head and wrapped it in my napkin. Okay, Lord, I won’t eat it right now.
I placed it ever so gently next to my purse. Relishing the thought of its indescribably delicious taste, I eyed it for the rest of the day. I brought it home and placed it on the counter. Lord, what should I do? God’s still small voice said, “Not for today.” Begrudgingly I said, “Okay, I won’t eat it today.” I threw it in the freezer and wondered if I would be strong enough to resist the temptation tomorrow. Tomorrow is not here. Just for today, I have a plan. The next day came. On my knees I asked, “Lord, should I have that cake today?” The answer was the same—not today, tomorrow you can ask again.
Candy, cookies and special treats were stashed in the freezer for “tomorrow”—peanut butter cups, chocolate chip cookies, white chocolate—my favorites. Self-destruction lurked in the freezer. Lord, help me. Just for today, I will follow my plan. Tomorrow I’ll ask again. In time, months later, I stopped collecting forbidden foods in the freezer. I gained a sure foundation and rejoiced in the truth—sugar and flour are poison for a food addict. I recoil from these “drugs” as one would from a hot flame, just one day at a time.
So don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today’s trouble is enough for today. (Matthew 6:34, New Living Translation)
“We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing.” Thanksgiving—God’s blessings? Thanksgiving is a day of food—wonderful, fancy, mouth-watering baked goods and an elaborate turkey dinner with all the trimmings—stuffing, gravies, mashed potatoes and fancy vegetable casseroles. Life, as I had known it, was over.
I committed my food to my sponsor: “turkey, vegetables without sugar or flour, mashed potatoes and a salad. I’ll bring my salad dressing.” What am I going to do today? I wish I could say that I was sick; I want to stay home. I hate this—no breads, no desserts, no gravy, no stuffing—no “good” stuff. Okay, Lord, I need You to do this for me today. I am sick. I have the disease of food addiction. My food is my food; everything else is not my food, even on Thanksgiving. Help me, Lord.
The relatives arrived. I smiled and acted as if it was great to be together for the holiday. The truth: I was miserable; I wanted to disown my food addiction. Angrily I watched like an outsider. People were sampling the new concoctions and praising the chefs for their creative contributions. The old standbys called my name: the butterscotch pie, the date nut bread, the crispy edge of the stuffing dipped in the turkey grease (the tried and true favorites for me). Drooling on the inside, I must have looked downright disheartened; my well-meaning relatives said, “Lighten up. Live a little for one day.” Too many times, I heard, “Pam, you have done so well. Nobody diets on Thanksgiving; just go back on your diet tomorrow.” Quietly I murmured, “Thanks, but no thanks.” I tried to be polite, but I wanted to scream, “I CANNOT OVEREAT TODAY. I am sick. I have a disease. LEAVE ME ALONE.” I wanted to go home. I wanted to run—to escape—to jump over some hurdle onto safe ground. Please help me, Lord.
In my family, Thanksgiving was a day to excuse overeating. I did it for years. It was another tradition (and a matter of fact): “We don’t diet on any holiday: Thanksgiving, Christmas or on any special occasion.” I vowed that this year was different. I made a solemn promise to stay abstinent and with the help of God, I stayed true to my plan, but it was a very l-o-n-g day. I paced in circles, tried to do some small talk, took trips to the bathroom (where I fell to my knees in quiet desperation) and waited for the day to end.
Around 7 P.M., in preparation to leave, people gathered their portions of the leftovers (another tradition). For the first time in my life, we said, “good night” and went home empty-handed—no food to enjoy for the rest of the day in the comfort of my own home (as was my usual after-the-holiday ritual). I was sad and tired. I said a half-hearted “thank you” to God, and I went to bed emotionally exhausted.
Many days, weeks and months passed after those first few challenging events, and different days presented unique obstacles, but I stayed true to my plan. Was it easy? No way. Was it possible? With God’s help, all things are possible. I learned to accept life on life’s terms. When I thought about food or some person, place, thing or situation that disturbed my peace of mind, I made a phone call; I attended a meeting or I did some form of love and service. I focused my attention on productive, helpful activities. I stopped fighting and I surrendered each new day—Thy will, not mine, be done.