I love the Twenty-Four Hours a Day book. It reminds me of where I used to be—I was an addiction hopper, depending on many things in addition to food.

I remember depending on alcohol to break down my shyness so I could have a good time dancing at country music bars. I remember moaning and groaning with a whiskey bottle in my hand when I had a bad sore throat, and I expected my husband to take charge of getting me to a doctor. That immaturity amazes me now that I am on the other side of owning my own responsibilities.

I have a clear memory of what I did to manage my high anxiety when I had a fight with my husband.  I couldn’t get to the store fast enough for a pack of cigarettes for a nicotine fix. When it came to food, it seemed I didn’t need a particular reason to eat. A craving could just appear seemingly out of nowhere. I had become a full-fledged food addict. I remember one particular craving when, without even as much as a second thought, I got up, went to the kitchen, mixed up something sweet, took the bowl and mixing spoon to my chair in front of the TV, and ate. What was meant to be baked didn’t get to the oven. I didn’t see a thing wrong with it, nor did I see how I looked with 195 pounds on my growing and groaning body.

One night, immediately after my husband left for work, I took three of his flour and sugar products out of the refrigerator, sat in front of the TV and ate one after the other. A thought entered my mind: You know you’re playing Russian roulette with diabetes.  I thought, Come and get me diabetes. I’d rather have you than give this up.  If that isn’t insanity, what is?

I finally surrendered to the fact that I was powerless and that I couldn’t stop eating, even though my mind said I should. I was so tired of the internal fight—getting the message in my mind that I had eaten enough, closing the package, and not being able to last even a minute before I was back into the substance again. I hit bottom. I gave up. When offered my drug of choice, I would answer, “You know I can’t say no.”

Then my miracle came. I heard people praising someone who had lost weight that she looked fantastic. I wanted praise like that. I pursued the woman who was praised.  “How did you do it?” I asked. She invited me to an FA meeting. I got a sponsor at that meeting.

One day at a time, I wrote down exactly what I would eat and committed it to my sponsor. Each day turned into many in which I faithfully weighed and ate the food I committed. I experienced withdrawal symptoms for a while, but they didn’t last. The swelling in my fingers, hands, feet, and ankles left.  So did the discomfort in my knee. I became clear-headed. Like I did then, I still go to meetings and knit myself into the groups by making phone calls. I read the suggested literature.  I write, and I find joy in service. It has become a way of life for me.

I have maintained 130 pounds and I don’t experience cravings any more! My Higher Power offered me a way to get over eating addictively through FA, but that doesn’t mean that I’m cured. With every-day maintenance of this way of life, my disease remains in remission.