When I was in nursery school, I used to climb to the top of the jungle gym at recess every day. When my mother, who was a teacher at the school, asked me why I did that instead of playing with the other kids, I answered, “if they want to play with me, they can climb up here to me.” It was a defense mechanism, of course, because I desperately wanted to have friends, but I just didn’t know how to connect with the other kids, so I pretended that my isolation was my choice. This was how I lived my whole life. I told myself that anyone who wanted to be friends would have to come to me. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I had few friends growing up. I constantly fantasized about being one of the “popular” kids, but I never figured out how to make or keep friends, so more often than not, I found myself alone.
Once I learned to read, I was able to escape into the world of books, and the characters in the novels became my companions. I was never without a book, and I was never without a snack to go along with my reading. All of my books had thumbprint stains on the pages and crumbs mashed into the spines from the things I ate while reading. At some point, TV replaced my books, and I spent the majority of my time bingeing on daytime soap operas and junk food. I gained weight, going from a sturdy but normal-sized child to a plump adolescent with a bulging stomach.
As a teenager, I wondered why I wasn’t invited to parties and why no boys paid any attention to me. I didn’t realize that it was due to my own behavior. I made no attempt to cultivate a social life, and I rarely initiated plans. I didn’t take good physical care of myself, and my personal hygiene left a lot to be desired. When I did have an opportunity to interact with other kids my age through the occasional youth group mixer or school dance, I would bring a book with me and sit in a corner reading until the activity was over. I didn’t know then that I was suffering from a disease of fear, doubt, and insecurity that left me with crippling social anxiety.
I continued to hide behind food, books, and TV screens as I attended college, studied abroad in Italy, backpacked in Australia, and moved to New York City to go to graduate school. On paper, my life looked exciting and fulfilling. I traveled, I participated actively in theater and musical groups, I held multiple jobs, and I excelled academically. But the reality was that whenever I wasn’t in class or working, I was in front of the TV, binging and drinking myself to sleep every night—even in Australia. I had a few close friends, fewer acquaintances, and no boyfriends. This lasted for 10 years.
Around the time I turned 27, it became clear to me that something needed to change. I felt stuck. I was more emotionally invested in the lives of the fictional characters on my favorite daytime soap opera than I was in my own. I was 215 pounds, checked out from reality, and utterly miserable. I can’t say exactly what it was that got me to my first FA meeting, but when I read the question “Are you waiting for your life to begin ‘when you lose the weight,’” I thought, yes! That’s me! How do they know? A week later, I got a sponsor, I started weighing and measuring my food, and I began to face reality for the first time.
I learned that I had a disease of food addiction and that my disease was responsible for the fear of people that had kept me at the top of the jungle gym my whole life. I learned that if I wanted to have more friends, I had to be the one to reach out, to initiate plans, and to follow through by showing up—without a book. I was comfortable with my close friends, but when I was around other people, I didn’t really know what to say or how to interact, so my sponsor suggested that I go early to meeting and eat with fellows, for practice. I learned how to ask questions and really listen to the answers, and this helped me to build relationships with my colleagues and neighbors. I started opening up to others, and they in return opened up to me. For the first time, at 27 years old, I learned how to let people in.
After a year of abstinence, I began dating, even though it terrified me so much that I had to make outreach calls before all of my dates to prevent myself from turning the car around and going home. For a long time, I prayed that the men would cancel so I could go home and watch TV, but eventually dating started to get easier, and on some occasions, it was even fun. Finally, after eight years of online meet-ups, singles mixers, and a whole lot of showing up, I met the man who would become my fiancé. Although I had a lot of fear at various times throughout our relationship, I didn’t try to isolate or run away, and I didn’t eat; instead, I got on my knees and asked my higher power for help.
Because of this program, I have lost 75 pounds and kept it off for the past eleven years. Today, I spend my days surrounded by friends and family, not the blue glow of the TV screen. I read for entertainment, not to escape. I host a monthly game night, and every year I invite 40-50 people to my house for a holiday party. I have wonderful relationships with my fellows and colleagues. Eleven years ago, I realized that I only had one life to live. Today, I am actually living it.