The trails around Stephens Lake switchback and intertwine. Each new vista opens up a tableau worthy of an oil painting. Perfect. Except for the stinging bugs. Swatting away a persistent one I consider how I would compose a painting. I picture brushing in an irregular row of honeysuckle vines like the ones standing guard against encroaching woodlands. Maybe with fountains steepling high over a windblown lake. Gray boulders fencing in brightly flowering mounds would add a touch of color. I admire a sculptured blue metal butterfly bench, which beckons me to sit and think about my composition. Joy gushes from my heart.
It’s Mary-Poppins perfect.
I swat a black fly away from my face. Except for that.
Being perceived as perfect has long been one of my greatest passions because early in life I learned that being a “good girl” earned me points redeemable in extra attention and praise. I needed more acceptance, approval and love than I ever got so I became skilled at morphing into whatever I guessed someone wanted me to be. People pleasing.
Yeah, sure, I knew I was a fraud, but it kept everyone happy with me and I didn’t have confrontations. I needed that. In fact I could never get enough appreciation and acceptance. And that’s where the insatiable appetite for more came from. Mostly more food.
Which worked okay until I the whole facade got too hard to maintain. The mask started to crack.
During my darkest hour of self-loathing and hopelessness, my Higher Power, God, granted the Gift of Desperation and led me to FA.
I sailed through my first year of abstinence high on the proverbial Pink Cloud. Without sugar, flour, and insatiable quantities of food fogging my brain, the sky looked bluer, trees greener, and abstinence the sweetest gift ever. I sponged up every word at meetings, hearing different nuances in the readings and amazed at similarities among fellows as they shared experience, strength and hope. At last I had discovered my people. A place where I could be honest. Be myself. I belonged in those rooms. My first AWOL (a way of life where I studied the 12 steps in sequence) birthed new awareness of addictive behavior. My awesome sponsor guided me to understanding and change. The triple-threat of those scary daily outreach calls, which I initially resisted and considered impossible for a phone-phobic like me, gradually became a life-line of inspiration and ideas, as well a springboard for spiritual and mental growth. Authentic relationships blossomed. I got invited to qualify at meetings. To share my own experience strength and hope. That felt great. I sponsored others, learning more about myself and about relationships as an amazing byproduct of service. Holding positions in meetings increased commitment and connection.
With the loss of about eighty-five pounds (about 38kg), the doctor weaned me off two blood pressure and one cholesterol medications. Blood sugar leveled in the normal range. I no longer battled nightly acid reflux and sleep apnea. Everything seemed rosy and, well, perfect.
Until life intervened.
During my second and third years of abstinence, challenging situations sent me to my knees seeking guidance and perspective from God. My grown daughter suddenly didn’t need or want my input anymore. My mother died. Less than a year later, my stepfather passed away. Because my mother-in-law suffers dementia and can’t live alone, my husband went to care for her. A dear friend was diagnosed with cancer. My sponsor had a break. Several of my dearest FA fellows, shining examples of long-term abstinence, had breaks. A couple of them left FA, which rocked my perfect world yet again. Challenges big and small buzzed my head like swarms of gnats.
By the grace of God I managed to stay abstinent one day at a time, but other addictive behaviors took over where my food addiction left off. Numbing out to escape once again commanded huge headspace. At home, I resorted to massive online shopping therapy, binge-watching Netflix, or hours of Ma Jong on the computer. If I was out, a stop at Macys after a stressful morning diverted my attention. I used these distractions in the exact way I used food in pre-FA days when stress or unwanted emotions drove me to multiple stops at fast-food restaurants where I gobbled large quantities. But, my five-foot-one-and-a-half-inch body didn’t balloon up to 197 pounds as it had with my food addiction. With no visible consequences, the shopping escalated. I began hiding purchases and credit card bills from my husband. Outreach calls grew shorter and less authentic. I engaged in multi-tasking during my sponsor/sponsee calls. Sharing at meetings became less transparent. I stopped really listening to the readings. By faithfully completing the minimum requirements to which I’d committed, I kept the new coping mechanisms invisible long enough to run our credit cards up to the limit. When I couldn’t pay the minimum monthly payments anymore, I talked my husband into refinancing the house, insisting that we each needed new cars.
Dishonesty, isolation, pride, and stunted spiritual growth turned the Pink Cloud to black.
Nothing seemed even remotely Mary-Poppins perfect anymore.
I’ve heard that when abstinence slips away, weighing and measuring is the last tool to go. And I never completely let go of that. But I did earn a big red flag warning from my sponsor. Not that it turned me around. For that, I needed to acknowledge my humanness.
After a series of costly, careless mistakes directly attributable to zoning out on shopping, TV, and computer, my sponsor issued a warning. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I called myself names until I could no longer deal with the abuse. At last, I reached out to my fellows. Welcome to the human race, they said. It’s part of our natural bent to fail but doesn’t label me a failure, they said. Be gentle with yourself, they said. God loves you just the same. No one is perfect. Or even close. Recovery is about progress, not perfection.
I marinated in this wisdom, and started a new AWOL. That’s when recovery got a significant reboot.
My powerlessness gives opportunity to appropriate God’s strength and power. Authenticity in phone calls and relationships is critical, even when it means admitting my imperfections. There’s freedom in that. When I expose my failures—not so others can be sorry for me or rescue me but so I can love and accept myself—healing happens. I don’t pretend to be “fine” now. In practicing rigorous honesty in all my affairs I find the only effective way to deal with my emotions. I must identify them, feel them, and talk about them. Even when I don’t feel like doing so. I humbly accept that I am a work in progress—prone to be willful and self-centered—and I learn to be satisfied with a little perfection now and then rather than expecting it constantly. After all, even Mary Poppins was only “practically perfect.”
The park is still beautiful, the sky still vivid blue, abstinence still sweet. I accept the bumps, potholes, stickers and biting bugs along the way. Seeking God’s will and serving my fellows makes my humanness bearable.
That’s perfect enough.