Dirty Little Secret

Since launching this blog just two days ago, I am overflowing with gratitude. The response has been overwhelmingly encouraging and wholly supportive. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU - from the bottom of my heart.

Along with the launch, I sent out a personal request to many. And today, I wish extend this invitation to you.

“Would you please help me to spread awareness of food addiction? I know I am not alone in my struggle.  And yet, the disease of compulsive overeating is often kept quiet, contained to the confines of the kitchen, our jail cell.  I am choosing, now, to leave behind the ugliness of Embarrassment and Shame that have accompanied my disordered eating for years.  I choose now, to replace it with Honesty and Truth in the hope that sharing my wellness journey might help others who suffer. Obviously, this topic is near and dear to my heart. It is my goal to get the message out to as many people as I can possibly reach.”

The disease of compulsive eating is not glaringly obvious. We are your neighbors, the barista at your favorite cafe, and the teller at your local credit union. As mentioned before, this disease is more often than not kept behind closed doors. Held tight and close, like a dirty little secret. By sharing, reposting or emailing this blog, you could be the catalyst to recovery and healing for a person you may not know was suffering. Thank you, in advance, for sharing my story.

Be well,

Anna xx

Hello, my name is Anna. And, I am a compulsive overeater.

For years, I've kept this dirty little secret inside. Only in the past few months did I begin to disclose to others, mostly loved ones or friends, that I struggled with compulsive overeating. To be honest, it wasn't until this past February 2014 that I even knew compulsive overeating was a “thing.”

It was a particularly frigid, sub-zero evening in early February. That day, I had instructed four yoga classes. You would think that I would be wholly zenned out, and yet, on my way home from the studio, Anxiety stuck out her thumb on the side of the road, and I pulled over. She climbed into the passengers seat of my compact 1998 VW Beetle, flakes of snow melting in the heat. I've always had a hard time saying no to hitchhikers, and this one in particular looked desperate.

Once we reached my apartment, I fixed dinner. We ate, and I dropped the dishes in the sink. I opened the fridge glancing inside. I reached for yesterday's leftovers, not bothering to even heat it up. I ate, checking Facebook on my smart phone. I left the tupperware on my table, and walked to the kitchen cupboards. Opening them, I surveyed the options. Grabbing a box, I walked to the bedroom. Handful after handful, I consumed until I felt crumbs at the base of the box. At this point, I was beyond uncomfortably full – and yet, there is always room for dessert, right? Something sweet, and THEN, then I'll be finished. Opening the freezer, my mind as numb as the ice crystals on the walls, I reached for more. “Snap out of it!” a muted voice from the far reaching ends of my brain yelled. But, the actions seemed no longer my own.

Walking back into the living room, I realized that Anxiety had slipped quietly away while my eyes were scanning for sweets. Instead, Guilt, Disgust, and Self-loathing had made themselves at home on my futon. Damn. I was not expecting company. And lately, this trio of sloppy, grumbling house guests had been making themselves more and more comfortable, visiting nearly every evening without invitation.

Being addicted to something, any something, can be terrifying. That night, Guilt, Disgust, and Self-loathing taunted and teased me relentlessly – worse even than the class bully. I had no where to hide. These self-righteous creatures had invaded my home, my sanctuary, my mind. I felt broken and worthless; terrified, horrified, and utterly alone. And this torturous nagging had been going on since high school – only now, it was becoming much more frequent. I felt myself hiking a dangerously slow climb over jagged rocks and crumbling earth on my ascent to the highest peak of Mt. Despair.

I don't remember what I google searched that night, but somehow, by the grace of God, I found www.oa.org. Overeaters Anonymous. A group in the nearby town met every Thursday night at a local church. I texted my friend.

“I'm hurting, I'm afraid, and I need help. I am going to check out an OA meeting next week. I just needed to tell someone. Anna xx”

Six days later, I went to my first Overeaters Anonymous meeting.