This post originally appeared on Faith, Fiction, and Flannery in 2011.
You say that’s exactly how this grace thing works
It’s not the long walk home that will change this heart,
But the welcome I receive at the restart”
—Mumford & Sons “Roll Away Your Stone”
It’s Easter, and the evening is winding to a close. I sit up here in my room listening to the rain pelt against the window. My father watches the late news downstairs. He’s eighty now, and while I know it’s wrong, my patience with him often wears thin. His patience with others is even thinner. Perhaps it’s my way of denying his advancing age and increasing need. My sister Micki once said she believed people got more crotchety as they aged as a way of making their death easier on the surviving family members. That’s a pretty good way to look at mercy, I think.
It’s Easter, and I sit up here, writing, wondering if I have any readers left. Only God in His mercy would see to it that I do, because I certainly haven’t done a thing to retain any. It’s been months since my last blog post, and to the two readers I had, if you are still reading, then all I can say is this: I am sorry.
|Roll away the stone|
You see, I’ve been getting my life in order. The truth of the matter is that I am an addict in recovery. My “substance of choice” is food, but it really could have been anything: alcohol, coke, sex, crack. The trouble is, I’ve been too chicken to do most of those things. So, food seemed safe.
UPDATE 2015: I know now that it wasn’t a choice. Those other options held no sway over me.
Harmless, even. But that “harmlessness” set off cravings in me like any alcoholic or drug addict. As a direct result of my addiction, I ballooned to over 240 pounds. I wore my addiction. It was evident to everyone except me. In fact, it was easy to avoid it. If you don’t look below your neck in a mirror, you don’t see the effects of years of compulsive eating and isolation. Now, I go to 3 or 4 meetings a week. And since I’ve put down my substance, I’ve lost a significant amount of weight. Go figure.
I am an addict who has been to hell and back. On July 17, 2010, I got my sobriety back when I put down the food. On August 26th, 2010, I got my serenity back when I walked into a church basement for the first time in over ten years and uttered the words, “My name is Kim and I am a compulsive overeater.”
|Photo credit:The jof|
I still have to eat to live, but I no longer eat compulsively. I have a food plan and every morning at 7:30 I tell another woman what I am eating for that day. It’s terribly humbling to start the day admitting my brokenness to another human being. Humility and I aren’t natural friends, which is why this daily phone call is so important. But even before I make my phone call, I have two women who call me to make their own humbling admissions. The first call comes in at 6:30 AM.
My addiction doesn’t define me in my totality, this I have come to realize. It doesn’t define me, but it sure as heck wanted to reduce my existence to little more than a slave to it. And I was a willing participant in my own demise.
Addiction is the work of a force that offers me no hope. I need hope. I’m a goner without it. I want more than whatever it is I thought food could offer. Food became the stumbling block, the stone, between me and the only Person who could offer me such beauty; who could roll away the stone of my addiction. That Person, that “Higher Power” for me is Christ.
Christ is risen! He is truly risen! For the next fifty days, Christians around the world will proclaim this in the liturgy. But in order for us to know the Resurrection, we must also bear our cross. For me, and millions like me, addiction is our cross, bearable only because of the presence of Another. We start life again–refreshed and renewed.