As to how I arrived at such an ever occurring state I can easily look back and see if not the fully formed dark bloom of compulsion then at least its deep roots. From early on in childhood I sought comfort, fulfillment and refuge in all goods sugary. In the breakfast hour I reveled in multiple bowls full of Sugar Smacks, Fruit Loops or Captain Crunch. Or else pieces of toast slathered with butter and heaped with brown sugar and cinnamon. In the hours between meals I nibbled at candy in any one of its manifold forms. Lunch and dinners too were never complete without dessert, be it cookies, pie, strudel or cake. And then in the evening there was always a pause in television viewing for something sweet such as ice-cream topped with chocolate sauce or hot fudge.
During my teens my sugar compulsion took on an added twist; I only ate items in odd numbers. This was especially true when it came to cookies. I'd eat only 1, 3 or 5. Never 2. Nor 4. It was a quirk that would stay with me for decades to come and later, when I tried to vanquish my food obsessions, morph into hopes pinned on dates and numerology.
As a waiter in my late twenties and early thirties I stole desserts from my employers and surreptitiously stuffed my face with little regard to taste. I can remember clearly one night while working at a bistro in Boston when an empty wine bottle slipped from my tray and smashed on the patio floor. It just so happened at that very moment I was already seething with disgust for myself and all of humanity. I was in those years a tightly wound tic. Rather than attend to the shattered bottle I marched into the walk-in cooler and stuffed myself calm with handfuls of chocolate moose. It was in no way an isolated incident. My restaurant working history was rife with many such moments of gasping down desserts in moments of stress as if they were the very breath of life.
Later on in my forties I worked for a spell in the catering industry and my pattern of behavior resumed as if never paused. Whether I was wound up or they were just close at hand I jammed desserts into my mouth when no one was watching. I ate until numb with shame and nauseated.
Why did I not stop or eat normally? I tried. Time and again. Year after year. I'd stop out sheer disgust. Or on a specific date. Numbers, numbers, numbers. I willed myself to believe in them. I added up the day and the month and year into a fortuitous sum, or stretched the dates out before me and spoke them aloud as if reciting a magical incantation. Holidays too promised good tidings for changing my behavior. And I would quit. But not for long. I'd once again eat sugar. Then I'd quit again. My history of eating sweets is rifled through with days I quit and swore most adamantly to never again eat sugar. But no matter my resolve or determination the night - and it was most often night - arrived with me bargaining with myself once again to feed that insatiable hunger. I'd tell myself that another day in the offing was more fortuitous for quitting sugar for good. And so I would once again stuff myself silly. There was also the argument after any number of days of abstinence where I swore I could now consume like anyone else free of that dictating compulsion. So I'd try to eat just a little. And I would fail. I would yet again be a daily slave to the unquenchable craving. I was proof positive of two sentiments: One's too many and a hundreds not enough. And It's not what you eat, it's what's eating you.
Sugar was my longest and most intimate relationship. I preferred it over human contact. Many were the nights I took a pass on being with friends to go home alone and gorge on sweets. I would be out and about and in a conversation with someone and the compulsion would take hold of me. I'd lose track of my thoughts and the thread of the conversation. The other person would be speaking and I would go through the motions of caring the whole time salivating over my thoughts of getting home to my buddies, ice-cream and chocolate. Shame too as I mentioned was never far away from my compulsion. The two were intrinsically linked. I would for instance get embarrassed and bruised by the check-out girl who made note of my frequent purchases of sweets and respond by going home to eat in a near frenzy. The next day still hurting I'd go out of my way to shop at a different store where I was less known. For all else be damned I would not let scrutiny stop me. I had to have my ice-cream and chocolate.
Ever onward rolled the juggernaut with shame breeding compulsion and compulsion breeding shame. Both with a hunger never satiated. I was ruled and I complied. It did not matter that on any given day after bingeing I could not face myself in the mirror. By that night I would once again be squirming with a want beyond reason. It would send me once again scurrying to buy ice-cream and chocolate. Or perhaps not, for a day or two. I'd hold off. Somehow. For believe me, when I fought that demanding urge for sweets I was in emotional agony. I was as bereft as a baby denied its mother's teat.
Then came January first of the last year. Once again I swore off sugar, this time for a year. For some reason I can't explain I was able to do what I'd never been able to do for any length of time. My previous record of abstinence from sweets lasted only a month, and it was one fraught with mind twisting compulsion and aching emptiness. This time however things were different. Sure the first week or two I squirmed with want for my buddies. But I was able to somehow not fall prey to the obsession. And one day at a time, the days added up, some seemingly slower than others, they passed until I'd made it through a year without gorging on sugar and sweets.
Now what?
In spite of that serpent like voice that swears a little won't hurt me I think I'll go completely without all things sugary for another year. One day at a time.
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