Writings of Recovery

There are no atheists in foxholes.

I stare at the remaining baked treat positioned on its paper bag nestled on the passenger seat of my car. I don’t want it. I hated the flavor of the first one I ate, my tastebuds have changed so much! Yet, here I am. In the battle. Again.

Food. My comfort. My escape. My idol. The sugar high. The hug of bread. The act of chewing that provides a cadence for numbing- blocking out all the hurts and hangu ups for a few moments. Then, the crash…the shame…the regret. The promise of a new day…tomorrow.

Trying every diet under the sun. Placing my faith in the next weight lost trip, trick, gimmick, supplement, fad. Placing my faith everywhere except where it is supposed to be. And hunger. The deep hunger that food cannot satisfy; that diet cannot satiate, wins.

It is a war. And I in the foxhole. Surrounded by waste around me and in me. I realize this might be where I die. In the trenches, surrendered to the enemy. If I am lucky, maybe I will ‘just’ become a prisoner of war. I might survive, but I will suffer daily under this sadism of addiction.

Sadism? The disease is doing this to me.

Or is it masochism? I am doing this to myself.

Higher Power, help me!I am so confused!

Right here. Right now. Help me.

I surrender.

But surrender to what or whom? That is the question.

And the battle rages on.