Breathless

It’s been a while since I posted. In all honesty this is because I haven’t had anything to say. Things have been going well. I’m nervous about saying that out loud, but they have. Therapy’s really helping. It’s forcing a lot of things to the surface that I don’t really want to face, but that’s part of the process I guess. Whatever it is, it’s helping. There are days when I don’t do so well, but there are more days than there used to be when I’m feeling good, and I definitely count that in the win column.

I haven’t had a drink now for almost two years. That habit appears to have stuck. Healthy eating though is a harder habit that continues to beat me into submission. My personal best is 3 months, which isn’t bad, but I’ve been at it now for over a year and I should be better at it than this.

What else has changed? Well, in December, on my birthday, Tony asked me to marry him. And I, obviously, said yes. I would love to spend this whole post talking about this, because he absolutely blew me away with his proposal, I’m not ashamed to say it was perfect, because it literally couldn’t have been better. I’m writing this post for a different reason though, so I’ll save that for another time. You see, the only part of being engaged that I’m not enjoying is the obligation to lose weight before the Big Day.

I would be the first person to tell any other overweight person not to let anyone tell them how to look on their wedding day, or on any other day of their life. I would remind them of the fact that the person who wants to marry them, wants to marry them specifically because of who they are and how they look. I would remind them that they don’t owe weight loss to anyone, that any person who tries to make them feel bad about themselves isn’t worth their time. I would wholeheartedly believe what I was saying too. Unfortunately though, I don’t extend the same courtesy to myself. I am a slim person who’s gone wrong along the way. I have made myself look terrible and I need to rectify it. The thought of looking back at my wedding photos and seeing a fat bride makes me literally want to cry. I’m not good at being kind to myself. I’m getting better, but I’m not there yet.

So, what am I going to do about this? Well, I took out a class-only membership at the local gym. I’ve even been. Although only three times. I think I’ve been a member for about 5 weeks now though, so that’s better than I’ve ever done in the past.

I went to step class tonight. It’s the first time I’ve done a step class for about 15 years, but I thought I knew what to expect. The walk there was colder than I’d expected – I worked from home today so I wasn’t really aware of the temperature outside. I have asthma and the cold made it a little difficult to breathe, but I started to feel better when I got inside. The instructor was late, and all the usual class-goers were chatting and catching up with each other. I was very much the outsider. No one spoke to me, no one knew me, I wasn’t one of their group.

I took my ticket to the instructor and told her it was my first class. She looked at me doubtfully, sizing me up in all my plus-sized glory, and told me the class was not for beginners, that it was very fast. I said I’d be willing to give it a go, and she said I was very welcome. I followed everyone else, picked up my step and my mat, and my hand weights – for some reason – and went and got a place right at the back of the class, as far away from the mirror as I could possibly get.

She was right. It was FAST. I had no idea what the steps were, but I kept up as best I could. Very quickly though, too quickly, I was running out of breath. It wasn’t the exercise, it was the asthma. My chest was tight, I couldn’t take in enough breath but luckily I knew exactly where my inhalers were – one was at home in my handbag, and one was on my bedside table. I usually go to classes straight from work and so have my handbag with me, but not today. I had two options. I could stick it out until I passed out, or I could pick up my things, admit defeat and leave. Instead I chose to take a breather. Only 10 minutes into the class I went to sit in the foyer to see if I could get my breath back, and to call Tony to bring my inhaler, but he didn’t answer. I called 4 times but he didn’t answer. He’d said he might go for a swim, and that was probably where he was. With no other option I went back into the studio. I checked my gym bag in vain for the inhaler that I should have put in there, but of course it wasn’t there.

I made a half-arsed attempt to join back in. It didn’t help that they were now doing something so complicated that I couldn’t even tell there was a pattern. I hopped about a bit, eventually got into a rhythm, and quickly realised that my time was up. It was with an overwhelming sense of shame and defeat that I picked up my bag and my coat and left the studio. You see, I wasn’t an asthmatic woman leaving a class because she’d foolishly forgotten to bring her inhaler. I was a fat woman, easily the biggest one in the room, who couldn’t keep up with the class and was now so out of breath that she had to go home, only 20 minutes in.

Now, in truth, I don’t actually know what anyone else was thinking. They may have managed to read my mind and realise I was having breathing trouble, they may not have even noticed me. Unfortunately though, I’m not stupid. It is impossible not to notice me in a fitness studio. I am 6ft, very overweight and the only one wearing a dress because leggings and t-shirts aren’t built for my shape. I’m also the only one with bingo wings prolific enough to launch their own online gambling franchise. I feel as welcome as a hipster in a Yorkshire village pub. I know damned well what everyone thought – the looks were enough.

It took me half an hour to do the 10 minute walk home. By the time I got in I was wheezing so hard I felt faint. I was trying very hard not to panic and cry, and the humiliation was overshadowed only by my anger at myself.

Any normal person would have been able to look in the mirror, or at the scales, or at the fit of their clothes and see that they were not losing weight. They would see this lack of progress and recognise that this meant that they were not, in fact, making any progress. Not me though, oh no, not me. I see the fact that I’ve stopped climbing stairs and cycling to work, that I’ve once again started to let unhealthy food edge its way into my diet, and I think “Oh, look at me, I’m doing great!” Reality is not my strong suit. Nor is it my friend. In fact, I’m pretty sure it hates me.

Looking in that mirror at the over-sized, out of breath person that used to be me, I finally realised that I was not doing as well as I’d hoped. At the rate I was going I would not be the slim, toned bride I dreamed of being. No, I would forever look back on my wedding photos and curse myself for not trying harder. I have a chance to lose this weight, to improve my health and to make the actual me look like the past me that I still see in my head, the one I know is still in there, in time for the most important day of my life. If I don’t take it I’m going to resent myself for longer than I care to guess.

So, how is this a win? Well, it’s not. Not really. What it could be, however, is the kick up the arse I need to help me see the reality of my situation and start taking responsibility for changing it. I’m damned well going back to that class next week, WITH my inhaler, and I’m going to do the whole bloody thing. If only to find out what the hand weights were for.

Wish me luck, because I really, really need it.

Weekend wins!

Oh wow, where to start? Things have been going well over the past couple of weeks. Not stupendous fireworks and fanfares well, but the realistic kind of well. The sustainable kind.

So, let’s cover the main points first:

Eating – Great, I’ve stuck to the programme and had no slip-ups for quite a long time now.

Exercise – Slow start, but a very promising finish.

Mental health – Pretty bloody good altogether.

Finances – Errr…..

General wellbeing – Awesome.

Let’s start with the Easter weekend. For most people, the Easter weekend is pretty amazing, containing as it does 2 bank holidays. For Tony and I, however, and all other employees of our particular charity, it contains 3. That’s right, we are given the Tuesday off, for free, no catch, allowing us to savour that rare and fabled beast… The Five Day Weekend. Followed, of course, by the 3 day week. Bloody marvellous.

We chose to use our freedom to go up and visit my parents. I’m becoming increasingly aware recently that the topic of parents is one on which most people are terrifically divided. When mentioning the old homestead and family, people either gush enthusiastically about their loved ones, or pull a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle. Thankfully, I fall wholeheartedly into the first category. My parents are awesome. Like, really awesome. They’re understanding, accommodating, welcoming, interesting, fun and above all, really really nice people. Over the years they’ve been invited to the weddings of 3 of my closest friends, which says quite a lot about what people think of them. Anyway, we were excited for the weekend, and it didn’t disappoint.

My Dad once told me that inside every man is a little boy, and what he desperately wants is a football and someone to play with. Despite the fact that Tony and I are 34 and 33 respectively, he and my Mum arranged an Easter egg hunt for us. No really, they bought us treats, wrapped them up, went into the garden in the morning and hid them. They then left us a note from the Easter Bunny, handed us a bag each and watched with glee while we rooted around in the foliage. I confess to feeling a little foolish when first we ventured out, but I soon got into the swing of things and I loved it. By far the best part was finding that M&D couldn’t actually remember where they’d hidden everything. They subsequently spent the next 2 days wandering around the garden bickering, looking bewildered and pointing at bushes.

Bunny

My parents are big supporters of my health and wellbeing. That should really go without saying but, as I mentioned earlier, it’s not the case for everyone. We had our difficulties, oh yes, we very very did. We went through years of not knowing what on earth was wrong with me, why I was so odd, why I kept putting weight on or why I didn’t seem to be able to function like a normal human being. Their reaction to the fact that I had mental health problems was hugely unhelpful at first. They wouldn’t really talk about it, certainly didn’t understand it and I subsequently felt I had to hide everything from them. However, as they did more research, learned a little more and listened a little more I started to open up to them and actually tell them what was going on. We’ve never had a stronger relationship than we do now. They know about the alcoholism, the addiction, the eating disorder, the co-dependence and have learned how to support me through it all. For this reason, my bag of Easter findings contained no chocolate. No, instead of sugary brown joy that would send me into a spiral of binge-eating, physical allergic-reaction and shame, they filled the garden with amazingly thoughtful gifts wrapped in bright yellow paper. These included candles, bath-related treats, cute little Paperchase note cards in an adorable box and an accompanying pen with abstract cats on it. I love stationery, like, seriously love stationery. Geek. It was so thoughtful, so sweet, and exactly the kind of thing they’d do.

Don’t worry though, Tony’s bag was brimming with mini eggs, creme eggs, white chocolate Easter chicks, and other assorted goodies. Which made him very happy too.

Mum, known for being a damned good cook, has also been incredibly accommodating of my food choices. I turned vegetarian 4 and a half years ago, and she saw it simply as a challenge and starting swotting up on veggie recipes that everyone would enjoy. Having now cut out sugar, gluten, caffeine, alcohol and processed food though, she didn’t throw her hands in the air and shout at me in despairing tones that I could sort my own bloody meals out, as would have been her right, no, she simply saw it as another challenge. When we arrived the table was littered with print outs of sugar free recipes and a copy of Gluten Free magazine. Mum had absolutely surpassed herself. She had managed to make me a sugar and gluten free version of absolutely everything that she was planning to cook that weekend. Seriously! Check out my personal gluten-free bread and butter pudding made with honey!

Pie

Isn’t it the most hipster dessert you’ve ever seen? Especially in its tiny little Le Creuset dish! Awww, middle class win. It was amazing.

This weekend showed me that all this is going to be a damned sight easier than I thought it would be, because I have the support of not only my awesome friends, but my truly one-off parents. I felt pretty special to be honest. I also managed to go for a swim, my first in two months I think. I’d been putting it off mostly because I currently have horrible annual eczema on my hands and seriously couldn’t face the effects of the chlorine. I took my swimsuit though, and I only went and swam a bloody kilometre! Very pleased with that.

So, when Tuesday came we headed south again (traitors) and returned to work. Since beginning to eat properly and exercise more, it’s been amazing how much better I’ve felt. I mean actually fireworks and fanfares this time. I feel healthier, stronger, more positive and more motivated. I no longer put things off, I just do them. I no longer take the lift because I’m knackered, I climb the stairs, and feeling boosted after our jaunt to The North, my motivation was even stronger.

I bought a book about giving up sugar, I bought another containing sugar-free and gluten-free recipes, I bought a set of digital scales so that I could weigh myself every week and keep proper track of my progress, and then I actually did weigh myself when I got home – and recorded it too. I bought some brightly coloured beads and put them in an old glass coke bottle – not an arbitrary task, my intention is to transfer them into another bottle every time I lose a pound (why is a pound represented as ‘lb’? Neither of those letters are in that word?) However, the beads I’d bought were too small and the amount of pounds (lbs) I want to lose took up only about an eighth of the bottle. So I multiplied it by 5 to make it look better. I’m guessing this will also be more therapeutic, transferring 5 beads for every pound lost instead of 1. My motivation didn’t stop at just buying things though. I also dug my poor, long-neglected bike out of the cellar and bloody well rode it.

I hate the cellar. I watch A LOT of horror films and I have a healthy, reasonable mistrust of the cellar. I also don’t enjoy spiders. I went down there though, and went through the horribly frustrating process of pushing a bike with completely flat tires up the basement steps without being able to reach the handlebars. It was covered in dust and mould and crap and cobwebs, most of which I was wearing by the time I reached daylight. None of this really sounds like such an epic win does it? It sounds like an everyday task that anyone would usually do at a weekend. Let me assure you though, that there was a time when the mere thought of going down into the cellar and getting covered in cobwebs would have made me curl a little deeper into my bed and plan to do it later. A later which never came. Now though, I not only decided to get the bike, but I actually got the bike, then I actually pumped up the tires (which took for-bloody-ever) and I actually rode it. I rode it!

In the interests of saving money I’d decided to try to cycle to work. It’s only 3 miles, not a huge feat I know, but it is for me. I was actually surprised with how determined I was to do this, more so than the fact that I actually managed to do it! My problem has always been getting started. I knew once I was on the bike that sheer pig-headedness would get me to my destination, I just had to get on the bike in the first place. When I did I suddenly became painfully aware of those two little bones that you forget you possess until you get on a bike. I chose a direct route, straight along a massive main road, which was a stupid plan because I was terrified the whole way there. I took a clever shortcut though, which led me round an enormous, horrifying roundabout, and which I will not be taking again. When I arrived near my office I stopped in a supermarket carpark and forced my lungs back into my chest. Heat was radiating from my enormous, swollen, scarlet face in such quantities that young raggedy children in Victorian dress stopped to warm their hands and roast chestnuts on sticks against it. I looked as though I’d been inflated and then dropped from a great height. But I’d done it. The fact that I’d have to do it again in order to get back home was something I was trying not to think about, so instead I wandered around Morrison’s and bought cat treats, olives and a copy of Die Hard 5 (£3 – bargain!).

When I could walk again, and had forced two Nakd bars down my neck to stop my hands from shaking, I mounted my trusty steed with my two burning bones howling in protest and set off home again. I’m literally amazed that I cycled all the way home again too. When I arrived I was exhausted, a kind of exhausted I hadn’t known for years. A wheezy, breathless, light-headed, shaky exhausted with a glow of pride about it. And a massive headache. A really bad one, the kind that doesn’t even disappear when you go to sleep. It was worth it though.

So, I’d done it, I’d proved that I could cycle to work and back every day. Which means that I’m now going to have to do just that. Not today though, today is therapy and I’m not cycling the 11.4 miles there, let alone the 11.4 miles back again.

Other wins this weekend included: gardening, cutting the grass, eBaying clothes that are now too big for me, putting up pictures, booking my accommodation for my trip to the U.S. in August, doing 3 loads of laundry, picking up my prescriptions and doing a grocery shop. This is literally more than I have done in one day for longer than I can remember. I cannot tell you how positive I feel, how powerful. I even painted my toenails.

I wish I hadn’t stayed up late to watch a film last night though. No film is worth feeling tired over, especially not Final Destination 4.

The trials of afternoon tea

Let’s talk about afternoon tea shall we?

My alleged best friend is abandoning me and our beloved Blighty and buggering off to the US of A for no better reason than to marry the love of her life. Some bloody people, eh? However, before she leaves she has a to-do list of terribly British things that won’t be available in America. Afternoon tea is a recurring motif amongst the items on this list, one with which I am quite happy to assist.

Now, it’s true that not all afternoon teas are created equal. Take the one I recently had at Soho’s Secret Tearoom as part of a hen do celebration, for example. I was pretty worried about this particular part of the hen do, because it would be the first time I’d had to put myself forward and speak up about my dietary requirements. The thing that had previously stopped me doing this is that I don’t actually think I have the right. I don’t assign my addiction the same weight and importance that I assign to other people’s allergies and intolerances, and I think that the reason for this is that I consistently look at myself through other people’s eyes and judge myself in the way that I (usually unfairly) imagine these other people to be judging me. By speaking up I’m frightened that I’ll have to say the word “addiction”. I’m frightened I’ll have to explain the eating disorder. Above all though, I’m frightened that other people think I’m simply being an awkward fussy eater with a made-up condition who’s trying to get attention. Luckily though, this is why I have a therapist, and one of the things I learn in therapy is how to talk about and value myself. It’s an incredibly simple trick actually, but one I would never have thought of. Which, again, is why I’m there. Duh!

My therapist spent weeks trying to get me to stop being so hard on myself – to stop referring to myself as “such a dick” whenever I did something wrong, and to stop reprimanding myself for being stupid enough to have an addiction when other people somehow managed not to, but nothing worked. One day though, she took in all the things I’d said about myself and then asked me what I’d do if someone said those things to my 3 year old nephew, she asked me to *really* imagine it. Alas, I can think of no other phrase to adequately describe my feelings at this point than, “shit just got real”. In my mind I gathered him up and rushed him away from the offending person, put him somewhere safe, told him he was loved and awesome and not to listen, and then returned and punched aforementioned offender in the face. In other words, the appropriate course of action. Why, then, could I not protect myself? It was this trick that helped me to take this first step and put my needs out there, to tell the tearoom what I could not eat, to take away temptation and protect myself from the crippling consequences of succumbing to the addiction. I was proud of myself, I had done a positive thing and attempted to put my wellbeing first. It’s unfortunate then that it failed, miserably.

According to the person who made the booking, the tearoom boldly claimed to be able to cater to any dietary requirement – to be fair though, this isn’t stated on their website. Anyway, the venue was lovely, I greatly enjoyed passing behind a bar and up a secret-looking staircase to get to the tearoom. It was endearingly short on elbow-room, with mismatched cups and saucers occupying all available surfaces, and the (largely female) population snugly but delicately perched on a variety of differently-shaped chairs. Unfortunately however, my request for a vegetarian, gluten-free, refined-sugar-free afternoon tea was forgotten. No, really, I was informed upon arriving that the chef had literally forgotten to make anything sugar free. He had, however, made lovely gluten-free, vegan, sugary treats for the only other person with dietary requirements – a whole plate of awesome looking cakes, a scone (to rhyme with gone) and some gluten-free cucumber sandwiches. When I looked understandably crestfallen at the news that would not be able to partake, they managed to rustle me up what amounted to two gluten-free cucumber sandwiches, but I’m afraid that was, as they say, ‘it’.

I sat there, I drank my (really delicious) pot of rose tea, I ate my cucumber sandwiches and I tried to ignore the fact that all around me people were tucking into the most amazing looking cakes. I attempted to fit in, I tried really hard to be “normal” and interesting and fun, but I was overwhelmingly socially crippled by my own insecurities and sense of embarrassment. In a last ditch attempt to salvage some perceived dignity, I slipped off to the counter and asked a waitress whether it would be possible for them to make some gluten-free versions of the other vegetarian sandwich options (egg mayo or cream cheese & chive). However, and this was the crowning glory, not only had they now run out of gluten-free bread, but they claimed that I couldn’t have had them anyway as I was a vegan. Which was news to me.

I turned Humiliation Pink, escaped to the loo to re-group, and decided the best course of action was one that involved giving up and going home. Which I did. I’d tried, I’d put myself first, I’d attempted to look after my wellbeing and I’d been left feeling disillusioned, deflated and a little bit sad, like a bargain flan in a cupboard.

To give them their due, Soho’s Secret Tearoom were very apologetic, and they didn’t charge me for the delicious pot of tea, or the 2 cucumber sandwiches I consumed. Which was nice. It also wasn’t entirely their fault that I felt the way I did. As lovely as the day was, and as happy as I was to be there, I hadn’t realised that the only person I would really know was the bride-to-be, whose attention was, quite rightfully, pulled in several directions. I was also over-dressed. Which I hate. All in all not a good day to choose to make a big, brave stand against addiction.

After bemoaning my sad and sorry situation to aforementioned best friend, it was decided that we would attempt afternoon tea again the following weekend, that it would be an astounding success, and that we would get dressed up to the nines (whatever they are) and have a simply marvellous time. We chose our venue from Londonist’s Sugar-Free Guide to London, and we chose wisely. Namely, we chose the Guiltless Afternoon Tea at the Wellington Lounge of the Intercontinental Park Lane hotel. Not only was the entire menu free from refined sugar and gluten, but they did an entirely vegetarian spread and even made me a non-alcoholic version of the cocktail. The lounge itself was luxurious, comfortable and elegant without being exclusive, the staff were knowledgeable and welcoming, the white peony and rose tea was beautiful and the food itself was perfect, really perfect. The cakes tasted no different to “real” cakes and the savoury items were so much better than sandwiches could ever be. I felt better, I felt more like myself, I felt like I belonged, and I felt pretty damned good because we got £10 off each with a trusty voucher!

Afternoon tea 3

This post isn’t about shaming Soho’s Secret Tearoom – it was an unfortunate situation which could have happened to anyone, and they handled it with care and consideration. The place itself was lovely, and I would very much like to go back in the future and give it another try. Nor is this post intended to be in any way derogatory regarding the hen do, which was immense fun with some really lovely people and I thoroughly enjoyed it – especially the Sing-Along-A-Frozen screening at the Prince Charles, “LET IT GOOOOOOOOOO”. This is a post about my own failings and limitations, my attempts to overcome them, and the utter and inimitable joy that can be found in getting really, really dressed up and going somewhere posh.

Afternoon tea

The story so far…

So, what a year, eh? We’ve touched on the alcohol thing, but what about the rest?

Alcoholism isn’t something you talk about. Not really. It’s a bit of a conversation-stopper in fact. If you mention that the reason you’re not drinking is not in fact because you are pregnant (we’ll get to weight-loss soon), but that you’re an alcoholic, people tend to have to stop and contemplate the image that immediately enters their heads – one of you passed out in a gutter at 9am with a can of Special Brew in each hand and any ability to hold down a job or relationship dribbling away from you in a foul-smelling stream. Thankfully, this is not what happened to me. In fact, it was this image, the myth of the stereotypical alcoholic, that stopped me from seeing that I had a drink problem at all.

Alcoholics come in a myriad of shapes, sizes and severities, which I discovered upon attending my first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. The meeting itself, along with its members, I won’t mention, as that would negate the “Anonymous” part, but the experience was something I’ll never forget. I suffer from that very English affliction of not wanting to put people out, make a fuss or impose. For this reason, sitting in a room full of assorted strangers and being asked to share my darkest secrets, and worse still – being given phone numbers so that I could call strangers should I need help! – was not my idea of fun. Although, to be fair, my idea of fun was what had landed me in that situation in the first place, so I was prepared to give it a go.

As it turned out, I was, in my own expectations, perpetuating the myth of what an alcoholic was. I was completely unprepared for the fact that these people were just like me. We all sat, we all told how alcohol affected us, we all had surprising stories that elicited nothing but pity, understanding and solidarity from the room.  We were all supposed to be there, there were no mistakes. It didn’t matter that I didn’t feel the need to drink every day. It didn’t matter that I didn’t need a drink first thing in the morning to be able to face the day. It didn’t matter that my only perceived “crime” was that I was a weekend binge drinker. What did matter was that once I had a drink, one drink, I was physically and mentally unable to stop. I would drink until I hit oblivion, willingly, happily, over and over again, and that is all it takes to be an alcoholic: drinking in a way that is detrimental to your health, or over which you have no control.

If I’m honest, I knew I had a drinking problem for years. It wasn’t until I was forced to face it though that I saw it for what it was. I had struggled with mental health problems for years, never really knowing what was wrong or how to even consider fixing it, until the time came that I couldn’t ignore it any longer.

I was working for a small charity in London, and being stretched far beyond my limit, far beyond breaking-point, when it finally happened. I was so disconnected with reality that I had entirely lost sight of how very badly my job was going. It turned out that they were as disillusioned with me as I wholly and completely was with them. We reached a (non-mutual) understanding, where they would neglect to help me through it, and in turn I would agree to resign in order to make their lives easier. If you note a tinge of bitterness, you’re not imagining it, it’s definitely there. Anyway, upon leaving my only link to the real world I immediately set about getting help before all my social-need muscles atrophied and I went to live in a hole somewhere. I cannot say how grateful I am that I have parents prepared to pay in order for me to get the fastest and best help. This is not an avenue open to everyone and I will never take this extraordinary privilege for granted.

The reason I wasn’t already in treatment was that I’d already been through the NHS and come out the other side none the wiser. This time though was different, so off to the Priory I went for a psychiatric consultation. An hour later I came out with a diagnosis of depression (expected) and co-dependence (not expected), and an appointment with a therapist who thankfully worked outside the Priory so that I could afford to see her.

In the course of my subsequent treatment I was led to discover that I was an addict. I was never told, it was never suggested to me, I was led down the right paths until I discovered it for myself. First of all we tackled alcoholism. It didn’t take me long to figure that one out, though I do not mean to make it sound like an easy thing to beat. I was so unbelievably angry when I realised I’d have to give it up. Palpably, measurably angry. The thought of never again having a glass of Champagne to celebrate a wedding/New Year, the thought of trips to the pub for exciting pints of soda water, the thought of never again, never ever, being drunk literally made me want to shout and shout and throw things and blame someone, anyone, for the mess I found myself in. Unfortunately though, there was no one to blame but myself.

Next, and hardest of all, we tackled food addiction. This took a lot longer and is still the biggest struggle of my entire life. I have been sober for 10 months and 28 days. I have been a clean-eater for fewer than 3 months. See, I’m not an alcoholic, not really. I’m an addict as a result of being a co-dependent. I can make an addiction out of anything – alcohol, cigarettes, gambling, shopping, food, love etc. Thank God I never took up drugs or gambling – I can honestly, hand on heart, say that I would be dead by now if I had.

My addictions are: alcohol, sugar, caffeine, refined flour, cheese, processed foods and additives. It is necessary for me to cut all these things out of my life. My food addiction counts as an eating disorder. The foods I cannot eat are trigger foods – they elicit an allergic response which triggers my addiction. I consume the food/alcohol, I want the food/alcohol, I consume the food/alcohol, I want the food/alcohol. Nothing else matters. I will lie and cheat to get what I want and I won’t even realise I’m doing it. As the person I’m lying to and cheating the most is myself.

So, here I am. I’m a non-smoking, teetotal, non-drug using, gluten-free, sugar-free, processed food-free, clean-living vegetarian. I read endless articles about food triggers, diet fads (to know what to avoid) and the benefits of clean living (and collect endless recipes on Pinterest). I’ve taken up Zumba, I swim again and I fight every single day to keep my addictions in check. Because they are all-consuming and they are life-threatening and I cannot risk ever slipping back into them again. Food can be the most dangerously addictive substance there is, and unfortunately it’s the one substance you can never give up. My life could not be more different to what it was at the start of this process. My life, and my relationship, have never been better.

Teacup

The cup that started it all.