My Addiction Centers in My Brain
One of the greatest gifts my second sponsor gave me was the permission to take my relationship with food seriously. Before that, I had spent years minimizing it—dismissing my struggle as a lack of willpower or, worse, a personal flaw. But he showed me I was killing myself by inches.
Today, I don’t downplay my experience. I may joke about some of my quirks, but deep in my heart, I know my illness is just as serious as drug or alcohol addiction.
For the purpose of this post, I’m intentional when I say my problem centers in my brain, not my mind. I’ve heard “it’s all in your mind” used too often to dismiss someone’s pain—as if what they’re feeling isn’t real. But what’s happening to me is real. Our literature describes it as a two-fold illness: a physical reaction (called an allergy) and a fixated brain (known as the mental obsession).
The Physical Reaction
What I’ve learned is that my physical response to food isn’t all that rare. Most of the items I’m addicted to are high in sugar, salt, or fat—or worse, a combination of all three. Think: crinkly-bag snacks, fast food, and nearly every dessert. These foods are designed to override our natural signals, making it easy for anyone to overeat.
But here’s the difference: typical eaters may overindulge, then throw out the food or walk away from the buffet. They don’t plan stops to pick up what they just discarded. In OA, I’ve heard stories—people digging food out of the garbage, leaving parties to grab more, or driving across town for a binge. That’s not willpower gone wrong. That’s addiction.
Once I ingest one of my trigger foods—or engage in a compulsive behavior—I don’t know when I’ll be willing to stop. I’ve experienced withdrawal symptoms lasting up to a week, which tells me my body might still be reacting days later. Thankfully, after about ten days abstinent, the physical cravings fade. (And no—normal hunger isn’t the same thing.)
The Obsession in My Brain
This is where the real trouble begins. Obsession is what draws me back in even after I know better. After the sickness. The shame. The weight gain. The countless times I swore I’d never do it again.
I’ve stuck to diets for weeks—even months—but eventually, without fail, my brain finds a reason to pick up the very thing that destroys me.
The Big Book says obsession is the real problem. Not weakness. Not bad character. Obsession.
I found a definition that says it’s “an idea or thought that continually preoccupies or intrudes on a person’s mind.” And the example hit home: “he was in the grip of an obsession he was powerless to resist.”
Even after months of progress—when I’m fitting into clothes again, feeling energized—a thought will sneak in: You can stop at one. I might ignore it at first, but it keeps resurfacing until it dominates my thinking. It starts as a whisper and becomes a scream. And then, resisting becomes impossible.
The Addiction Drain
When I take the bait—when I eat that trigger food or give in to a compulsive behavior—I’m off. Sure, I might stop at one serving that first time. Maybe even the second. But I’ve never done it consistently.
What is consistent is that once I pick up, I end up eating more—and soon. Sometimes in days, sometimes in hours.
I’ve read a lot about the “addiction cycle,” but honestly? It’s not a cycle for me. It’s a drain. Every time I fall back in, I lose a little more of myself. I feel the physical toll and have no will to stop. And yet—here’s the twist—I feel a wave of relief. A sense of ease, comfort, peace. That’s the trap.
If I could just stay stopped, I wouldn’t deal with the physical addiction. But my brain keeps telling me I can manage it this time. That lie gets louder and louder until I believe it—and I start all over again.
It’s Not Weakness—It’s Illness
Many of us enter OA believing we’re simply “bad” with food. Weak. Lacking discipline. But Step One doesn’t say we admitted we were weak-willed. It says we admitted we were powerless.
I don’t respond to food the way average eaters do—physically or mentally. That’s not a flaw in character. That’s a two-fold illness.
One of the greatest gifts my Big Book sponsor gave me was helping me understand the true nature of my illness. He taught me to take it seriously. To fight—not like someone battling a bad habit, but like someone fighting for her life.
When I embraced that truth, I was willing to go to any lengths for recovery.
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