It’s been two months since sugar has passed these lips, and nearly every night I dream of cake. Sometimes my dreams are heavenly, more often guilty, and, most recently very, very angry.
I'd always been a little bit proud of my sugar addiction. After growing up in a family of alcoholics and addicts, sugar seemed a harmless habit, and there are so many fun ways to eat it.
I don't know when it began. My mother tells me that I was three when the dentist said to lay off the candy bars because they were turning my teeth into black stumps. Her attempts were eventually foiled by my loving grandparents as they could never resist handing over anything I asked of them. I asked for candy.
I know that sugar has been my regular habit since I was old enough to pilfer from the quarter can under my parents' bed and take myself to the liquor store. I would get one of those small brown bags one usually sees wrapped around a bottle of booze and fill it with Laffy Taffy, Neccos, candy cigarettes, Now&Laters, Zots, Root Beer Barrels, Lemon Drops, Pixie Stix, Jolly Ranchers (I loved the way the formed to the roof of my mouth as I ate them), Abba Zabbas, JuJuBees, and Sugar Daddies. If I could afford it I washed it down with a big bottle of Pepsi sipped through a Red Vine straw.
I took myself to my closet-- not because I was ashamed, but because I didn't want to share with my family-- and I ate until my mouth was numb, and my stomach roared in revolt. As I grew older it took more and more sugar to get to that point. But I never threw up, and I never dieted or fasted or took laxatives. I figured I was OK.
I don't hang out in my closet anymore. I do, however, spend a lot of time in my car. After a particularly challenging day, I would drive myself to the store for an Almond Joy and a bag of Sour Patch gummies. Sometimes I’d choose Snapple instead of Pepsi-- in attempt to be healthier (ha!) and gobble it down while I thought no one was looking.
But my tastes have also broadened, which means that after all that sugary bliss I’d still have room for creme brûlée after dinner because that's what grownups eat.
Two months ago, though, I read a novel called The Sugar Queen in which the main character has a sugar addiction, and when she reaches for a treat in a stressful moment, her friend says “You can love that cupcake all you want, but it’s never going to love you back.” A lightbulb went off in my head, like one of Oprah’s Ah-ha moments.
So for the last two months I’ve replaced sugar with exercise, reading, cashews, solitaire, Downton Abbey . . . and then a friend pointed out that if I want to crack the real issue, to stop feeling the craving, having the dreams, I need to stop replacing the sugar and let myself feel what I need to feel, discover source.
Honestly, I haven’t been so good at this bit, but I have an inkling that what I’ve been after all these years is love. I’ve searched for it in many places: in men, in publishers, in Facebook, but even now that I’m married, I’ve had poems published, and 30 comments on one Facebook post, it isn’t enough. There’s nothing that can satisfy that giant craving—except me.
Many people in recovery depend on God’s love to get them through. For me, God is within, and so the answer must be to love myself more. I’m not exactly sure how to go about that, but I also believe that God is in each of us, so maybe I should start by loving all of you more, too.
