On September 9th, 2023, I accomplished a personal first. I attended a gathering of people who I am simultaneously happy to see, and wish I didn’t have to see; however, we’re united by a common struggle.
The first step; a frequently cited trope, is admitting you have a problem, and although walking through the door of my first 12-Step meeting is an experience that echoes off the walls of my subconscious like some clanging gong – abrupt, and disarming, I have to say that the impetus for actually going has been a slow-moving yet still unstoppable growth, like mound of shit built by lazy insects. In essence, It’s taken a long time to get here, but I’ve known I would eventually arrive for some time now.
Yes, I admit I have a problem…
It’s probably the far reaching arm of my ego preventing me from actually putting a name to this problem – I thought I checked my ego at the door, but it still seems to be peering in at me – it’s hard to articulate your propensity for shoveling cookie dough into your mouth with a spoon, or your insatiable love of pop-tarts while attempting to put words together that don’t make you appear completely foolish.
I’m a poetic and a romantic – why can’t I come up with a better word for this problem? Ohhhh… right – it’s because it’s actually not fucking cool… and in this room you’re not fucking cool… and in the presence of these people – these honest and vulnerable and hopeful people, your “out there in the world” coolness factor means precisely nothing. In this room, you are the complete and total embodiment of embarrassment and humility, and you are sitting in a circle with other people who are the same… so no, there’s no fun word for this, so the narrative goes as follows:
Member of the groups: “My name is ___ and I am a(n) ___.”
The rest of the group: “Welcome.”
The “Mad Lib” answer-key version of this is: “Dave” and “I don’t really know, but I know I have a fucked up relationship with food, and I use it to cope with my problems” before I give a coles notes sample of how I inadvertently caused myself an extra 20 minutes of work while doing a home-renovation project and rather than doing the 20 minutes of work, I consumed a couple thousand calories while trapped in some strange, feckless trance – likely for longer than the aforementioned 20 minutes, but in the end I still had to do the extra work I caused myself, so it was a fruitless endeavor.
I’ve transferred my compulsion numerous times in my 41 years of walking around on this planet… but my first fascination was with food, and after I systematically pushed all the bad habits out of my life, I was left with my first love – and the only one I couldn’t truly abstain from: Food. I have other distractions… fitness, my car, music… and they do help me cope with life, but they’re not unmanageable compulsions that have driven me to negotiate terms with a higher power.
I tell my story with a hint of mist in my eyes because I don’t even like remembering it. I’d love to forget it and fill it’s place with music, or art, or some brilliant reflection of what life is supposed to be but instead I have this story – an insignificant blip, and a weak example of why I am really here, but these are strangers and I’m not ready to let them in yet… and when I’m done speaking, I look up from spot on the floor I was staring at – just beyond my left shoe as it cradles my right shoe on the end of my outstretched legs – and rather than seeing judging, laughing faces, I am met with nodding heads and appreciative smiles.
My story ends; as I tell it, in a rather strange place where any other group of people would keep waiting for the resolve, or some calamitous punchline, is instantly relatable in this room. I don’t just feel seen, I feel understood.
As an aside, Today marks 1 calendar year since my last alcoholic drink. I can’t say I was ever counting the days, but I will say this: You can do whatever you want to do, and if it helps you to align yourself with your purpose then you should probably start now if you haven’t already.
Much love.
The Conscious Pilgrim 