One of Twelve
The place to start and the place we return to over and over again.
One of Twelve. Talking about the 12 Steps here. Not Seven of Nine, that gorgeous former Borg drone who debuted on Star Trek Voyager. And no, to clear up any confusion, lest you judge me inaccurately, I am not, nor have I ever been a Trekkie. I just think Jeri Ryan is stunning, and between Jeri and Kate Mulgrew my plate was full. As I started to write this essay I got distracted by my title and it took me through a wormhole. I thought it would be fun to take you along for the ride.
When Voyager ended, I exited the Trekiverse for other galaxies that were more relatable. I tend toward more realistic phony representations of life on this planet in my century. Well, except for Groot.
I know, I know. I should have killed that darling, but my phaser wasn’t working.
Let’s get back to it.
Step One:
We admitted we were powerless over our eating disorders – that our lives had become unmanageable.
So, yes. That “One.” Good ol’ Step One. The place to start and the place we return to over and over again for the rest of our lives as people with ____________ (insert appropriate maladaptive coping mechanism that might be a better fit for you.
Choose from the following options:
Alcoholism (AA), substance use disorder (NA), gambling (GA), debt and underearning (DA), eating disorders (EDA), compulsive overeating (OA), sex and love addiction (SA & SLAA), codependence (CoDA), workaholism (WA), adult children of alcoholics and dysfunctional families (ACA)
I’m sure there must be more, but I can’t keep track. We humans can be a troubled bunch. Disordered eating is my number one, but I could benefit from working a couple of other programs (ACA & DA). I’ve encountered people in program who are over-achievers, and attend multiple fellowships, choosing to deal with––and heal from––more than one “affliction” at a time. For now, one at a time is more than enough for me, though I am contemplating beaming into the rooms of ACA…I didn’t come from an alcoholic family, but dysfunctional? Oh, yeah. Where can I sign up?
Taking Step One means being willing to surrender. Admitting powerlessness. Possibly feeling shame. The shame that I felt when I finally admitted I was powerless over my eating disorder couldn’t hold a candle to the shame I felt when faced with weigh-ins at my doctor’s office, clothes shopping, invitations to large events or one-on-ones with people who I know love me, the people I should feel safe being myself with. That self-consciousness and shame has followed me around as my buddy, my companion, my shadow. The voice in my head that repeated ad infinitum, “you are no good, you don’t deserve to _______ (fill in this blank, too).
One would reasonably think that the choice between grabbing on to hope that something could help me when I had been unable to help myself or staying with my old pattern of repeating the same defeating behaviors should be an easy one, right? Why would that be so hard? To admit that I wasn’t in control? To show my vulnerability? To be humble? To ask for help?
The only way for me to do that was to become so desperate that I was finally willing to admit that I couldn’t recover on my own. I had to let other people in. I had to learn to trust myself and others. I had to take a leap, be brave, show myself as I really am, and not wear the mask that I’ve used to hide myself from the world…and myself. To scream, to plead, to cry: I’m drowning and I don’t know how to swim!
Step One is an opportunity to wave a white flag, to put a floatation vest on so we don’t drown, to raise both hands over our heads, and yell, “I surrender,” or “Uncle!” To say “God help me,” if we believe in a god that can relieve us of our burdens. I needed to open to the possibility of something better, something I didn’t necessarily understand with my thinking self––the self that I depended on to help me survive––but to learn to understand with my heart, my soul. I didn’t fully comprehend what a soul was until I started this work. Honestly, I still don’t get it completely, but the glimmers are there. I had to be open to not knowing all the answers. To be willing to open to mystery. To place faith in something I couldn’t necessarily define, when I wasn’t sure I knew what faith was. I wasn’t sure I could go there. I prefer the concrete to the abstract.
I have spent my life needing to parse things intellectually. I’ve not been very connected to understanding my pain––or taking responsibility for it. I’ve been too afraid to feel my grief. So instead, I’d get depressed. I was more interested in blaming others for my pain, instead of actually feeling it and trusting that I would survive if I did. I tried everything I could to bury it, to shove my hurt and rage and frustration down. Instead, I subconsciously devised a system of denial, lies, and distractions. I numbed myself with food.
I was afraid that if I started feeling, I’d get buried under an avalanche of shame, pain, and self-hatred. What I failed to realize was that I was buried under an avalanche of shame, pain, and self-hatred. Maybe I was afraid of letting it go. The behaviors must have served me in some way. Or maybe I was terrified of discovering what kind of person I might be without all that baggage. Or that the idea of letting go just felt impossible and exhausting. I tried to figure it out for years.
Maybe that was the problem. Was it possible that there were things that had to be understood by the heart, by the spirit? What was spirit, anyway? Maybe I was afraid of being perceived as stupid because I was like a fish out of water if I couldn’t rely on my analytical brain and had to yield to something not so easily defined. Hard as it is to admit, being miserable, angry, and self-hating was a huge part of my operating system. There was something sickly satisfying about it.
And 12 Step programs felt like so much hocus pocus to me.
It has taken me YEARS to surrender. To acknowledge that “my way”––whatever that “way” was for me––wasn’t working. My way had to do with trying to control everything, but all of my attempts yielded similar results. I was out of control. Dieting, fasting, cleansing, starving, over-exercising, laxatives, wishful thinking, body dysmorphia, and almost bariatric surgery. Not one method worked for long term success. Nary a one. Nada. Nil. Zip. Zero. Did. not. work. Because it’s never been about the food. It’s always been about what’s underneath. The pain, the fear, the self-loathing, the lack of connection to something greater than myself.
My life had become unmanageable. Getting terribly honest here, my life was unmanageable for ages before I hit the bottom I needed to hit to commit myself to the work of recovery. And my life was unmanageable in areas besides food. My disordered eating was how I expressed my dysfunction. It’s the way I acted out and tried to fill the hole in my soul.
The day I walked into that virtual room––and we read the 12 Steps out loud––that was the day I admitted that I was powerless over my eating disorder, and began my process of healing, finally willing to not know all the answers, to hand myself over to a group of like-minded people who understood me in a way no else has, and who were there to save their own lives and to help me save mine.
When I went to that first meeting and raised my white flag in the air for all in attendance to witness, they welcomed me in and invited me to join them on their journey to freedom. I willingly accepted the invitation. My gratitude knows no bounds.
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Step One. A two-parter. Admitted we were powerless over X and that our lives had become unmanageable. I knew I was powerless but it took more than five years to see the unmanageability that was so plainly obvious to complete strangers. I fought against surrender but kept hearing, "surrender is not defeat, it's a laying down of arms and crossing over to the winning side." That took almost seven years to penetrate my thick skull. In the beginning, I knew I was smarter than everyone else in the room, didn't need to work any steps, ask anyone for help. I could figure it out on my own. Except I couldn't and if I had been able to do that, I never would have wound up in "the rooms." I'da just been dead. That's what I could figure out. Figure it out, thank goodness, is not one of the steps.
-- "Maybe I was afraid of letting it go. The behaviors must have served me in some way." Exactly. Coping mechanisms that saved our lives, became ingrained, and almost impossible to shed even though the life we have now no longer requires them.
---The best thing about 12 step recovery is there is no timeline. If there was, I'd've been out on my ass. Love you long time🩵💙
That white flag of surrender. Mine was when I surrendered certainty - or rather, the illusion of it. It’s so hard GET to that white flag, but when we do, that’s when we make the turn towards understanding. And get on the road to healing. Thank you for sharing, Nan. ❤️🩹