Later that week, on Friday evening after dinner, I drove the girls to Baskin Robbins on
Canon Drive, in Beverly Hills. While waiting for the girls to select their favorite flavor
for a one-scoop cone, I instructed the employee behind the counter to fill the largest ice
cream tub with “a scoop of all 31 flavors.” I watched with wildly beating heart as Mint
Chocolate, Jamoca Almond Fudge, Butter Pecan and Strawberry Ripple were ladled into
the tub, followed by all the other flavors.
The filled container was so heavy; I could barely carry it into the house... I must have
checked my watch a dozen times while getting the girls ready for bed. As soon as I closed
their bedroom door, I headed back to the kitchen. Selecting a tablespoon from the
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silverware drawer, I removed the massive carton from the freezer, and standing at the
kitchen counter, I began to conquer the entire caloric contents. I savored every flavor and
noted the difference in texture. Nuts, fruits, chocolate, caramel, peanut butter, toffee and
on and on. I was on a mission of self-destruction; I thought I was living out my longtime
fantasy. I didn’t have to make a flavor choice, and I could have as much as I wanted now,
no one was watching or judging me. But, surprisingly, after I had scraped the last
spoonful from the tub, I still felt empty.
That really scared me. Why was I not stuffed? And then it came to me. There never
was going to be enough ice cream to fill my emotional hole. Ice cream-or any type of
sugar, food, alcohol, drugs- none of it could fill an emotional hole. Oh my God, I was
overwhelmed by the sense of emptiness I felt. I had hit rock bottom. I was miserable,
unhappy and in pain. Again I realized there was never going to be enough ice cream to
satisfy my craving for sugar-filled comfort. I had glibly recited in AA meetings and
Weight Watchers that I was addicted to food. Now I fully understood that I was not
addicted to food. I was addicted to trying to fill an emotional hole. The seriousness of
my insatiable craving. It was controlling my life as effectively as alcohol or destructive
drugs.
At that moment, a vision of my grandfather’s teeth soaking in a glass of water at his
bedside passed through my mind. If I continued to live as I was, the day would come
when my own teeth would occupy such a tumbler while I slept. Probably sooner, rather
than later. If the loss of one tooth could humiliate me, being toothless would keep me in
my bed, never to see the light of day.
One day in March of 1977, I listened more intently to the words of the practitioner at
the Science of Mind Institute. I don’t remember the specific day. Perhaps I should,
because of the impact and significance it represented in my life. “When a practitioner
declares and removes any obstruction and states that the person is now all right, he is
free from that condition. It can never return.”
My mind raced through the possibilities. For the rest of my life, I would be free from
the urges that had such power over my self-control. This was a tall order, but in a grand
design of the Universe and with God in, thru, and around me, I felt I could do it. It would
involve an unflinching and steadfast faith, but it would bring a freedom to enjoy my life
once again, perhaps for the first time ever. I would be emancipated, liberated,
unhampered, and released of my unimpeded need for comfort through sweet calories.
I
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