Hunger

He is sitting close to me. I let my head lean gently to one side and rest against his. He nestles into me and I am flooded with the warm glow of anxious longing replaced by thrilling consolation: “He wants me.” And then an instinct arises to defend myself and I close my eyes, willing his gaze to stay transfixed on my face, his lips to find mine, allowing myself to dissolve completely while remaining utterly blameless. Some sound jolts me from this dream and although the room is dark, I know it is late. I was exhausted last night but stayed up until 2am  checking my messages and researching graduate programs. My back and hip are aching. I have been skipping my stretches and have been too tired for dance. And finding it too difficult to concentrate on meditation, my inner solace has gradually drained away.

An ache creeps in remembering it is still some days until I will see him again, and then the shame of realizing how closely I am sliding towards humiliation, putting my reputation in jeopardy with subtle, calculated strategies to gain his attention and affection when he would be an unsuitable partner and likely feels nothing for me in return. But that feeling! If I had some wine, I could be carried away by that vision of complete warmth and security and reach towards him in a cloak of inhibition, but I cannot risk the rise of that deeper sadness that nothing, especially another’s love, is certain. I go to the kitchen to find something to eat. I suspect I will be eating a lot today; watching the rain, feeling tired, feeling cocooned in my cushioned solitude and yet pacing, hungry, for something I will not let myself touch.

It all started a little over a week ago when my boss told me he would not be able to hire on all the temps after the holidays. My confidence shifted to a sense of primal vulnerability. There was no doubt that I had learned all the tasks I was given well, but was I likable enough? I began to adjust all of my interactions to ensure I was as warm, generous, flexible, and patient as possible, becoming aware of all the basic needs I was not at risk of losing – free food, rent money, community. When I ovulated, I felt so much radiant energy that I was lifted high on a wave of certainty that I was admired and powerful.  The dreams began coming of a different man each night, but the inevitable failure of reality to live up to my consuming, electric expectations brought that familiar vortex of blackness, devouring all the light and energy in me that had once been free and leaving me small, rigid, hungry, and afraid.

A five day break from work gave me some space to rejuvenate myself, but also left me undefended by distraction. I started binge eating not just after dinner, but right after breakfast. When I forced myself out for a walk just to stop eating for an hour, I got only a couple of blocks away before the shade and texture of the sky moved my heart. I covered my face and sobbed, “I just want to be touched. And I’m so angry that you won’t let me have it.” I was drenched with the shame of it, of my insatiable hunger, of the hopelessness that I feared would compel me to grab whatever I could get. At least food was something I could have, and although I was still honoring my recovery diet, I had totally lost sense of how much I was eating, going straight for the containers and pots while I cooked even though my belly hurt. Seeing my fridge empty brought an odd sense of relief in knowing the binge could not last forever.

Compulsion – an urge towards an action regardless of the perceived outcome. It is not something I am powerless over. I am choosing outlets that are risky, but pose no real danger – intentionally letting myself be carried to the edge.  I am choosing wholesome food instead of sugar, fantasy instead of sex, and creating small messes with piles of clothes and dishes and compost around my house, and then cleaning them up.  But I cannot stop the momentum of what is moving through me. There is an element of punishment in the pain of it, but also an empowering shade of defiance – proving that my appetite cannot be entirely fettered. And I recognize a twisted self-preservation in it. If I can fill myself to bursting with any sensation, idea, or snack in reach, perhaps I can exhaust myself to the point that I can no longer focus on any feeling or thought and finally find peace.

But although I have a degree of control in directing the flow of my compulsion, overcoming it is not a simple choice. Marc Lewis, in his ground-breaking and engaging new book The Biology of Desire, challenges the classification of addiction as a disease by arguing that the addicted brain is doing exactly what it has evolved to do. It is not concerned with our health, morality, or spiritual well-being – it is simply an elaborate and efficient feedback system designed to motivate us to repeat actions that fulfill our desires. The choices we make are based on a complicated perception of best way to achieve what we want, and drugs, sex, and food just happen to be unbeatable sources of pleasure and relief that require minimal effort. We arrive at the compulsive stage of a full-blown addiction as an outcome of the brain’s tremendous capacity for learning – which is most effective when emotional intensity, concentration, and repetition join forces to fulfill a desire – and its efficiency in creating habits to save energy.

I have spent years cycling in and out of heavy drinking, justifying bouts as a necessary break from anxiety and outlet for my defiance. All the flirtation, make-out sessions, casual sex, and masturbation felt like a healthy expression of my sexuality in an age of expanded social freedom for women. And all the feasting – the endless slivers of cake and fries and cookies and cheese punctuated by Manhattans and scotches – was a well-deserved celebration for all my hard work and socially-sanctioned way of bonding with friends, serving as a bridge to the warmest memories of my childhood. The vomiting, hang-overs, weight-gain, resentment, secrecy, and my increasing willingness to compromise my health, my relationships, my dignity, and even my safety all felt like the inevitable downside of doing what humans do when living life to the fullest. “Embrace the pain with the joy” and “take all things in moderation, even moderation.” It was not the outcome of my addicted behavior that ultimately set me on my current path of recovery – it was getting a taste of sobriety.

Chronic inflammation shut down my vagina, depressing me to the point that I was willing to do anything to get her back up and running. First I stopped drinking. Then I detoxified my diet. Then I started hearing and following the wisdom I had repressed in my core, making some difficult sacrifices to embrace a simpler, more fulfilling way of life. When faced with the opportunity to date in a totally sober state, I realized how over-powered I felt by the energy coursing through my body and how the obsessive, consuming thoughts about a man I didn’t know well and wasn’t even sure I even liked threatened the serenity I needed to navigate a challenging period of transition. I felt oppressed by the fear of both losing him as a source of comforting, invigorating sensation and of losing my sense of self into him. But the compulsion to see and touch this man was so strong I had to admit to myself I had a problem. I delayed the decision about whether or not to see or contact him every hour for days and the strain of it all made me physically sick, a withdrawal of cloying fatigue, headache, and nausea. Finally the compulsion passed, clarity and serenity returned, and I found myself a 12-step group. For the past four months I have been reflecting, learning, and experimenting with sobriety while doing my best not to give into the anger-inspiring beliefs that I will never be free of this, never able to fully enjoy food or sex like a normal person.

Marc Lewis says that many addicts recover completely when the pain and threat associated with compulsion outweighs the pleasure and relief it provides and our desire for sobriety becomes stronger than our desire to get high. The term “recovery”, which implies a return to things as they were, is in itself misleading. Most addicts find they actually grow through the addiction to a place of greater fulfillment than they had ever experienced before, and brain scans reveal they have developed an even higher than average capacity to self-regulate. They have had to examine themselves deeply, unearth the beliefs and experiences that led them to addiction in the first place, and develop a deep commitment to alternative sources of pleasure and relief.

As I felt myself slipping deeper, I began reaching out to my support network, including my counselor. She was able to see me the very next day and when I told her my slide back into compulsion had all begun with my boss’s news about my job insecurity, she revealed the source of my compulsion. Having been bullied for years as a child, and having had a mother with a critical eye and sarcastic sense of humor, I am chronically sensitive to rejection, to feeling like nothing more than a tenuous outsider. Despite all I know in my mind about my skill, likability, options, and financial security, feeling unwanted instilled in me a fear of starvation – emotionally and physically.  Suddenly, I saw my dreams not as hallmarks of an inescapable or insatiable sexual desire but as a longing to fulfill my deeper need to be wanted beyond any doubt. My ability to love myself enough, she assured, will make those longings easier to bear and lead them to lessen over time.

I also recognize that the very thing that leaves me vulnerable to losing myself in compulsive behavior is also one of my greatest gifts and the very thing that can pull me out of them: my capacity for learning. I have the prerequisite emotional intensity, concentration, and stamina for many repetitions in thought and behavior tied to something I find fascinating: an idea for a future career, the twinkle in a man’s eye, a problem that needs solving, or the aroma and texture of a slice of pie. A lifetime of introspection has also made it really difficult for me to lie to myself for long, giving me the foresight to anticipate outcomes and steer myself away from riskier paths.

The combination of emotional vulnerability, insight, and focus that leads one to and through compulsion is perhaps one reason why many artists also struggle with addiction and depression. It is not as much an issue of whether being an artist makes someone depressed or whether being an addiction leads one to create art – the two simply seem inextricably connected. Like binge eating and compulsive fantasizing, my writing and choral work channel my depth of feeling and vitality, and consume my attention in a way that often leaves me emerging after hours stiff, giddy, exhausted, and dizzy with hunger. But both are unquestionably constructive channels for my creativity, sources of meaning and connection, and vital tools for breaking my destructive compulsions.

As the haze clears and I emerge again with fresh clarity, I am also aware that the vulnerability and uncertainty remains. And so I thank you, dear reader, for your contribution to my recovery by giving me an audience, whether real or imagined, that I believe would be disappointed if I surrendered my spirit to the easy fix. And so I hope that the consuming hunger that has visited me this week is simply the death cry of a compulsion that has outlived its usefulness and that over time I will gain an even greater capacity to love myself, endure unsatisfied hunger, pause before acting, and believe that “never” really means “not just yet.”

Nancy

“Understand me. I’m not like an ordinary world. I have my madness, l live in another dimension and I do not have time for things that have no soul.” – Charles Bukowski