Filed by Trevor at 11:32 pm under Addiction, Social Issues

Alcoholism runs like a dirty river through my blood line. My natural father, grandfather, great-aunt, and uncle were all alcoholics, and as far as I know my uncle is the only person who successfully overcame it. I know nothing of my natural father’s current whereabouts, I never met my great-aunt, and while alcoholism wasn’t the direct cause of my grandfather’s death, it eroded the quality of the latter 28 years of his marriage and weakened his body considerably. My grandmother has outlived him by 14 years and counting and is no doubt rueful of the fact that his dependency is almost certainly to blame for robbing her of all of that time she could have had with him.

Hence why my mother has always been justifiably frightened that I would follow the same path and has always been uncomfortable with any reference of mine to drinking. But in this respect, I’m very lucky. Alcohol has never had more than a casual role in my life, and while I’ve certainly had my share of drunk-epic-fail moments, there has never been a threat of dependency. Rather, my predisposition to addiction has manifested itself otherwise — to food.

I am a food addict. I have been overweight quite literally for my entire life, and while I’ve had several successful weight-loss attempts that have lasted for a considerable length of time, I recognize that this is something that I will need to consciously control for the rest of my life. But frankly, given my choice between the two, I would much rather struggle with this than with alcohol dependency. Overcoming the latter requires complete and total abstinence — not to mention a debilitating process of withdrawal — whereas the former requires merely taming the beast. After all, I must eat to live.

The trouble with me is that I am not a terribly disciplined person and can rationalize virtually anything I wish to do, no matter how harmful such behavior may be. That, and I am a creature of habit; even if I slip once and head to Wendy’s for dinner while driving home from work, history has shown that such a seemingly innocuous first step easily sets into motion a pattern that stretches for months. Research shows that eating disorders are strongly linked to obsessive-compulsive behavior, and I have borne witness to that in my own experience. For me, food is less about quelling hunger and more about the taste and ritual. And ease. Why spend 20 minutes grilling chicken and steaming broccoli when I can have a double cheeseburger while watching Family Guy on Hulu and not have a sink of dirty dishes to ignore for weeks?

I’ve even experimented with various eating disorders, much in the same way one would sample blood sausage or fermented shark meat while on vacation. And I’ll put the specifics behind the cut, just in case you’d rather pass.

ANOREXIA: Fuck that. I didn’t even bother — I know me too well. The closest I come to anorexia is the seven hours I don’t eat while I’m asleep, and even that’s debatable. Next.

LAXATIVE ABUSE: I took 25 laxatives one evening just to see what would happen. And I found out.

BULIMIA: Disappointing. It’s an enticing option, really: you get to eat anything you want to in any quantity you wish. I even drank tons of water before puking in order to mitigate any ill effects of the acid on my esophagus. And I gave it the old college try, too — maybe five or six separate attempts. Here’s what I discovered:

1.) Trying to make yourself throw up is not only incredibly noisy, but enormously difficult. I think I spent 20 minutes each time and still didn’t quite manage to get everything. And I had to buy a new toothbrush.

2.) The strain of heaving for such a span of time left tears streaming down my cheeks from bloodshot eyes that itched for an hour afterwards, as well as leaving me with blurry vision for a portion of that time.

3.) I felt absolutely disgusting afterwards. I have no clue how people can manage to do this multiple times a day.

I should also mention that Frank would get really worried and sit next to me in the bathroom, pawing at my arm to get my attention. And that made me feel really guilty. It’s a strange thing to feel compelled to justify yourself to your cat.

So, there you have it. And now I know.

To be continued…