Carboholics Anonymous (CA)

Carboholics Anonymous (CA) – Confessions & 12 steps to recovery

1- Hi, my name is Heather, and I’m a carboholic. (Sweet relief! I’ve officially admitted my addiction out loud).

I call my sponsor daily with my insatiable cravings to dive mouth first into the nearest loaf of bread I can find.

2- God? Shit! I’m an atheist.

Okay, I can do this. I believe that Mother Nature doesn’t want me to have fat thighs and a bloated belly. I’ll serve you, dearest Mother.

3- Fuck. God, again? Not knockin’ it, but how does this work for me? Okay, back to Mother Nature.

I believe that you have the power to heal me of my sinful carb cravings. I am in control of what I shovel into my carb-loving grill. Dearest Mother, give me the strength to beat a bagel, tear up my toast, and punch a pasta in the fucking face! Yummm pasta, I mean, uuuuhhh, shit! That’ll give you an extra dimple and a thick thigh! Die, pasta, die!

4- Resentment!

I resent being raised on Italian food. Pasta, pasta, PASTA! All with bread and some watery zucchini for greens. Mom, I resent you for creating and enabling my addiction. I am now triggered every time I smell bread in the oven, pasta boiling on the stove, and rice in the cooker, all wafting directly into my carb-loving nose! I feel ashamed that I ate mykid’s pizza, I mean like shoveled it, machine-mouth style, with a case of the mega munchies. I told him his dad ate it. Bread! I want you SO badly! You’re such a tease! A wicked witchy woman! You’ve put your spell on me, and I can’t resist your scent, your warmth, your taste! Damn it! You’re such a bitch! But, I drool when in your beautiful presence.

5- I confess! There! I said it.

Okay, carbs not only taste guh-reat (writing this isn’t helping the cravings at all by the way) but they’re my comfort, my “safe space.” I could wrap myself up on a bed with a blanket of warm bread and feel like the angels above were showering me with safety and love. Then, I’d eat it all and, “Oh, the guilt! I’ve lost my comfort and caved into my craving! Sourdough, my dearest, sponsor! I need you – now!”

6- I’ll change! I’ll face my imperfections and shameful behaviors that led me down this wicked path to pasta and all things carb!

When I have 3 cocktails, I stick my head in the fridge and into a Tupperware of pasta. Think, “A Christmas Story.” Randy, his mom, “show me how the little piggies eat.” Yup. No words necessary. When “Aunt Flow” comes to town, I survive on homemade mac ’n’ cheese for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. For dessert? Yup! You guessed it! More mac ’n’ cheese. When I get in a fight with my husband, I envision myself whacking him, beating him, repeatedly on the head with a long, large loaf of almost stale French bread. When I’m done, to get rid of the evidence, the prints and weapon, I throw that bitch in the microwave and shove it down my throat leaving no crumb behind.

7- “Motherest” of all mothers in all the lands, moons, and solar systems above:

Dear Mother Nature, I ask of you to remove, erase, totally wipe out (like the fiercest of surfs), and release holy hell upon my addiction, my unhinged behavior, my unhealthy union with my biggest of loves — carbs. I surrender myself to you!

How arrogant I was to think that carbs would love me back as much as I had loved them! I gave them all of me, and in turn, for what? For tree trunks that walk, tires for my once svelte stomach, and an unhealthy, unforgiving, obsessive relationship.

8- Those I’ve harmed, hindered, and hated because my addiction got the best of me:

Little dude, every person I’ve ever dated (we’ll sum it up like that), my thighs, my parents.

9- Please, oh pretty, pretty, please! Forgive me!

To little dude: Sorry for face diving your pizza. To every person I ever dated: Sorry for the tweakin’ out, bitchin’ out, freakin’ out moments when I was jonesin’ — hard. I just needed a taste, a teeny, tiny little taste! To my thighs: Oh babes, I had you in tip-top shape. I am SOOO sorry for your slide into the depths of true chunkiness. Also, because I know how badly you want to be reunited with the beautiful, sexy, skinny ladies in the wardrobe upstairs. They’re missin’ you like crazy. To my parents: I apologize for all of the pasta, bread, and cans of beans I stole from your pantry when I was living in the city and was totally poor. I came home to raid. Once, I ate pasta with ranch dressing while sitting on the bathtub in the kitchen of my Manhattan apartment. All because I had no money and needed the comfort of my old friend, Spaghetti.

10- Maybe you’re right, maybe I’m right, but it’s allll good.

I might envision bombing the Safeway/Trader Joe parking lot, but I’ll keep it to myself, take a deep breath, and remember that it is I who is in control of my actions. I’ll keep the “fuck yous!” and kicking of car bumpers under wraps.

11- “Tommy, Can You Hear Me?”

I hear you, I feel you, I see you. I shall meditate to keep this roller coaster of a mind on its rightful path, or I’ll ride it so many times, I’ll puke. I won’t think of cream cheese caressing the outside of an everything bagel. I won’t think about a floppy slice of pizza dripping oil onto my watering tongue. I won’t think about slurping up spaghetti in the way that my mother admonished me for: “Never eat spaghetti on a date, it’s like you don’t know how to use a fork,” she said. I was 16. She was correct. No, no, no. I’ll simply think about unicorns, rainbows, David Boreanaz, and everything but the bagel.

12- Roll out the red carpet! I have seen the light!

Oh wait, that was just daybreak?

Back to step 1: Wash, rinse, repeat…

*Image found @: https://www.visionpt.com.au/studios/camberwell/articles/nutrition/nutrition-made-simple-carbohydrates