I gained every pound I lost back, and more. On my way up I found out about OA. I joined hoping they would cure me. I found wonderful fellowship in the program. Finally people who understood that food was an addiction for me. There wasn’t a lot of recovery in these groups, but understanding. They were an hour away from me so I enjoyed binge eating all the way to and from the meetings. The hour I was in the meeting and the meeting after the meeting gave me great comfort that I was not alone in this. But I was only in my fat suit, very alone. After 31/2 years of eating uncontrollably and gaining weight in OA, I left the program. There was another job I lost due to the severe depression that for me, inevitably occurred when my weight soared close to 400lbs. A failed relationship and another move back home didn’t help. I lived with my co-dependent mother once again who would supply me with my favorite binge foods on one hand, and chastise me for overindulging with the other. She allowed me not to work and to “recover”. My activity level went down even more. My depression worsened. My psychiatric medications went up. I finally lost all hope. I decided to kill myself while walking up the steps. It was a stray thought really. But this part of my brain said, “Do it now before you chicken out”. I gathered all my psychiatric medications. I had just been delivered 3 months worth, including my sleeping pills. Hundreds of pills ingested later, I thought it was finally over. There was one second where I thought; maybe this isn’t a good idea. But then I believed it was too late anyway. I wouldn’t be embarrassed by calling the ambulance and begging for them to help me. I’ll just die and see what lies on the other side, if anything.

I remembered my mom freaking out. “What have you done to me? How will this look?” She had discovered my suicide attempt. There was a hospital stay, a policeman with his nice silver bracelets, and then I was delivered to the local mental institution for an evaluation.
“You are mentally ill, but not insane,” the nice gentle psychiatrist determined. The director of this mental institution just happened to be my own personal psychiatrist! He said, “I know you are not insane, you know you are not insane, but I have the power to keep you here if need be. You can choose to go to intensive outpatient treatment, or I will keep you here as a danger to yourself.” What choice did I have? I chose the outpatient therapy. I think this was the real beginning of recovery for me. It was a small beginning….it would still be a long road from there.