I have a confession to make: I'm having an affair. Deep down I know it's wrong to keep this love affair a secret, but I feel powerless to stop. My overwhelming guilt and shame gets pushed aside when my lover is near. Each night before bed I pray that tomorrow I'll find the willpower to end this sordid affair, only to find myself fantasizing about the next erotic encounter by lunchtime the following day. My head tells me this twenty year obsession is not healthy but my heart isn't ready to let go. How do you let go of a situation that makes you feel safe and protected? How do you let go of something that brings you instant happiness and joy? No! Stop! It's time to step up to the plate and admit that I'm out of control and need help. It's time to start loving and believing in myself more than giving my love and power away to anything that is incapable of loving me back.

           I spent the better part of my life romancing the spoon because I was so afraid to get hurt, be vulnerable, and put myself out there. It was safe and I knew what to expect with every bite. The icing on the cake was that every bite silenced my inner critic. The temporary escape and pleasure that food provided transported me to a place where no one could hurt me . . . not even me.

           When you're falling in love (with a warm body vs. a warm, gooey dessert) you often fluctuate between intense, chemical passion and feelings of ecstasy, as well as, feelings of insecurity, vulnerability, and being out of control. At least I did. During high school, the independent, smart and outspoken girl who could carry on a conversation with a mute became tongue tied when a romantic interest appeared on the radar screen. I was afraid to just "be myself" after being told "you're not like the other girls" throughout junior high. My toned-down, cool demeanor I had worked so hard to perfect and protect couldn't handle these intense emotions.

           After all, how do you act like you're in control when you're not? "Does he really like me or is he just trying to get down my pants? Did I just tell him that I liked football when I don't even understand the game? Is that girl in my class giving me the evil eye just because I'm holding a popular boy's hand? Is he really going to call? How do I pretend not to care when I'm falling fast and hard?" I hated feeling overwhelmed, insecure and powerless. I hated the unspoken competition from other girls as we waited to be "chosen." How did I solve this emotional drama? The only way I knew how -- I took myself out of the game. Sitting on the sidelines was boring, but predictable, and I appeared to be back in control . . . or so I thought.

           In the beginning I kept my lover a secret from my family and friends. The demanding hours I spent dancing and performing (another passion) compensated for my sensual trysts. My body had yet to betray me.

           Like everyone my age, I craved acceptance. In the process I lost my own colorful voice and became chameleon-like to fit in with my environment. My opinions and habits started to mirror my peers. Instead of dancing, singing and playing the piano I opted for partying and hanging out with the cool kids. If mistreated, I would just suck it up if I thought it would cost me my popularity. In Physics, they teach you that Energy is not lost, it has to go somewhere. Since I avoided high school Physics like the plague, it took years before I understood that our thoughts are full of energy. What that meant to me was every time I didn't express my truth out of fear of being rejected; I subconsciously stuffed that energy down with a simple visit from my lover. Angry over my curfew? Pizza. Misunderstanding with a girlfriend? Brownie. Anxious over a job interview? Chips. Together we were unstoppable in our ability to bury any unpleasant emotions.

           At first the affair was a series of random quickies providing the short-term fix I was craving. Like any addiction, my hunger grew. It didn't take long before I not only lusted after but depended on the weekly, then daily, escape my lover brought to the table.

           I was a senior in high school when my body no longer protected my secret, and I was pissed off at being "outed" by twenty extra pounds. Since I had yet to learn forgiveness, I turned on my body for turning on me. "It" was the cause of all my problems now. Can't get a date? Everybody knows boys don't date fat chicks. Compete for a spot on the dance squad? Nobody wants to see a chubbette in a leotard. As the rolls appeared, any remaining pressure to play the game disappeared. I had found the biggest and best excuse in the world - I'm fat. The self-hatred of my body only increased my need to eat. In public, I pretended to be a good girl and make all the right choices. Behind closed doors, the sugar slut emerged. Like most cheaters, I eventually got caught.

           One night after all my college roommates were asleep, I couldn't stop lusting after frozen M&M's that weren't mine. These decadent treats belonged to my thin, chain-smoking roommate, Mary, who ignored them for weeks on end. We, on the other hand, had spent evenings together over the last few weeks, and I thought no one was the wiser. As usual, I gave in to the sensual craving and snuck a few more tasty morsels before retiring. Imagine my surprise and humiliation the following morning when another roommate (and concerned friend) confessed to knowing my whereabouts the night before. It turns out that Mary was providing a daily MIA report to everyone else in the house. I had been set up and busted. Even after getting caught with my hand in the cookie jar, I still couldn't admit to the affair. Instead of melting in my friend's warm hand and sharing my soft, mushy center I just coated myself with another hard, protective shell.

           Twenty five years old and I was still blaming my problems on my body and lack of will-power. If I could just stick to a diet, everything would be fine. After all, I was a perfect "11" from the neck on up! If I lost weight the most miraculous man and incredible job would just show up without any effort on my part. It was so much easier to stay on Fantasy Island than to admit I needed help. Asking for help meant that I had to acknowledge that I was out of control and weak Asking for help meant I had to change. It was easier to keep pretending and just change my rap. "Who wants a man anyway -- they all cheat and lie." "Who really wants to be in the music business -- it's late hours for low pay." As the numbers on the scale increased, I scaled back my dreams.

           As time went by I was willing to take more chances. Sneaking around had become the norm and I was an expert at covering my tracks. My co-workers never suspected my true motivation for picking up the lunch order. It meant more time alone to devour an extra helping and dispose of any evidence of the affair. Instead of being satiated after our "nooner" I began to feel empty and confused. After all our years together, I was finally left with a bad taste in my mouth.

           I didn't just sit on the sidelines all these years. No, as an overachiever, I took on every job ever created for sideline activity. I was my friends' and co-workers' cheerleader, coach and water boy rolled into one. I was always available for listening, motivating, creative brainstorming and basically providing them whatever they needed to play a good game. Both male and female buddies ran every play by me because I provided the clarity, direction and inspiration they needed. Focusing on their problems and desires allowed me to ignore my own. Years of watching them execute the perfect maneuver and score (after taking my advice), left me with two distinct thoughts. "It sucks being on the bench." "If they can do it, so can I." At 27 years old I didn't feel like pretending everything was just hunky dory anymore. I hadn't had a "real" relationship in over a decade and at work was always the "great" woman behind every man. I had to admit that I wanted a piece of the action. I had to admit that I was the only person keeping me on the bench. I had to acknowledge that I am powerful and deserved to be treated with respect. It was time to stop serving myself a second helping and start becoming self-serving.

          I wish I could tell you that one day I just woke up and decided to end the affair. It didn't happen that way. There were days when my fears of not measuring up got the best of me, and I found myself driving around under the influence of a burrito. Other days I stood up to my inner critic and was able to put my focus on creating a rich life instead of succumbing to rich food. Letting go of something you love is painful and difficult. After finding my lover in my bed once too often, I realized I had bit off more than I could chew. I needed help.

           At the time, going to see a therapist was just a bit too heavy. Funny, considering I had never been heavier (now 50 lbs. overweight) and was obviously on the path of self-destruction. I started my search for support in the local bookstore. Just a few aisles over from the romance novels that fed my fantasies was the section that would become my new home: Self-help. Through some heart-felt writing from some incredible women, I finally could admit to myself that I was using food to stay out of the game. Anything that didn't work in my life I could blame on the weight so I didn't have to look any deeper. I had to admit that my "perfect" childhood left me with hurts, disappointments and blocks that needed to be healed. I had to admit that this individual who pretended to have it all together was really a frightened little girl who wanted someone to tell her that she was lovable even if she wasn't perfect. I came to learn that this message needed to come from me.

           It took many years of self-discovery and a short stint in therapy before I was able to truly end the affair. As I gave myself the encouragement, love and support that I so easily gave away to others, I no longer chose to spend time with anyone who didn't have my best interest at heart. The more honest I became with myself and others the less I needed to escape my reality. The more vulnerable I became, the less I needed the layers of protection. All my problems didn't magically disappear when I lost the weight. Rather, I was able to lose the weight because I believed I could handle whatever showed up on my plate. Please don't assume that my life is now a piece of cake. Relationships are messy and people get hurt. As a wife and mother there are days when I get fed up and think about tattooing "slave" across my forehead. These are the days when my old lover calls to me most. I'd be lying if I said we didn't hook up once in a while, but after our brief encounter I recognize why I left in the first place. More often, I simply scale back my unrealistic "to-do" list and carve out time for self-care. If you were to meet me today you would see a slender, 40-ish  professional speaker who is comfortable asking for what she wants and needs. Just think what would happen if we all stopped pretending we didn't hurt and instead asked for the love and support so many of us are starving for. I once read, "Ask for help, not because you're weak, but in order to remain strong." What great food for thought.

Back to the Articles page

Articles may be reproduced with permission from Colette Carlson Communications.