Overeating was my companion since childhood.

I was born in the Soviet Union, and during the years of socialism, in the absence of anything more edible, I could choke down dry cocoa powder by the spoonful. I remember once eating five pounds of grapes in one sitting, which made me so sick that I couldn’t stand the sight of grapes for ten years. I never had the ability to limit myself when it came to food. Also since childhood, I felt separate from the outside world and began trying to be “better” than others. I decided that making friends was risky and kept to myself. When one of the kids at school told me, “Be simpler, and people will be drawn to you,” I scoffed. What do I need people for?

At home, I was a little tyrant, trying to control everyone’s lives—even my parents’. But inside, I felt like I didn’t exist. I was like an empty space. Other people were people—they had the right to live, to have opinions and preferences. But me? I had only one task: to create a good image of myself. I believed that if anyone saw the real me, the soap bubble would burst. I wasn’t a criminal, but inside I felt like I didn’t deserve to live on this earth. And yet, I did.

My obsession with healthy eating began when I was around fifteen. I gained weight and then spent nearly three decades trying to lose it. I never succeeded, but tortured myself with every new diet I could find. I believed that if I were thin and beautiful, like the models in magazines, I would be instantly happy.

I studied nutrition, cleansing, fasting—every possible diet or theory. As soon as I left my parents’ home, I bought a steamer to cook buckwheat and broccoli, but the food often sat there until it was covered in mold. At that time, I practically lived at work. On weekends, when everyone went home to their families, I’d buy pounds of fruit or berries and devour them alone. I suffered from indigestion and cried into my pillow at night from sadness and self-pity.

The next round of my illness began when I moved to America at 28. I threw myself into research again. Yoga, self-help books, diet books, books about the psychology of eating, books about how to be happy. I understood that I was unhappy, but I didn’t know why. On the outside, everything looked fine—husband, job, money, opportunities. What else does a person need?

I tried diet after diet, cleanses, self-help workshops, emotional freedom technique, “weight loss through pleasure,” intense physical exercise—even hypnosis. I kept searching, hoping something would work, and my life would change.

I thought I needed just two things:
1. Lose weight and
2. Have a happy relationship with my husband.

So, I studied the science of relationships—from books, then workshops. The education helped in some ways, but it didn’t fix my compulsive eating. I kept binging at night, even on healthy food. Every morning, I would tell myself that today would be different. But it never was.

The constant stress eventually led to health issues. Once, I thought I was having a heart attack. I rushed to the doctor, but my heart was fine. I started making up “food intolerances”—sugar, then wheat, then grains. I believe it was mostly psychosomatic. I also struggled terribly with concentration. Sometimes—especially in the afternoons—it felt like the world was floating before my eyes, but I wasn’t really “here.”

Going to the supermarket was a nightmare. The American food industry, I believed, filled everything with preservatives and poisons. I read every ingredient label like I was searching for a death trap. Eventually, I decided that I couldn’t buy 99% of what was on the shelves. I studied the food industry and became more and more horrified. At one point, a book about the dangers of sugar convinced me to cut it out completely. I believed sugar should be outlawed.

I often stuffed myself so much I didn’t want to speak to anyone. I had to sleep on my left side. I had nightmares. The feelings before a binge was always the same: inadequacy and self-pity. If I didn’t know how to solve a work problem, I’d find myself at the fridge without realizing it. I often felt like I wanted to kill myself with food—to eat until I literally died. I didn’t want to live in this world anymore. It wasn’t what I’d hoped for.

During binges, I felt numb and confused. I rarely remembered what I’d eaten—I only knew from the wrappers in the trash the next morning. I tried desperately to stop, but I couldn’t. I kept repeating the same behavior over and over. It took years—decades—to realize this was a vicious cycle.

I am ashamed of what my husband endured: my moods, obsessions, “great ideas,” and eventually, my decision to leave. The book we use in recovery (“Alcoholics Anonymous”) says: “The alcoholic is like a tornado roaring through the lives of others.” That is true for compulsive eaters, too.

After twelve years of marriage, I left my husband and moved across the country in an attempt at a “geographic cure.” Self-help books and workshops told me that if I processed my emotions enough, if I healed my “shadow,” if I meditated, I would be happy. I quit my high-paying job and decided to dedicate one year to myself. That turned into two. Then three. I spent all my savings, even my 401(k), and went into debt.

I worked through all my emotions. I tidied up my home. I switched to 100% organic food. Eventually, with nothing left to try, I went to a nutritionist. She said, “Lose weight? Nothing could be easier! Just stop eating carbs and eat only vegetables and protein.” I dove into it with zeal. I learned to cook with almond and coconut flour. I adapted to the limited menu.

After eight months, in January 2016, I flew to New York City. I had just turned 43. I stayed at a friend’s place while she was away. Alone in the apartment, something snapped. After eight months of low-carb dieting, I began to binge. I ate everything in sight. To cover it up, I made a list of what I’d eaten so I could replace it later. Then, like in a bad dream, I found myself walking to the store for more food. That’s the phenomenon of craving—once you take the first compulsive bite, you can’t stop.

I realized, horrified, that my last hope had failed. I’d believed if I could just avoid carbs long enough, I wouldn’t want them anymore. I thought I had a body problem, but I didn’t. My entire life was hell. My thoughts were consumed by food and controlling food. If I wasn’t binging, I was trying to stop myself from thinking about it.

I had dreams of doing something meaningful with my life—but all my mental energy was trapped in obsession. I realized I couldn’t live one more day trying to control food. At that moment, I surrendered. I admitted my complete helplessness. No matter what I did, I would binge again.

And then—a miracle happened. That same day, I found a group of people who called themselves recovered compulsive eaters. Recovered? What did that mean? They didn’t talk about food. They talked about the 12 Steps and the book Alcoholics Anonymous, which contains original instructions that apply to any addiction. I thought they were lying, spouting spiritual nonsense. So I asked, “How do you eat?” They all said the same thing: “Food is no longer a problem. We eat when we’re hungry and stop when we’re full.” That sounded like a fairy tale. I was so enslaved by food I thought there was no way out.

But I had hope. By the end of that month, I had a sponsor and was working the 12-step program. The same program used for all addictions. Its goal is to connect you with a Higher Power (as you understand it) and to help you be of maximum service to that Power and to others. In return, you’re promised sanity around food.

And that’s what happened. A month and a half later, my obsession with food vanished. It just disappeared. Suddenly, I felt full while eating. Even carbs stopped affecting me the way they used to. I tested it—I baked a Russian honey cake. I ate a slice. I waited for the binge to start. But it didn’t. I put the rest in the fridge—and forgot about it. FORGOT.

It was a miracle. And it continues to this day—over nine years later.

This illness is insidious and can return anytime—so I maintain a fit spiritual condition. Three daily actions keep me well:

1. Clean house. I observe myself daily. If I notice fear, dishonesty, or selfishness, I write to my sponsor, ask God to remove it, and focus on helping someone else.

2. Trust God. I pray and meditate each morning and write a nightly review. If I skip it, my day doesn’t go so well.

3. Help others. This is the foundation. I help other compulsive eaters in any way I can. Every morning, I pray to be of service.

In the program, we say, “I work for my Higher Power.” The salary? Common sense and freedom from compulsion. The work is hard, but the pay is amazing.

My favorite line in the Big Book is: “We will comprehend the word serenity.” It stunned me—because I hadn’t realized how stressed I had been all my life. Now, I can sit quietly with myself. I don’t need to rush or fix or control. Loving thoughts fill my mind. Life sparkles with new colors. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I wouldn’t trade the worst day of my new life for the best day of the old one.

And the joy of food has returned. When I was compulsive, I feared food so much I lost all pleasure in it. Now, I can slowly and gratefully enjoy a vegetable—or a piece of chocolate. My knowledge of nutrition still helps my health, but without obsession. If I’m invited to a party with deep-fried pierogi, I don’t lecture anyone on the dangers of fried dough. I eat what I need and say thank you.

This is not a short-term fix. It’s a new way of life. My illness always wants to come back. But every morning, I surrender again. And helping others? It’s the greatest joy. Watching the same miracle happen in someone else’s life… it’s unreal.

Now, my life has meaning. And I get to help others out of the darkness that only a chronic compulsive eater understands!