Hi, I’m Dolly Cranston, and I’m a sugarholic. Last week I asked that we not have the donut table out of respect for my temptations, but yet again I see it here, like a stalker ex-boyfriend. I’ve been coming to this meeting for weeks, yet I notice Mark keeps bringing in donuts like my recovery doesn’t matter just as much as any of yours do. Cheryl lost her kids because of her meth habit, fine; well, I lost my mind at a bake sale. The point is, we’ve all lost things to addiction.
I guess I’ll go first since everyone else’s mouths are full with drugs: And no, I’m not interested in the “DEA” list of drugs, Jim—I’m talking about the list that includes sugar, sugar substitutes, and the mystery crunchy layer inside ice cream cakes.
I was six months old when I had my first Honey Nut Cheerio. Thirty-five years and 140 pounds later, all it took was one New Yorker article for me to realize I’d gotten addicted to sugar in every form. Powdered, fine, extra fine, brown, even fructose—hell, I’d do anything. It reminds me of how Kelly went from pills to heroin after her back surgery. Kelly, I would appreciate if you wouldn’t eat a bear claw while I speak my truth. I don’t tie off and shoot up during your turn.
Here’s my rock bottom: I used to mix Reese’s Pieces and gummy bears in with my kettle corn. I barely thought about what mixing sweet and savory meant. I just reached for the bowl anytime I felt like it, which at my worst was upward of five times a week. I come here for a little support, and we look like we’re running a PTA bake sale. Honestly, it’s disgusting.
Look, I understand your struggle. I once bought break-and-bake cookies and didn’t even bake them. Didn’t even preheat the oven. Just ate ten raw squares. What kind of a monster does that?
I know you all think you have it harder, since you lost your jobs and families and homes, but let me tell you, life as a sugarholic is hell. I’ve binged. I’ve cried. I’ve slept in the gutter. But that was kind of unrelated to the sugar thing.
Bet you guys have never snorted Pop Rocks. I started when I was eight. Stopped then, too—it’s extremely painful. Don’t know how you do it with Adderall, Mark. More recently, one can of Coke and I could type 120 WPM. Did you know that it used to have actual cocaine in it? So you guys should kind of get what I’m going through. Let me tell you: carob nibs keep me from going through withdrawal, but there are days where all I want to do is dive on that donut table and eat two or three of them in one sitting. Please pray for me.
Also, if anyone has any meth, cocaine, heroin, or other drugs that might help me fight this sugar-bloat, you can find me in the parking lot.
