When In Doubt, Clean The Closets

Recently, I was overcome with a compulsion to clear out the closets in my house. In the closet in the guest room, among other things, I found the black and white photo of Big Ben that I've wanted to frame for the past six years, the hand-blown glass balls I bought two years ago in Washington D.C. still in their original packaging, and a printer for the laptop that resides in the basement. The closet downstairs contained a jumble of wrapping paper, and performance reviews from 15 years ago, which said that I needed to learn how to take more risks and have better control of my emotions. The entry way closet wasn't quite as littered with bad memories and good intentions. It sheltered coats, hats, mittens along with a few dozen paper grocery bags, some clothes that needed to go back to their rightful owner, and the harness for my dog Wilson, for whom I had found a new home two summers ago.

I've learned that when I want movement in my life, I clean. When I'm trying to sort through the internal chaos of my emotions after a spat with my husband or a tough week at work, I dust and vacume. When I have no sense of why I'm here on this beautiful planet, I rearrange the furniture. And somehow, through the sorting and dusting and polishing and reordering, I find my calm center again. And life opens up new vistas and possibilities that had been obscured by clinging to what was.

I spent years thinking that my life should come in a nice neat package all tied up with a big bright bow. If only I was thin, life would be like a box from Tiffany's in that fabulous eggshell blue that hints at glory inside. Bad things don't happen to good girls. I lived as carefully as possible. I lived in fear of making mistakes or worse yet, getting caught. I was unrelenting in my pursuit of outward perfection. A man I knew once commented to me that in every area of my life, I was in complete control. Except when it came to food. The dam had to burst somewhere.

Towards the end of my suffering as an active food addict, I weighed 265 pounds and knew that I could not even try to diet ever again. Evenings found me cramming slice after slice of a large stuffed crust pepperoni pizza down my throat followed by the soothing sucking sensation of spoonful after spoonful of Butter Pecan Hagen Daazs ice cream. Pizza gone and pint empty, I heaved myself into bed. Night after night, I cried myself to sleep telling God that I promised I would be good the next day.

By 10:00 a.m. the next morning, I would be in front of the candy machine, its glass reflecting the anguish on my face as I mechanically raised my hand and dropped the quarters in the slot, waiting anxiously for the relief found in a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. And so the pattern would be repeated, over and over again.

For a work assignment, life transported me to England where my inner turmoil could no longer be contained, and I heard again the warnings written on those performance reviews in my basement closet telling me to get those emotions under control. I was filled with a bitter poison that left me feeling only blame and resentment towards any and all who crossed my path. My manager named Ray, a kindly bald-headed Brit with watery blue eyes, told me I did excellent work but he was worried about me. I told him my work wasn't good enough. In place of a Tiffany box, there were mistakes and messes and unsolved problems and unanswered questions. My closets were to stuffed to overflowing and in need of a deep and thorough cleaning.

And that's what happened as on January 29, 1998, on the recommendation of my employer, I checked myself into a treatment center in the deepest part of Kent, England. I stayed there for 60 days and learned about being a compulsive eater. Skeletons in the closets were let out to see the light of day. Skeletons like never having felt the loss of my brother's suicide ten years before, fury over the years where I had to be a grown up long before I was ready by being the Cinderella in my family cooking and cleaning because that's what girls do, an aching loneliness and longing for companionship, but with too much fear to reach out my hand in case I would feel the sting of rejection. I was mercifully unaware of the reality of the emotional wasteland through which I would have to wade over the next several weeks and months, sometimes waist-high and rising in pain, anger, and fear.

In spite of myself, I learned how to eat three meals a day with nothing in between. I learned how to eat one piece of dessert without consuming the entire cake. I learned how to tell the truth about how I was feeling. And I began to learn that I had never been alone. I learned about Sacred Hunger. The endless compulsion that brought me face to face with the candy bar machine each morning also brought me face to face with God.

I found the love and acceptance among a houseful of addicts that I had Hungered for my whole life, but had never known was missing. Mornings found me standing on a sawed off tree trunk, overlooking a rolling grassy meadow, with steaming tea cup in my hand. I watched dawn breaking as the cook strode up the hill towards the manor house. I breathed in deeply the crisp English morning, heaving a sigh of relief. I heard the wind in the leaves on the magestic oak and thought it was God's lullaby. I saw the dew on the grass and thought it was tender mercy for a thirsty bunny. I had never been so full. Seeing the world through newborn eyes, I no longer needed to hide from life. It had come to meet me and bring me home.

So when life is feeling like anything but a Tiffany box and the thought of facing another moment without the comfort of pizza or ice cream or Reese's Peanut Butter Cups is too much, it's time to clean a closet. But don't go in alone. You'll need the companionship of fellow travelers. And when you've looked at every piece of stuff and fluff, you'll be amazed at the true treasure you'll find within. I was.

Blessed Be.
Sandi