I’ve been writing privately about food and eating. But not in a fun, Wow! I just discovered a cool restaurant kind-of-way. More of a less fun, Wow! I’ve lived with a serious eating disorder for a llloooonnnnng time kind-of-way.

And I’m scared to publish it. So, I will. Painful little pieces of my story at a time. I got help because other people shared, so here goes.

I eat like a bear. Like a hungry bear on Spring Break, its first time away from home. No, like a hungry bear on Rumspringa during Spring Break. No! Like a hungry bear on Rumspringa during Spring Break who’s let loose in the Wonka Factory. Can you imagine? Getting locked in the Wonka factory “on accident?” I’d skinny dip in the chocolate river. I know it’s gross if you think about it, but I choose to believe they have a magical purifying filter because I can’t possibly be the only one who has thought to do this. I’m certain no matter how many signs they put up warning people DO NOT SWIM IN THE CHOCOLATE RIVER, people are going to do it. An army of Oompa-Loompas couldn’t stop me. Bet.

Was Cathy Right?! Ack!

For years I called myself a Foodie because I love food. But the term can mean all kinds of things. And lots of Foodies I know live in the arena of loving Epicurian food delights. It’s a passion not a problem.

I grew up with the concept of a chocoholic. There was SO much Cathy merch floating around Grand Prairie. Probably still is. That concept was laughable. It’s not like anyone is shooting up Hershey’s syrup or snorting cocoa powder.

I didn’t realize how much of a thing that actually is. Not the shooting/snorting. Though, would have, if I could have. But Food addiction. Sugar addiction. It’s a thing. It was my thing. And it kind of is chocoholism.

You Might be a Food Addict

When I was working at Blue Collar TV, I had recently started going to Overeaters Anonymous. I guess I’m not supposed to say that. But I’m not speaking as a representative, so there you are. It was a BIG deal for me to finally come to terms with having a real food problem. Of trying to lose weight a million times only to have a diet work for a bit, then be consumed by the rage-wave of hunger and cravings. I’d gotten to OA at 200 pounds on my 5’1” frame. Seventy or so pounds overweight for me.

I’d gone into OA after things had gotten BAD. It wasn’t just weight. I’d had therapy, been on Prozac and still had a a suicide attempt. And then finally got help I needed and started to feel better. It gave me some relief from bulimia and my overeating disorder.

And then I got this dream job.

Blue Collar TV wasn’t a dream job because I was writing for Jeff Foxworthy, although he is a really sweet, funny guy. But because it was a network TV writing job. It was an office, a paycheck, a THRILL. I moved to LA after starring on an Mtv show and had high hopes and big dreams. None of them had quite been working out. I’d moved to San Francisco for a year and worked on aweb series. Then got married and moved back to LA where I found I needed to get a part-time job. And got one teaching part-time at an Orthodox Yeshiva. As one does.

Then about 17 miracles aligned and I landed a network TV writing job. And I was finally getting well in OA. It was all happening for me!

The Dream in Real Life

My second week at work, I was still getting to know everyone and finding my place. I felt awkward about my food stuff. I always felt awkward about my weight. Embarrassed, apologetic on the low end. Self-hate and abhorrence on the high end. I couldn’t snack all day like others or just eat randomly. I needed to plan my food. Sometimes I brought my own even though they fed us. I was new to food recovery and hated feeling different. I just wanted to be normal.

Some of the writers were randomly gathered in someone’s office riffing on a bit when a renowned comedy writer started going off on Overeaters Anonymous. He’d just heard of it and couldn’t believe it. Like AA, but for food? So people are like holding a potato chip and calling their friend? Talk me down! I don’t want to but I might eat it. Come pick me up, I’m at the 7-11!! And the other guy’s, “No! Don’t do it! Don’t get drunk on that chip!” What’s their amends? Sorry I ate all your pie?

And everyone laughed. And I laughed, too. But I was mortified. Nothing was directed toward me. I don’t think he knew. But I knew. I knew the pain of compulsive overeating. The beast-like desire for more food even when you’re full. Actually, especially when you’re full. I had only recently admitted to myself that I had this problem. And this guy who I really wanted to impress was making fun of it. Ouch.

Pregger-Wear

It also signaled a callousness about weight. Fat people were made fun of a lot on Blue Collar. It' was one of the last bastions culture let us mock. I did it, too. I wrote a sketch called Pregger-wear. Clothes that make you look pregnant so you can finally eat how you want! And no one says anything!! It came from an honest place. I would have loved to eat for two and have it be socially acceptable.

When you’re heavy, and someone is making fun of someone heavy or people who overeat in general, it’s not directed at you but it feels like it is. I feel it. I identify with heavies. They are my people. If you are making fun of them, you are definitely making fun of me.

And the worst part? He was kind of right. That is kind of what we do. We do call someone so we won’t eat a potato chip or a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. I mean, ideally the convo will quickly pivot to “What’s going on that you’re wanting to eat that?” and we get to the feelings under the food. But still. There was truth in the caricature. Point is, that first bite is dangerous because that IS getting drunk to us.

Because just like a sip of wine for an alcoholic, it’s not the half ounce of wine that’s the problem. That sip will put the Beast of Active Addiction in play. It will not end with that one drink. It will begin.

Getting Food Drunk

Same with the chip or the PB cup or a molecule of Dr. Pepper. Really for me it’s any sugar. There is no end for me. Sugar makes my brain light up like the Bellagio fountain show. Sugar tells my system that it is ON! What exactly is ON? Who knows? But it’s IT and very urgent. Yes, I was able to stop eating sugar at times. If I was at a restaurant and got dessert, I ate it like a normal person and we paid and left. But when I got home, I might eat another little something sweet. Or have pancakes the next day for breakfast. Or load up on the snack aisle at CVS because I had a stressful day of running three errands. I’d find a way to drip sugar into my system and never get too low. And I got to the point, later in my addiction, deeper into it, that if I drove to that restaurant alone, I might stop on the way home and buy a giant slice of grocery store cake and eat it in the car. Like, I needed a fix, just to get me home.

I faltered in OA after this. I wish I didn’t. I wish I could report that I didn’t care what that guy or anybody else thought. That I was determined to take care of myself no matter what!! Cue Helen Reddy because I am strong!! But I wasn’t. I didn’t want to be in a thing that this guy made fun of. I didn’t want to have that problem at all. And it’s impossible to stick to the solution when you can’t accept that you have the problem.

A few weeks later my mom died. I was bereft. She was known among other things for her chocolate chip cookies. And now we were down to the last batch she’d ever made. Ever would. I wanted some. But I was still trying to not eat sugar. My then-husband looked at me and said, “If my mom had died, I’d eat the cookies.”

I had never heard anything more reasonable or logical in my entire life. I ate the cookies. And it was ON.

Turns out, it’s very easy to talk me into something I want to do.

UPCOMING CLASSES

Got some fun ones coming up. They’re in LA but one is online, too. And I’ll be offering more online classes and workshop. Let me know if you’re interested!

Storytelling 101 — Saturdays, July 18–August 22, 10am–1pm. No experience necessary. Got a story you’ve been dying to tell? Come develop it into something hilarious and heartwarming. Tickets here

Stand-Up Intermediate/Advanced at the Crow — Wednesdays, July 22–August 26, 7–10pm. This one’s for you if you’ve got material and want to get in a room and actually make it better. We punch up your jokes, hone your stage persona, and do it writers-room style. Tickets here

ONLINE + IN-PERSON: Create Your Star Vehicle — Sunday, August 9, 2–5pm. Build your TV show idea in three hours. World, characters, story. Everything you need before you start your pilot script. Tickets here

Mine wasn’t like that. There was no suggestion of music swelling and not much technique involved, at least on his part. But he was eight, so he probably knew a few things I didn’t. He was definitely pressing his face on my face, with a focus on the mouth area. And I was definitely pushing back, and moving my lips around. It would be another six years before tongue came into play. I’m a lady.

And I loved him. Loved! What we had was soul-matey, at least to me. Whenever the four of us were together, that’s me, him, my brother, and his sister, we would create some play scenario to create alone time.

Let’s play house…

“Okay, we’re the kids and you’re the parents, go off to work, bye.”

Let’s play doctor….

“Great, we’ll be in the waiting room, go fix up the exam room, bye.”

My brother and his sister would leave the room to go pretend something. Once the door closed, we made out. He’d kiss me, and I’d kiss back, this little blue-eyed blonde-haired boy of my dreams.

Our make-out sessions subsided when I turned ten. Had I gotten too old? Too fat? Had our relationship simply run its course? I guess he hit puberty and had bigger fish to fry. And those fish probably already had boobs. It’s fine, I was moving on to better things, too.

When I was eleven, I went to Episcopalian summer camp, Camp Crucis. Up until this time, I was kind of a teapot kid. You know, short and stout. And kind of a tomboy. I didn’t think guys liked me like that. But that summer proved me wrong.

My Granny was extremely weight-obsessed and critical. The technical term, I now know, is ‘Anorexic chain smoker.’ But back then, we just said ‘bitch’ and we weren’t wrong. Well, I didn’t say it. I was a good little girl. But if I were to go back in time and give that little girl a word for Granny, it’d be ‘bitch.’

She was obsessed with my mother’s and my physical imperfections. When I was eight, she suggested I make a girdle out of a tire’s inner tube. That’s what she did, she said. One summer day, she sat in our kitchen, staring at me and chain-smoking. Then she said, “You know, when I was your age, I wanted to get myself in shape for boys. I made a girdle out of an inner tube. Then all the boys liked me. You should do that.”

Right. But, again, I was eight.

The kitchen walls were yellow paint and plywood. It was the 70’s in Grand Prairie, Texas. And it was hot. We were sitting at the table with the red-checkered tablecloth. A giant wooden spoon hung helpless on the wall. What am I supposed to say to that? I stared at her age spots as her bony hands delivered her cigarette to her mouth over and over. Her spiky shoulders and saggy boobs poked at her striped sweater. The papery skin on her face reached down toward the linoleum fake-tile floor.

This is the woman who’s counseling me about my looks and suggesting that no man would have me.

God forbid I’d be an old maid by nine. She didn’t know about my affair with my best friend’s brother, which was the talk of all my stuffed animals. Or that I had recently experienced a playground wedding to JJ. To her, I was just some fat loser. And she wanted me to contort my form into rubber so I could get me some.

“Um, okay,” I mumbled. But I didn’t make a tire girdle, or duct-tape corset or any other Days of Yore hillbilly apparatus. But I did do what any people-pleasing 10-year-old would: I went on a diet. To appease Granny, and to make myself acceptable to mankind, when I was ten, I went on a crash diet. Hot on the heels of ‘9 to 5’ success it was called the Dolly Parton diet. Also known as the Cabbage Soup diet, because you get to eat cabbage soup. All you want, all day long. Yay? Otherwise, Day 1, you eat fruit, Day 2, vegetables, Day 3: fruit and vegetables. Ohmygod, it was horrible. Day 4 – bananas and milk. Day 5 – beef and tomatoes. I forget Days 6 and 7. I think I’ve blacked them out from self-hatred.

Anyway, the diet worked and I lost about fifteen pounds. One and a half pounds lost for each tender year I’d been alive. Granny was thrilled. Finally, a thin granddaughter. Dreams do come true!

And that summer, at age eleven, I went back to Camp Crucis. This year, there would be boys and girls there together, and I was nervous. Sure, I could score with my best friend’s brother and a kid at school, but these were camp guys. The Big Time. I didn’t know if I would have any pull here. And honestly, it was tough week. There was a movie, but I got sick from too many Otter pops. There was a dance, I danced, but didn’t end up with a boyfriend or anything. No guys said they loved me or tried to feel me up, so I assumed I wasn’t pretty.

Until the last day.

There was a camp counselor there, David. He was so, so cute. Brown hair, tan, lean. Handsome. There weren’t many handsome people in Grand Prairie, so I was a little star struck, and excited to be exposed to such a thing. I’d say he looked like Armand Assante in ‘Little Darlings,’ because he did. But I won’t, because I don’t want you to think I’m making it up, or transferring that movie, where he played a sexy camp counselor opposite Tatum O’Neal, to my life, which I’m not. But he really looked like that. He was beautiful. We had talked a little, crossed paths here and there during my week of swimming, singing, and crafts. But there was no real connection. He was a counselor, seventeen at least, and way out of my league. We were worlds apart.

On the last day, I was emotional, bidding new friends good-bye until next year, packing my things and getting my bags to the bus. It was about 104 degrees outside, so mid-waiting, I headed into the cafeteria for some water. And that’s when it happened.

I opened the door to the Mess Hall, stepped inside and stopped. There he was. That Armand-Assante-looking mother fucker. So cute and dreamy in his Green Camp Crucis Counselor shirt and cut-offs. Not just any cut-offs, but the cool kind you make yourself, with fringey rectangles at the bottom. They stopped at the perfect place on his sun-kissed legs, which were cute and tanned all the way down to his masculine sandals.

He waved and walked over to me. Can you believe it??!! I froze, to make sure he wasn’t communicating with someone behind me. He stood in front of me and told me it was nice to meet me. I agreed. I’m not sure if that made any sense.

We small-talked a bit, as I blushed and looked down, equally intrigued and terrified to look into his green eyes. Eventually, another counselor stuck her head in the door and announced it was last call to catch the bus. A few campers rushed out into the sunlight and David the Camp Counselor and I were alone.

I managed to look directly at him, just as he wrapped his arms around me, dipped me and kissed me in the most tender, strong, sexy, romantic, inappropriate fairy tale kiss that’s ever been kissed. I closed my eyes. My heart pounded and my head spun, just like they say. It was happening, my big deal first kiss! Just like in movies! I was the awkward girl who’d blossomed over the summer, only I was still a pre-teen. He was the cute senior guy who was only recently so-far-out of my league, only he was a way older teen and still out of my league by looks and by law.

But I didn’t care! I bent my knee and let my little sandal hover over the ground. (Movies!) I wanted to peek, but knew to keep my eyes closed. The most beautiful man in North Texas, maybe the world, was kissing me. He could have had his pick of any pre-teen campers, but he chose ME. I wanted it to last forever. I wished everyone I knew could see me. Sadly, it would be years before we’d have cells, Insta, or Facebook, or I would have snapped a quick shot and made it my profile pic, and hoped it wouldn’t lead to any legal action being taken against David.

The kiss was fantastic. He was a man and really knew what he was doing. Not like those eight and ten year olds I’d been making out with. This guy had stubble.

The kiss concluded and he set me up right. We composed ourselves and hadn’t noticed that during the kiss another counselor had walked in. And seen everything. “Hey, so, what’s going on?” he asked awkwardly.

Busted.

Still heady from our ‘The Moment’ I blurted, “We’re rehearsing… for a play,” and David chimed in, “Yeah, for a play. We’re rehearsing.”

Teamwork! I’d seen it in a movie or something and knew it was a clever thing to say. I was also letting David know that I was cool, cosmopolitan. I lived in Grand Prairie, sure. But I camped, nay, summered in Grandbury, a solid forty minutes away by bus. I wanted David to know that he’d kissed, not a child, but a self-possessed eleven-year-old woman.

And, now I knew that I could attract a hot guy, that I could be loved by a man. Boo-ya! Take that Granny! Oh, shit. It was only after the diet. Maybe that old bitch was right.

David and I smiled and parted ways. We’d had our moment unscathed. I hoped he’d bounce back into my life, like happens in Sandra Bullock movies, but I never saw him again. Hopefully, he’s not still kissing eleven-year-olds, but if he is, I hope he’s thinking of me.

UPCOMING CLASSES

I’m teaching some fun comedy/story classes & more are on the way

Create Your Star Vehicle is both live & online (take it from anywhere)

Develop a TV show idea! In this fast 3-hour workshop, build your world, story, and characters. Everything you need to start your pilot script.

Sunday, May 17, 2pm–5pm Tickets here

Sunday, Aug 9 2pm–5pm Tickets here

We don’t talk enough about Old Love.

Young Love gets all the songs, movies & swoon. I get it. Young love has heightened hormones sans scars of rejection. And all the firsts. The first real dates and horny kisses. The first feelings and declarations. I’ve never felt this way before. I’ve never said I love you to anyone. I’ve never done… this.

In Old Love, we’ve been there, said it, did it. And probably did it way too much. Hey, so I’ve felt all this, said it to a bunch of people, and did it. And frankly I kinda did it a lot. I did it with people I wouldn’t recognize now if we shared an Uber.

Old Love seems less romancy. But it’s so much deeper. I finally know myself and what I like and don’t, and won’t ever, so quit asking.

I thought My Big Love was supposed to happen in my 20’s. Or the latest by 30. So when I was 30, I panic-married. Mom got cancer, work was unstable, and oh! I was an untreated alcoholic. I thought for sure marriage would fix at least one of those. But, alas. I went on to get sober and have relationships, but every year I felt further away from that marriage-kids-family-stability-soulmate package I thought I was supposed to have. And every year it seemed less and less likely to happen. Especially after a particularly big relationship fell apart. And I felt particularly gutted.

And unloveable. That’s the worst part. When the killer is calling from inside the house. When the message transmits non-stop inside my brain like the radio tower in Lost... If it didn’t happen by now, it’s not gonna… If it didn’t happen by now, it’s not gonna… If it didn’t happen by now --

Eventually I tried again and met Brian. We’ve been together for years. We’re not married but we do have matching tattoos. We are happy and comfortable and it is nothing like what I was told love was supposed to be. In the best way.

And it’s been that way from the start.

Neither of us played games. We had a great first date and couldn’t stop talking to each other. The next day I was performing in my favorite storytelling and invited him. That’s WAY too soon. That’s the worst thing you can do according to “Getting to I Do”! Which, yes, I actually read and tried in the 90’s.

The show’s called “Happy Mother’s Day, Our Moms are Dead”. Like me, it’s funny, dark & sweet. Like European chocolate with a joke inside. And I knew if he saw me in the show, he’d really see me. And if he liked it, that might be amazing.

After the show, we hung out down the street at Astro Burger and he told me he wanted to keep seeing me. Again, you’re supposed to seem aloof or unavailable, not all, Hello, table. Here are my cards. Then, I went way too far and created a list of things for him to do to be my boyfriend. Totally normal. I wrote about it here. We’ve been together ever since.

Everything I heard about love was about Young Love.

I’ve experienced both and find that Old Love is better. Like. on Date 3, he fixed my windshield wipers. What?!! Adele never sang about that! Old Love hits different. (Did I use ‘hits’ right? It’s a young person’s word, but I thought I’d give it a try, just to flex. Did I say flex right? Lmk in comments.)

I love Old Love! Strong recommend. Here’s 5 reasons why.

1. Old Love is safe and calm.

Young love is terrifying…. Ooooh, will it last?! I’d die without you!

Old love is like... Oh, no, it will not. None of them lasted. Which is fine because now I’m with you! It’s called acceptance.

Young love is stupidly urgent…. Where are you RIGHT NOW I can’t stand not seeing you!!!

Old Love finds that a little co-dependent, buddy. Prefers to meet up after a nap. Would rather be home in time to watch DTF, then be out DTF-ing.

2. There’s no letting yourself go in Old Love.

Guess what? You’re already gone. It’s not getting much worse. Nobody’s worried about it.

Young love is obsessed with looks. If I get old and ugly, will they leave me?! Answer: Yes, of course. Pro tip: Start out old and ugly and relax the rest of your life away in bliss!

3. Nobody cheats in Old Love.

You’re. Too. Tired.

Cheating is exhausting. And for what? The thrill of having to do sex on someone? No thanks, says Old Love.

Old Love cheating is when on your own, you watch an episode of that show that you’re binging together. When he walks in and sees that little line at the bottom of the episode. Hey! Did you watch the finale of The Pitt without me??

What?! I didn’t know you’d be home so soon. It just dropped. I took a peek, and one thing led to another. It didn’t mean anything!

4. Old Love means more.

When I was in Young Love, I’d say things like, “I’ve been looking for you my whole life.”

Well, how long was that? I was 23. I’d been looking ten years, max. It’s nothing. Please.

But when you’re older and say, “I’ve been looking for you my whole life,” with your smiling eyes beaming through your crinkly crow’s feet, poised with one hand on your hip because your back always hurts a little on your left? That has WEIGHT. When you’ve been looking for your The One longer than Moses was wandering around?!! That’s EPIC. Even finding someone you like in your 40’s is a big deal. Because we don’t like anybody.

5. You can trust Old Love.

I used to walk in on boyfriends watching porn. Now, I walk in on Brian watching M*A*S*H*. This is an upgrade. At night, in bed together when we’re both on our screens, I look over and see him scrolling… trumpets.

Old Love is less “I do” and more... you’ll do.

In the best way.

And honestly? Worth the wait.

I’m teaching some fun comedy/story classes & more are on the way

Create Your Star Vehicle — live & online (take it from anywhere)

Sunday, May 17, 2pm–5pm Tickets here

Sunday, Aug 9 2pm–5pm Tickets here

Develop a TV show idea! In this fast 3-hour workshop, build your world, story, and characters. Everything you need to start your pilot script.

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Jay Kelly

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