Angella Johnson VIEW FROM A BROAD
`Hi! I’m Angella and I’m a compulsive overeater.” “Hello Angella. Welcome,” comes the rousing chorus.
I look at the 30 eager faces peering expectantly at me and feel a rush of anxiety.
You see, I am the new girl. The latest victim. They are almost drooling in anticipation of hearing my tales of woe; to sympathise with and comfort a fellow obsessive, maybe even feel a little better about themselves.
Welcome to the world of Overeaters Anonymous (OA). It is a cross between an evangelical Bible group (ironically, the meeting is being held in a church hall) and a therapy session with Oprah Winfrey.
“You’re not alone anymore,” proclaims a pamphlet thrust into my hands by a devotee. These are people who believe in being there for you. “Before you take that first bite … phone,” is one of the many mottos preached.
There are home phone numbers to ring for support when you get that sugar or carbohydrate craving.
Pick a sponsor and you can call any time of the night to discuss feelings of inadequacies or whatever problem sends you reaching for that chocolate eclair.
“My husband left me and my children without any maintenance and we are suffering,” wails plump, middle-aged Diana.
“I’ve been through hell and I’ve fallen off the wagon, so I’m here for the first time in six months, to be reminded of the tools I need to stop overeating.”
She goes on tearfully to complain that hubby is living in their luxury home with a full-time maid, driving around in his R500 000 car and seeing a younger woman.
“He’s happy and I’m fat.”
A wave of comfort wafts from the seated circle. “Thanks for sharing, Diana,” they chirp.
She smiles and seems almost to shrink in size from having off-loaded. Frankly, in her case I’d be worried about more than my weight. And I would do serious damage to that bloody car.
I had expected to find the place heaving with blubber, sad housewives with too much time and not enough work on their hands. But no.
Many of these OA members look like they could do with a good square meal – anorexics and bulimics are also in attendance.
The majority of those who turn up for this Saturday afternoon session have trim, normal-size figures; recovering overeaters desperately fighting the urge to fall back into old eating habits.
Take Pam, who is giving the lesson of the day – preaching about her inspirational battle with “The Disease”, as everyone calls it.
A bird of a woman, with a bright pixie face and dyed auburn hair, she virtually levitates with pride while gushing about her weight loss.
“I could not have done this alone … I’m so grateful to you all for being here … I was hooked on sugar and caffeine … I was having three meals a day, but they lasted about two hours each. Food was my life.”
It is rousing stuff. Like an old-fashioned church revival. I feel this sudden urge to jump up and shout “Hallelujah!” Thankfully, I manage to contain myself.
“My self-esteem was shot to pieces,” she warbles on. Praise the Lord, sister, I cheer inwardly.
“My weight ballooned and plummeted over the years.” I’m with you sister!
“I was a control freak, but so unhappy … now, thank God, I eat, sleep and talk OA.”
Wait up. Isn’t this just replacing one obsession for another?
I begin to sober up with the realisation that these people really are ill. This is not just about overeating (something I’m very much in tune with), but about obsessing.
Obsessing about men, about control, about lack of control, about belonging, about body shapes … you name it and they have been compulsive about it. Even about attending the meetings. (What am I doing here?)
“I come four or five times a week,” confesses Martha, whom I would meet at another church hall the following morning.
“It keeps me grounded. Without OA I would not be able to cope with life.”
Some have been attending on and off since the launch of the organisation, which originated (surprise, surprise) in the United States, some 12 years ago. It has become their Prozac.
I decide that I’m really not a group person. My withdrawal continues during the sharing process, a kind of group confessional where people are encouraged to express whatever food-related issue is paramount in their minds. The talk is about the miracles of OA.
“I feel empowerment,” says one man – there are five healthy-looking male specimens in attendance.
“I’ve let go of my anger and come out of isolation,” declares a fast-talking 29- year-old woman who is having boyfriend problems. She is apparently praying for him.
It is mostly very depressing stuff, as raw open wounds are exposed. But there is also humour and many are able to laugh about their complexes.
“The scale ruled my life,” says Don, a normal-sized man who claims buffets are his downfall. “I would wake up several times in the night to weigh myself.”
There is a spontaneous burst of laughter.
“I would move it [the scale] around to get a different result and even thought of taking it to the coast, because I decided it was being affected by the atmospheric pressure in Johannesburg.”
Another round of nervous laughter because we could all identify with this particular obsession. The stories may be sad, but the faces glow with hope and mutual need. Oprah would be proud of all this openness.
At the end of each session – when burdens have been temporarily unloaded, tears have been shed and people like me have managed to avoid telling their food tales (and I could talk plenty on that subject) – we link hands and say the serenity prayer.
“Overeating is a threefold disease,” says the promotional fax which winged its way into my office several months ago, alerting me to the existence of this organisation. “Physical, emotional and spiritual.”
The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop eating compulsively. There is no fee, but members are invited to donate money at each daily meeting, held in Gauteng and Cape Town.
The belief is that, like alcoholism, overeating can be arrested but not cured.
“Our goal is to abstain from compulsive overeating one day at a time. We do this through daily personal contact, meetings and by following the same 12-step pro-gramme of recovery used by Alcoholics Anonymous.”
It is a laudable objective, but some people are just no good at this group thing. After my initiation session, I found myself sitting in Ninos at Rosebank, scoffing a plateful of eggs, bacon, sausages and several slices of lavishly buttered toast.
It was heavenly and I saw no need to confess this binge at the following morning’s OA meeting. Oh well, back to counting calories.
Names have been changed to protect the anonymity of OA’s members. For more information, phone (011) 640-2901 or Doris at 082 558-2762