Who knew cookies could be ironic? I walked into my church recovery group tonight and there were red velvet cookies on the food table as well as other delectable temptations. I had gone back even though I tried to quit more than a month ago and every week I have sat there miserable. I have lost hope and faith. Hope that I could be healed and faith in the “Freedom Sessions” program.
Cookies speak to me louder than the pastor doing the teaching of the twelve step program. I hear them over the drone of his voice trying to convict me not to “use” anymore. His reasoning is lost amid the thoughts of cream cheese icing on cupcakes. The cakes and doughnuts and cheese and crackers and chips and dips have a stronger pull on my soul than the enticement to be “sober”. They are there week after week, waiting for me. The drug addicts, alcoholics, sex addicts and abuse victims seem immune to them. I however am captivated by their obvious charms. Blinded by them, dazzled, hypnotized. Their allure knows no end.
For me, they were the final straw. Cookies at recovery for bulimia? Ironic but deadly.