This year I made a declaration to the world that I am a chocoholic. I hoped that this bold move would be the first step along the road to recovery. So far so good – but it has been hell.
In times of happiness, sadness, fatigue and stress I have always reached for the Cadbury. While this may seem harmless enough, at times I have consumed so much in one sitting that if I was to blow into a chocolate breathalyzer, I would be well over the legal limit. Apart from petitioning the government to make over consumption of chocolate a criminal offence, I could not see myself kicking this indulgent habit without recognizing it as an addiction.
Psychologists would probably probe deep into my childhood in search of answers. I point the finger at Grandad. He had an endless supply of chocolate. We would read Lady and the Tramp and share rows of Dairy Milk at the turn of each page. Whenever I slept over I would wake the following morning to find a Milky Bar tucked securely under my pillow. How wonderful. But if I look deeper, it could well be Nanna’s fault; for she was ahead of her time in the healthy diet front and fed me sugar free porridge served with powdered skim milk, wholemeal sandwiches and broad beans seemed to make an appearance at every evening meal. Maybe Grandad was actually supplying me the chocolate as a means of basic sustenance.
But why then, as a grown up free to avoid powdered skim milk, wholemeal bread and broad beans, do I still have this dependency on chocolate? On the advice of High School Commerce Teacher I began using chocolate as a crutch in times of crisis. He preached the benefits of taking a Kit Kat break during exams. Rather than go into a full panic attack when your writing hand cramped up or your brain went numb, you simply took a moment to enjoy one finger of Kit Kat. I found the technique extremely successful and took it with me to Uni, full time employment and motherhood.
The transition however from dependency to addiction is rather blurred. It may have started in the first few months of new motherhood when a quick chocolate fix could keep me awake during the 2.00am feed or take the place of the evening meal that Oldest Son was determined to keep me from eating. It may well have been due to the fact that as a breast feeding mother I could consume excessive amounts of chocolate and not gain any weight. But unless I was going to continue adding to the population beyond Youngest Son or take up marathon running, my chocolate consumption needed to be dealt with.
So without the aid of chocolate replacement patches, a national chocolate quit campaign or the outlawing of chocolate consumption in a public place, I have had to go about this cold turkey. You may laugh, but look around you. Tesco has an entire aisle dedicated to chocolate. I am yet to find a petrol station that has the facility to pay without queuing alongside neatly stacked rows of Mars, Snickers and Yorkies. Then there are the mini chocolate thank yous that accompany your dinner bill and to top it all off, the Dry Cleaner has a bowl of Favourites sitting on the counter.
There have been moments of weakness and I have snuck a Freddo here and there. There have been moments of sheer desperation when I have devoured the cooking chocolate that was hidden way up high in the cupboard. I have had dizzy spells, overwhelming tiredness and voices inside me head urging me to weaken. But yesterday Oldest Son bought a bar of Galaxy and offered me a token single block. I ate it. I loved it. Then I declined a second piece. I have done it. I am a recovering chocoholic.
Disclaimer: I am a recovering chocoholic. Please do not bring chocolate into my home.
