I turned to fitness when I was out of control with bourbon, drugs and an eating disorder – but it became another problem
When I was a young drug and alcohol addict with a raging eating disorder, I would periodically decide to get myself together by getting in shape. I would go to my local gym in New York and attempt to run on the treadmill, then make myself do leg raises until my abs were tender to the touch.
These gestures toward fitness were feeble; I never stopped smoking Camel Lights and always quit after a few sessions anyway. But I had already absorbed from diet and wellness culture the idea that I would become “better” if I became fit, so when I felt my messiest – bloated from bourbon, out of control with heroin and pills, eating huge quantities of diner food and vomiting it up until my throat bled – I looked to fitness as a beacon.
