By Rabbi Ilan Glazer
In the fall of 2010, I enrolled in a clinical pastoral education course as part of my rabbinical training. We watched films about addiction, which the instructors introduced by inviting us to pay attention to the questions the addicts were asking. I heard their pain, isolation, shame, and desire for a better life. I listened as they asked if they were doomed to their fate. Did they deserve their suffering? Could they live without their substance of choice? Would they ever find happiness and inner peace?
I understood for the first time that addicts aren’t just people in movies or begging on the street corner. I’d been asking myself those same questions for many years. And I realized I—a rabbinical student and a mensch—am an addict.
What does it mean to be an addict? How could this happen? Why did it take thirty-one years to see the truth about myself? Could I find healing? Dare I believe the future could be better than the present?
Growing up, I never learned about addiction. My father was a rabbi, my mother a Jewish day school teacher and principal. We moved every few years because of their work. My mother had significant medical challenges and was in and out of hospitals my entire life. My parents’ marriage was far from perfect, and I lived in fear of having to move again. I was always afraid Mom would get sick, Dad would lose his job, or they would yell at me for something I did or didn’t do. While my parents clearly loved me, I rarely felt loved, secure, or safe, and had no outlets to process my difficult upbringing.
Mom was a professional baker on the side, and one thing she taught me was that there was no problem that couldn’t be solved with the right amount of sugar. From early on, I learned to drown my emotions with cookies, cakes, pies, and ice cream. I’d finish everyone’s leftovers, because children were starving in Africa, and it was a shame to waste food. I gained weight and was ridiculed for doing so. I felt worse about myself, and the only solution I knew was to eat more. I didn’t know I was an addict. I just knew if I ate enough food, somehow the pain I was feeling would disappear, at least for a bit.
I also picked at my skin, pulled at my eyebrows, chewed on my cheeks, and bit my nails. Once I started, I often couldn’t stop, even when I did damage to my skin. I wet the bed frequently, was overweight, and had asthma, sleep apnea, and an irregular heart rhythm. I struggled to focus in school, developed significant learning impairments, and had no one to talk to about it. My role at home was to take care of my mother and siblings. I learned to cook, clean, and do laundry from a very young age. My mother made it clear she didn’t have time to deal with my challenges; her own were more important. Why couldn’t I just get myself together already? Maybe these struggles were my fault. Maybe I deserved to be yelled at. If I behaved better, they’d have no reason to yell at me, right? If only I did better in school and managed to always anticipate everyone’s needs around the house better, I’d be okay. That’s what I told myself anyway.
In middle school, my classmates started dating. I was petrified that anyone I asked out would discover how miserable I was. Mom told me my job in life was to find a nice Jewish girl who was doing good work in the world, put her on a pedestal, and give her everything she wanted, because men were jerks. How would I find the right one for me? What would I say to her? She never explained, and I was petrified to ask.
When I discovered pornography in eighth grade, a lightbulb went off in my head, and I became addicted to that, too. I pretended the women in the magazines were attracted to me. They didn’t judge me or make me feel bad. I stole magazines from the bookstore (I couldn’t possibly pay for them; someone could see me, I’d be found out, Mom would scream at me, Dad could get fired…).
I wanted my mother (and everyone else) to like me and was always seeking validation. I couldn’t express emotions. I was afraid they wouldn’t be heard or, worse, I’d be ridiculed for even having them. I spent hundreds if not thousands of hours playing solitaire, minesweeper, and other free games. When I won one, I felt like I was accomplishing something. Unfortunately, that feeling never lasted. The next game was always calling me.
In college, I heard about Hazon, now the largest Jewish environmental organization. Its first event was a bike ride from Seattle to Washington, D.C. I felt called to participate and spent ten glorious weeks riding across America. I learned I was capable of accomplishing big things. I discovered a sense of God and holiness in the outdoors that has stayed with me until this day.
I also started dating and almost married my first love. When I was with her, I felt safe and secure, like I could finally breathe. The moment she left the room, I was alone with myself, feeling as miserable and worthless as ever. When she called off our engagement, I was heartbroken, even as I knew it needed to happen. I became a Jewish environmental educator with Teva, and for the first time, I had a community where all parts of me could exist at once. My fellow staffers were incredibly supportive, and I loved teaching in the outdoors.
After two years, I was called in a different direction. Mom had been waiting for her second liver transplant, and my grandmother was taking care of her. Savta needed a break, so I became Mom’s caregiver. She had the transplant but lost a lot of blood, ending up in intensive care for two months and then the hospital and rehab for another two before she could go home. She was never strong enough to go back to work, and except for a few weekends when family or friends would visit, I couldn’t leave her. I was twenty-seven when she died. My life was in shambles. I had no energy to do anything except eat my way through my emotions. There wasn’t enough food to fill the sadness inside me.
Eventually, I was ready to reenter the world. I went to rabbinical school, yearning for community and hoping to find answers to my prayers and guidance for the way forward. I studied at ALEPH: Alliance for Jewish Renewal with founder Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi and others there and throughout the Jewish world. I spent a year in Jerusalem, learning at the Pardes Institute and drumming with Nava Tehila, a music-infused spiritual community. The Torah was inspiring, the community supportive. And still, I was looking for my bride. I thought I’d find her in Israel. If only…
I moved back and became the rabbi of a synagogue in North Bergen, New Jersey. The people were nice, but two or three times my age. Living in a small room in the back of the synagogue, I was lonely and bored. I ate all the Kiddush leftovers (and then some) and watched too much television and pornography. I did well, but I had no friends.
I started dating a rabbinical student, making the two-hour drive to see her regularly. This was when I discovered I was addicted to food. She introduced me to a functional medicine doctor, who took me off of flour, gluten, sugar, and dairy. Sigh.
We got married, and I was ordained as a rabbi. She finished a few months later, and we moved to Memphis to co-rabbi at a synagogue. We didn’t work well together. The job was all-encompassing, and the honeymoon wore off shortly after we arrived. I thought if I followed my mother’s advice and gave her everything she wanted, I’d be happy. Alas, I was miserable and couldn’t understand why.
I started to see a therapist, who sent me to the Healing Trauma Program at the Onsite retreat center. I learned about childhood trauma, attachment, bonding, addiction, codependency, and more. I realized I wasn’t just addicted to food. I had a lot of work I needed to do, but I knew I could do it.
Soon after the retreat, on December 19, 2014, I was in the Memphis Public Library’s used bookstore, perusing the addiction section. I purchased Pia Melody’s Facing Love Addiction and read it in two days. I understood I had been using pornography as a way of self-medicating and masking my emotions. I consider that to be Day 1 of my sobriety and haven’t looked at pornography since. I wish I could say my other addictive behaviors have been as easy to stop. Thank God I found a sponsor and started working the twelve steps shortly after that. I read a lot of books, listened to recovery podcasts, and participated in many meetings.
My marriage wasn’t strong enough to survive. My ex left town, and I stayed at the synagogue on my own. The work was hard, and I committed to my recovery. I hired a trainer at the JCC and started working out three times a week. I ate a lot better and worked with an emotional healer, a life coach, and a therapist. I talked regularly with my sponsor and spoke monthly with my spiritual director. It took a whole team to keep my head in the right place (and it still does!).
I wondered what else was out there in the Jewish world. I connected with Beit T’Shuvah, a residential addiction treatment center and congregation, and took part in its educator training. I found only a few books on Amazon and very little online. I wondered why we don’t have a real national movement to address recovery in the Jewish world. Why aren’t there more Jewish books, podcasts, coaching programs, cruises, Facebook groups, and opportunities to learn and grow?
Meanwhile, I started dating someone long-distance and made the difficult decision to leave Memphis. I moved to Silver Spring, Maryland; married my wife, Sherri; finished a coaching certification; launched Torah of Life, a motivational Jewish podcast; and was ready to take on the world. Unfortunately, I learned my father was dying of lung cancer. I put my work on hiatus to be with him. I was sad when he died, but I’m glad that instead of drowning my feelings in food and pornography, I shared them, went to meetings, and used the tools of the program to process my grief and loss and find healthy ways to move forward.
I know my parents loved me and did the best they could. I’m grateful for all they taught me, even as I wish life could have been different. And yet, had I had a happier childhood, I might not have discovered the calling that has become my life’s work.
I created Our Jewish Recovery to be a home for Jews recovering from addiction, their loved ones, and Jewish educators. The Facebook group is growing, the resources on the website are expanding, and people are sharing their experience, strength, and hope one day at a time. I published a book to show Jews can be addicts, and there is no inherent conflict between recovery and a commitment to Jewish life. Addiction is not new in the Jewish world; stories go back thousands of years, and I believe Judaism has spiritual tools that can be of assistance to anyone working on sobriety. I wrote the book I wish I could have read when I was in early recovery. I also became a family programs facilitator with Shatterproof, a national nonprofit focused on addiction, training people on how to address the consequences of their loved ones’ addictive behaviors. I work with rabbis and other Jewish educators and am slowly building a movement of healing.
It’s time to end the stigma of addiction in the Jewish world. We struggle with it like everyone else. And we can heal as well. I am a testament to that. My recovery isn’t perfect, and my life isn’t either. I can tell you, though, the worst day of my life today is so much better than the best day I had in active addiction. I am happier and freer than I’ve ever been, and I’ll do my best to help others find those blessings as well. We all deserve peace, joy, love, connection, and a community that lifts us up. I hope and pray we will be that community for one another. Together, we can be a light of healing throughout the Jewish world, so everyone touched by addiction can find happiness, holiness, healing, and peace.
May it be so.