You held light, carefree memories of sack lunches at Cape Cod Bay and the rich fudge an older Cape lady made just for me. But no more.

I feel sick. That’s because I needed an afternoon snack, felt my blood sugar dipping and ate more than I normally plan to at four o’clock.

Instead of just a couple of nice cinnamon-dusted, whole-grain rice cakes with almond butter and half a banana — along with my last cup of coffee for the day, with whole milk— I dove into the Fluff jar on top of that.

It’s not even real food…


A week ago Friday — the last day of Skippy’s spring break— we drove down to Sandy Hook with her and two pals. But life’s seas were churning, as they will, and I fell the next night on my recovery path. I picked myself up; the sun came back out. Here is the latest in the story series I started 1/31/21.

I haven’t written a story in this sugar/overeating addiction recovery series since April 7 — that’s 11 days.

I wanted to, I meant to, it pressed on me, because I ran into a roadblock or two during that time…


I walked with grace through the Easter candy season, free and clear, no longing for kiddie candy and magic chocolate rabbits. Under my snug control top L’eggs pantyhose and pink Lilly Pulitzer dress, my belly was full after our Sunday holiday meal— a normal entree, with a big salad and steamed fresh asparagus. So what happened at 1:30 a.m. in the kitchen, three mornings later? I promised to write about my sugar/overeating addiction recovery journey in real time, as I rise and as I stumble, so here goes.

Years ago, I pitched a magazine story and my editors especially loved…


My bedtime reading last night was the April InStyle Melissa McCarthy cover story. I slowly turned glossy pages — no scrolling on my iPhone or MacBook. I looked forward to the rare, delicious treat all day. Melissa’s beautiful hair, lipstick, blanket jacket and pastel, puff-sleeve dress — plus her personality as an actress, and her real size— drew me in. When did you last buy a magazine?

Magazines are thinner and flimsy these days, and you can find so much for free on the web, from pie recipes to essays, pink couches to tea towels. Truly, IDK how much longer…


And I definitely do — in the mirror. This is #1, Buttercup, in my flower-titled series on sugar addiction.

Here’s how I know I am an addict. I cannot turn away from my substance once I start — primarily if it’s sugary but also floury, baked buttery, chocolate, salty or sweet chippy, fried or doughy (or fried and doughy).

I might return to its lure, chase its hit, five minutes later, that night, the next day. For a string of days. A dead daisy crown of months. A tarnished silver necklace of years. And when I indulge in my substance…


My sugar/white flour addiction loves it when I wallow in darkness, self-pity and mental pain. After a day in bed, Miss Sugar, in her purple stilettos, crushes my heart and squeezes a puff of poison perfume on my brain. And then it seems like the only thing that will help is hunting down more sugar and white flour. It’s a vicious cycle. But I have hope. This is the next installment in the series I started on 1/31/21.

Many things lead me to feel bad, and feeling bad is the trigger my addiction craves. The gun goes off; the race…


Is this delicate doily a graceful flower or an invasive weed? I say the first — and seeing it every summer brings back memories of walks from Nauset Light Beach with my mother, when I was a teenager.

Today I changed my sugar/overeating story series header to Recovery. It started as Addiction when I began using my words to describe my path on January 31, 2021. By Story #19 (March 2), I made it Addiction Recovery. Now, I am present and accounted for, looking ahead. This is #36; my mother had me when she was 36. Coincidence? Maybe. Certainly not…


The new striped baby in our home managed to tread quickly on my heart, leaving four soft pawprints. I didn’t know my spirit and soul would be so open to her beguiling sweetness, curiosity and spunk. I didn’t know she would bring me back to my childhood, and even my lost mother, in a magical way.

Ifirst held a squirmy kitten when I was a young girl on Bedford Road in Dumont, New Jersey. …


I have a good, true sponsor in my 12-step program; a loving family; and supportive friends in my life and my group, but that Black King Pansy keeps unfurling and popping up at night. I try to uproot it — weed out the yen for sugar, banish the surrender to sweets — and instead trust my Higher Power. But all addictions can dig in. Ours is a world of trials and temptations, with a vending machine at every turn. This is the latest installment in the flower-titled story series I started 1/31/21.

Several people in my extended family are in…


Now I know — unwelcome advances happen everywhere, even in a donor lounge chair with your feet up in the air and a needle in your arm for an 80-minute-plus platelet donation. Or is it especially then, when you’re in a situation like this, in my case at the mercy of the staff and hooked up to a machine?

I don’t want to share too many details, because I do not want the man to get fired — I heard they are short-staffed at the blood donor centers, as it is, and donations are desperately needed.

So I’m in in…

Alice Garbarini Hurley

Magazine maven, craft coffee lover, legal guardian. Passionate about fashion and lipstick — though it may not look that way when I dash to the supermarket.

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