The Doris Factor

Lessons from a Guru in Grandma's Clothing

By Stacey Morris

The Doris Factor

Definition:  A spontaneous wave of happiness, whose engulfment thwarts the desire to use food (or vice of choice) as a tactical reality-escape, anger suppression, or as an alluring but utterly inadequate substitute for a nurturing parent.

It was July of 1990 when my father arranged a month-long stay for me at a west coast rehabilitation center for food addicts. The rehab center was a hot commodity, heavily advertised in People magazine and the like, coupled with voluminous television ads featuring a sympathetic staff member smiling into the camera and beckoning viewers to conquer their demons once and for all. The ad campaigns were successful. There were wait lists at all five locations, but that didn’t deter my father, who was known for his ability to wield his charm as effectively as a handgun with a smile. He pulled strings with one of the directors at the L.A. facility, an acquaintance I’ll call Mr. Smith, and got me admitted, despite having no insurance. “Don’t worry, we make enough to let a few scholarships slide,” the director confided to my father. (A few short years later, the rehab was exposed for insurance fraud by a major television news network – but that’s another story.)

And that’s how I found myself LAX-bound the summer of 1990 – all thanks to my father’s crippling charm and his crippling habit of avoidance.  Fatherhood had plunged him into the habit of inspecting and correcting anyone but himself. It would have done him a bushel of good to plunk down for an extended period of therapy sessions, self-reflection, and a little calorie restriction for good measure. But instead it was I who embarked on a four-week stay in an overheated asphalt jungle near the Los Angeles freeway.

My roommate was an uptight mother of two teenaged girls from Utah, who, by my calculations bore the ear-markings of an exercise bulimic. (Spending years attending Overeaters Anonymous meetings yields you an education in more ways than one).  During our introduction I caught her taking in a disapproving glance of my hips and stomach and our interaction went downhill from there. Lean, frenetic, and always attired as if she were about to go on a 10-mile run, she dodged me as if I had a contagious disease. Mercifully, our time together overlapped by less than a week and I found myself sighing with relief when my next roommate entered our hospital dormitory room laden with suitcases: a pudgy, sweet-faced grandmother from Scranton.

There were about 40 other patients that summer and we existed on the hospital’s fourth floor where the daily routine consisted of day-long group and individual therapy sessions interspersed with rec time at the outdoor basketball court and meals in the cafeteria three floors below. We were forbidden to leave the fourth floor without the supervision of a nurse, most of whom were apathetic malcontents.

We were permitted excursions to the Santa Monica Pier and Knots Berry Farm on weekends, but always with the condescending reminder that we were officially psychiatric patients. It was a card played by nurses and therapists alike if anyone displayed resistance or questioned authority, which, over time, became apparent was more than a little dubious. “Oh, you think you’re too good to be here?” one of the therapists said to a woman one morning because she wasn’t enthused about the role-playing exercise she’d just been handed. “Well then, how’d you wind up as a mental patient?” (As the investigative journalists and unsparing newspaper articles revealed a few years later, such a categorization was the key to unlocking tidal waves of cash from insurance companies.)

One of the most unsavory aspects to our rote schedule were the weekly community meetings with the rehab’s chaplain. A flamboyant native of the UK, he had a bent for sarcasm, a visceral disdain for people of size, and bore the tragic evidence of one too many facelifts. Father Joe, as he was called, always got the ball rolling by railing at us for being fat, out of control, and riddled with inadequate fashion sense. “Do you think a pimple on top of a mountain looks good?” he asked, scanning the semi-terrified room filled mostly with fat people. “Then why in the name of God would someone fat choose to have short hair? At least get a hairstyle to suit your body!”  Father Joe knew he was describing half the audience and that fact seemed to delight him as he fired off more insults during his interminable stand-up routine. Pacing the room in search of targets, Father Joe’s most lethal vitriol was reserved for the malcontents brave enough to express dissent and voice a desire to cut their stay short and head for home. His shrill rounds of questioning their sanity while mercilessly critiquing their appearance were brutal. I often held my breath from the utter shock of his cruelty. Then he’d conclude by reminding us to buy his new book as we rose from our chairs, held hands, and half-heartedly sung a very off-key version of “The Greatest Love of All.” (I wish I were kidding).

The irony of being forced to sing a love song about self-compassion after being abused by a frustrated, would-be new age guru for an hour was emblematic of the slipshod and unprofessional way the facility was run. The staff of nurses had been trained to snarl at us, the iceberg lettuce-centric meals were woefully inadequate and bereft of flavor, and were reminded nearly every day that our newfound status as mental patients would be a part of our personal records for life. Looking back, I’m surprised they didn’t hogtie us and cattle-brand each patient with a scorching MP on our hindquarters.

The only thing this God-forsaken house of grift did right was invite a woman named Doris to come for a talk on recovery one afternoon. Doris was from Santa Monica, a longtime member of Overeaters Anonymous, and considered a star in OA circles, revered for being a wise counselor and excellent listener. Mr. Smith told us there was a waiting list in Los Angeles for Doris because everyone wanted her to be their sponsor, even TV stars and models with eating disorders in need of a life rebuild.

Doris wasn’t exactly what you’d call a smiler, but as she stood at the podium, clad in navy slacks and a white cardigan sweater, the 70-something exuded compassion, patience, and empathy for how we wound up in rehab. As Doris talked matter-of-factly about her journey from aimless overeater to a woman of purpose, the room seemed to visibly exhale. It was clear she wasn’t armed with insults, threats, or admonitions. Getting out of the trap of using food as an escape was good, Doris told us, but being of use and helping others was what made her engine hum.  Doris told us that her recovery model was a confluence of self-esteem reparation, being patient with the mistakes, and healthy doses of service to others.

She spoke quietly and with an unassuming demeanor. In spite of the life-enhancing scope of her message, Doris was refreshingly non-evangelical. When she concluded her talk I rushed up to get a little one-on-one with her. Thanking Doris for coming, I gave her a condensed version of my history, and fired off a few questions – I was parched for compassionate wisdom. The talk had concluded just before the lunch break and Doris asked if she might join me to continue our conversation. We sat at an out of the way table in the cafeteria where I was open about my struggles with food, yo-yo dieting, weight regain, and bearing inescapable shame from parents who hated the way I looked. She listened, offered a few solutions for the immediate future, and then said something that stunned me:

“Aren’t you going to eat your lunch?” she asked, glancing at my untouched tray. The institutional menu was famously unappealing, but the underfed patients tended to devour everything but the silverware. Usually by this time I would have demolished the entire meal. But that afternoon, I paid no attention to it. Why? I wondered. This had never happened to me. Instantaneously, I knew why: I felt fulfilled.

As I looked down at the cafeteria’s version of turkey salad, I realized my utter disinterest in grabbing a fork and digging in had something to do with a palpable sense of contentment. Someone had just paid attention to me in a positive way, without judgment and recrimination. It was a dynamic I rarely experienced in my 25 shrapnel-filled years and it overflowed my cup to the point of having no cognizance of hunger - a little like being in love, but in a different way.

I thought about my encounter with Doris for years afterwards - it was the best part of my four weeks in confinement and taught me a valuable lesson - food was only a paltry second compared to being fulfilled from the inside out. I’ve since dubbed that wonderful state of existence, The Doris Factor. It’s a level of satisfaction that’s as powerful as it is simple. It’s also fleeting and can’t be manufactured, but when those moments come, I savor them.

Even though the impetus for that Los Angeles adventure 33 years ago was to assuage my father’s guilt for the role he played in damaging me, that intense sliver of time set me on a course to keep salving the wounds. It took time and practice to drop the habit of self-hatred, but I finally divested most of it – and that’s a huge leap from not being able to say a single positive thing about myself.

I’ve also come to accept that food and pleasure are and should be interwoven. I’m a little hardwired to love food more than the average person; but I’m mindful of the days it drives me more than usual.  Even though the Doris Factor can’t be conjured, here’s what can be: the practice of self-acceptance. The more I accept who I am and what I’m made of, take responsibility for healing instead of lashing out at the world, the more likely The Doris Factor will materialize again to quietly but effectively rock my world.