Amy Chillag is a CNN Writer/Producer.
At 5’ 1” my small, 42-year-old frame was taking on a dreadful Body Mass Index. I'd start in on a pint of coffee ice cream at three in the afternoon, every day. Not just any ice cream, but Bon Appetit top-10-rated best-in-the-nation ice cream that just happens to be a five minute drive from my house.
I didn’t know how to stop. I'd sit on my couch and scoop one creamy spoonful after another. It was never enough. I could not put the spoon down. I'd feel sick after downing three-quarters of a pint of that coffee temptress.
My psychologist would later explain I'm trying to fill a void. What void? I have a good job, a thoughtful, handsome and loving boyfriend, two Boston Terriers who love me. But these things, as they always do, go back to childhood.
What I didn't realize is I've been depressed for a couple of years, gradually getting worse and relying on sweets to give me a high that buzzed a pleasure center in my brain increasing evidence shows could be as addictive as cocaine.
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