When I advocate for food addiction, I often encounter rank derision about the idea, especially when the commenters can remain anonymous. As I’ve expressed before (borrowed from my clever friend Marty Lerner), their attitude is, “what’s next, air addiction?”

I concede that “food addiction” isn’t a very good name, because whatever it sounds like, it isn’t meant to denote all food in all cases. Food addiction is a condition in which some people react to some food substances — usually processed food substances — differently than others do.

But I’ve also noticed far more sober, open-minded people also unwilling to use the A word, even if they allow for such linguistic gymnastics as “conditioned hypereating,” because the medical industry — inexplicably, in the face of mounting scientific evidence — hasn’t sanctified the condition as a “real” addiction.

Actually, the American Society for Addiction Medicine has, but the American Psychiatric Association, whose Diagnostic and Statistical Manual is the bible of substance-use-disorder diagnoses, has not, and shows no indication it will any time soon.

In the face of this, I’ve considered surrendering the use of the word “addiction,” on the grounds that it’s only a word, and if I can engage with more allies by avoiding the offending term, perhaps that’s prudent.

Except it’s not only a word: Two guys go into a bar. One ends the night at home, the other ends up in the gutter. They both ingested the same substance, but the outcome is substantially different, explained only by difference within the drinkers. Clearly, one reacted far more severely than the other.

It’s that way with food addiction, too: Two people have an ice cream sundae. One enjoys a few bites, or maybe eats it all, but then moves on. The other definitely eats it all, scraping away with a spoon to get every last bit, and then starts wondering how to get more. Would anyone notice if I went back for another one? What would the clerk think? Can I part gracefully from my friend and go to a different parlor? Or maybe to the grocery store to get a half-gallon and all the other fixings? Can I at least start eating it in the car before I get home, or perhaps do I have to eat it all in the car, because someone’s at home? Where can I ditch the evidence, afterward?

This is not fantastical. I’ve done most of that stuff, more times than I could count. The physical craving, the emotional turmoil, the shame and regret — not to mention the swearing-off — afterward. I acted insanely around food, for years, and got to be 365 pounds.

Just to be clear: not all obese people are food addicts. And not all food addicts are obese, because some of them find ways to purge what they eat, or revel in the illusion of control they feel when they eat next to nothing. Addiction doesn’t explain the nation’s rampant obesity. But it exists, and saying it doesn’t does not negate its existence. Neither does describing the phenomenon with other words.

It's food addiction, folks, and we’re all suffering for ignoring it. The individuals who can’t be officially diagnosed with a disease that supposedly doesn’t exist are suffering, convinced that they’re weak, lazy, and morally flawed when they’re not.

And because we share our health-care costs in large risk pools, we’re all paying for consequences of obesity fueled in part by food addiction — heart disease, cardiovascular disease, some cancers, joint dysfunction, and lost productivity, among others.

Let's call it what it is, and then let's start trying to mitigate its effects.