There is that moment in time where I
know that I'm going to do it.
A
line is crossed, and the deed is done before I even begin.
Up until that point, the negotiation is
on. The binge committee rattles around in my head like sergeants evaluating
every morsel of food put in my mouth and every behavior revolving around food.
Did I break any rules?
Did she drink milk instead of soymilk?
Vegan rules broken.
Did she eat an apple? Low carb broken.
Did she weigh the olive oil when cooking
or just dump? Portion control broken
Did she drink tea with milk at 8pm? No
calories after 5 broken.
Did she eat cooked Brussel sprouts? Raw
food broken.
Once a rule is broken, it can't be undone.
I need to binge now. Why? Because it's freedom from the unbearable voices
screaming that I failed. I failed. Yet again. Big fat fuck. Loser. Monster. Animal.
To shut them up, I binge. Slip into that space where physicality
doesn't matter. Fuck it all. I exist only in my mind. In my mind, I am
beautiful. Already thin. Already perfect. Already loved.
I race to the store. Peanut M&M's, Lucky Charms, microwaveable
pizza, marshmallows, Hershey bars.... Is it enough? Will it be enough? More! I
need more!
Back in the apartment, I break open my escape stash. Stuffing it
in, faster and faster. Barely chewing between swallows. My thoughts are
consumed in fantasy about my latest crush. How they love me, how we are talking
arm and arm on the beach, kissing under the moon. I am gorgeous, with long
flowing hair.... thin and petite and gentle. My stomach is getting tight, and
my breathing is shorter. I must keep going. There is no stopping. I eat until I
can no longer breath, no longer swallow, have to lie on my back and exhale
slowly to assuage the pain in my ribs.
It is over. I feel sick and ashamed. Oh, what did I do? What did I
do? I'll never beat this disorder. I failed again.
The restricting committee sets in, constantly warring with the
binge committee. Don't worry, they claim, tomorrow you will be perfect.
Immaculate. Exact. We will find the perfect diet, you will be perfect and this
will never, ever happen again. The antidote is simply to restrict, restrict,
restrict. And be perfect, perfect, perfect.
This time you will win, the committee cheers. And once you hit the
magic number of 115 starving and weighing and counting and restricting, all the
good stuff will reign down on me- friends, boyfriends, popularity, smiles,
great job, great life, jogging on the beach with a cheeky grin and sun streaked
blond hair, barbecues with best friend.
So I wake up, bloated, nauseous with a fresh resolve to diet,
restrict, climate the evil carbs, meats, sugars, starches.
And round and round we go.
