Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Binge/Restrict


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.