Late last night, as I sat in the dark of the local movie theater shoveling handfuls upon handfuls of Dark Chocolate Raisinetes and self pity into my mouth, I couldn’t help but feel an almost overwhelming amount of sadness come over me.
Sadness because I had lost control.
Sadness because I, so badly, wanted to win.
Sadness because I knew my fate was, ultimately, inevitable; I had to get rid of everything I had just consumed.
The fluorescent glow of the restroom nearly blinded me as I walked in; it shone like a sinfully holy light. As I walked toward the back stall, I contemplated turning around and forgetting it all; forgetting the sickness, forgetting the bullshit.
But then, I remembered who I was and what I was made of. I am comprised of an endless list of rules and regulations, of “safe foods” and calorie charts. Every filament of every fiber of my being is composed of an unorthodox mixture of pride and shame.
As my fingernail scratched patterns into the soft tissue that lined the back of my throat, I couldn’t help but wonder if my parents would be ashamed of me. As my throat began to sting with acid and stale carbonation, I couldn’t help but wonder if a god could ever forgive a sinner like me.
Needless to say, both yesterday and today, I purged.
As badly as I wish I could explain my logic behind it all, I simply can’t. I long for the day when measuring cups and calorie counters hold no power, when middle fingers are used for nothing more than strategic weapons during morning rush hour, when skeletons are no longer looked to as goddesses who, in hopes, will show us how not to need.
But until then, I will restart my countdown and I will sit here, longing and needing, until, of course,
I no longer long or need.