Yesterday marked my longest run of abstaining from engaging in any sort of eating disordered behavior. Three days free of restricting. Three days free of purging, Three days free of any compulsions, counting and recounting- of any calculating and recalculating.
Three fucking days.
Normally, I would be proud of this accomplishment. Really, I would. But the truth of the matter is, while yesterday did, in fact, mark my three days free from my eating disorder, yesterday also marked the end of my three days free from my eating disorder.
What can I say? I’m a pretty badass multi-tasker.
I knew, from the moment I woke up, that my streak would be coming to an end. And that, to me, was and still is the hardest part of it all. There’s a feeling you get; a feeling of knowing that you are no longer in the game, that you no longer have control over your need for control, that all good things are coming down- hard and fast- and you know that this, in this very moment, is it. That this must be the end.
Breakfast and lunch were fine. Well, kind of fine anyways. More tolerable than anything. My whole day was pretty much tolerable until around dinner time.
I knew that in order to stick to my meal plan of three meals a day, dinner was a must. I thought about having a bowl of granola and carrots, and then I thought about having an apple with peanut butter but, ultimately, after about half an hour of hardcore deliberation, I decided to make myself a salad.
Romaine lettuce. Shredded mild cheddar cheese. Black olives. Light honey mustard dressing.
It took me about twenty minutes to consume it and even less time to decide to throw it up.
I don’t know why I do it. I really don’t.
I self indulge only to self sabotage and self-induce.
I am pathetic contradiction.
I wish I could explain to you the power of a purge. To explain what it’s like to shove your fingers down your throat- back and forth, in and out- until your body begins to shake with uneasiness and your stomach begins to cave under pressure. Until finally, things begin to come up. More than just food. Things. Real, heavy shit. And it comes up like slow motion so that you taste every mistake and every failure; so that you know that you were the cause of it all.
I wish I could explain to you what it feels like to wait.
10 seconds. 30 seconds. 2 minutes.
For something or someone to talk you out if it; to make some sense of it all. But no one ever does and no one ever will so you go back to the only thing you know; a second round.
Do you know what it’s like to be completely exposed and vulnerable-to be in your most primitive state- and to be so full of shame because of who you are and who or, rather, what you’ve let yourself become? You are foreign. You are strange. Your skin becomes drier, your hands become colder, your legs become weaker and you wonder if this is what you have done to yourself.
Five years from now.
Ten years from now?
You wonder if you are withering.
You wonder if this is suicide.
You are the epitome of how not to be- exactly what you’ve been trying to hide from the world; like somehow they wouldn’t see. Like, somehow, they couldn’t see.
I can’t tell you if tomorrow will be better. I really can’t. Sometimes, I wonder if this is the right thing to do. Sometimes, I question how badly I actually want it. Will there ever be a time when I want this, recovery, more than life itself? Will I ever be ready? And if so, then when?
Tell me how to be.