‘What’s that flavour like?’ The red haired girl behind the counter asks. ‘I’m sorry?’ I respond with hesitation. ‘You buy this a lot’, she gestures to the ice cream - a flavour I haven’t bought before for the record. ‘I don’t know’, I respond through clenched teeth. I damn myself for moving to this small suburb with only one 24 hour service station. It’s time to find a new place to buy binge food.
As always it sneaks up on me.
One minute I am celebrating my roundness and new curves, and the next, I am doubled over the toilet bowl, shaking, sweating and satisfied having wasted money and time on this useless mess that I call ‘coping’. It was only nine months ago that my shrink threatened me with rehab and hospital.
‘I can do it!’ I say, optimistically. I have done it before and I’ll do it again. You don’t get the diagnosis of ‘anorexic’ with a lack of willpower. But here I am.
You can move me, you can strip me of love and you can chew me up and spit me out, but you can’t change old habits. This is what it is.
It’s like the drinking. I can promise that I will only drink one beer out of a six pack, but then I somehow find myself five beers deep and cracking the lid of the sixth, wondering how I’m going to hide the bottles.
On the outside, I’m doing just fine; I work, I laugh loudly and I am brilliant. I study and I write wicked smart opinion pieces, but on the inside, I’m the same. Still pulling up to patrol stations in the middle of the night trying to find the perfect food to satiate the beast. Tonight I wanted sweet and crunchy and tonight this is what I get. Tonight I meet eyes with the cashier and tonight I curse myself.
It hasn’t been going on for too long - in fact it has been a recent development. I had only thrown up in the new house without it being self induced until quite recently.
I need to make another appointment with my psychiatrist - and change where I shop.
‘You look like you have lost weight!’ My terminally ill mother exclaims.
‘It’s probably just the flu’ I respond. I am always sick. Tonsiliitis, the flu, gastro - that doesn’t end. My poor body manifesting my grief.
Inwardly, I grin.
Loading comments...