I didn’t post my Weigh-in Wednesday update yesterday. You may or may not have noticed.
I went on a binge for the first time in several weeks.
Yes, I’ve over-eaten junk food several times in the past month, but I’d always maintained control. I stopped myself. I splurged and then regained composure.
Last night, I didn’t stop.
I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop.
I started innocently. Healthy. A piece of salmon. Some cheese.
Then beer. Chips. Cookies. Chocolate.
I couldn’t stop shoving food into my mouth. My stomach growled, my brain roared. My husband came home during the middle of my binge. Normally, that snaps me out of it.
This time, I kept eating.
He asked me if I was hungry.
He asked me why I kept eating if I wasn’t hungry.
“I don’t know.”
He suggested I eat some baby carrots – they would fill me up and I wouldn’t feel guilty.I went into the bathroom to shove cookies into my mouth.
I finally stopped around midnight, not because I was full, but because I had run out of accessible junk food. The only options left were apples, carrots, celery … not the satisfaction you want during an episode.
My husband, confused (and likely disgusted), took our puppies for a walk while I sulked on the couch. When I was sure he was gone, I slipped into the medicine cabinet and pulled out my hidden supply of laxatives. I’ve told him, and everyone else, that I don’t buy them anymore.
(There is a box hidden in my car. Another in the kitchen.)
One pill? Three?
Fifteen small, pink pills. Fifteen guarantees of pain, of redemption. Fifteen annular gifts, each promising to purge my stomach and my soul.
The pain this morning was unbearable. Knife in the stomach, tearing a burning path into my lower intestines. Cramps, exaggerated by dehydration, crippled my abdomen. It feels as if you’re slowly digesting a belly full of razor blades. You can feel the acid churning.
I sat in a hot bath at 4:30 in the morning. I prayed, vows of lies and false promises.
“God, if you make this pain go away, I promise I won’t binge again.”
“I swear I’ll throw the box of laxatives away.”
“I will start fresh tomorrow. I will eat right. I will exercise. I will take care of myself.”
“I promise to love the body you’ve given me.”
Each lie, greater than the last.
The pain subsided, a combination of warm water and 800 mg of ibuprofen, and I climbed back into bed, damp and despondent.
My husband slept, my puppies snored, and I cried.
It wasn’t until 8am that the true effect of the pills kicked in and, despite the previous hours of suffering, I couldn’t help but smile when the scale consigned a loss.
Laxatives: 1, Scale: 0
- Slips (thewavesofrecovery.wordpress.com)