Monday, November 8, 2010

Screw Up

I screwed up. After writing yesterday’s blog, after my blithe optimism about overcoming IT, about managing to move through a day of spontaneous eating, I purged at the day’s end. A lovely dinner: mixed greens freshly picked from our Amish friend’s farm, homemade Butternut squash-sage gnocchi. Then: Christopher suggested dessert and even though I was full, I said Yes, because that’s what you say when you’re trying to defeat IT, when you’re trying to behave like a normal person and say Yes to a slice of cake that you yourself made the night before—a caramel-walnut, apple, upside-down cake.

Apparently, IT had other ideas. No way could I feel full. No way could I enjoy food, sink into sensory pleasure. After all, weren’t my skinny jeans feeling tight around the hips and ass? Wasn’t my belly bulging again? Wasn’t I back to gaining weight?

So I ate the slice of cake and walked upstairs, feeling the pressure rise in my chest, the need to be empty once again taking precedence over the need to be healthy. Christopher even asked me if I was okay, to which I replied, “Oh, sure. I’m fine,” because of course, I was not willing to be helped, I didn’t want to be stopped, I wanted, well, my, ITs own way. Throw it all back up. Achieve equilibrium. Return to negative calories.

So. No need for fingers down the throat. That’s how easy it is—just tilt the body, hang the head, and it’s all over.

Only there’s the fallout. Christopher creeping upstairs behind me, listening to the awfulness of it all, watching me lift the lid of the toilet to make sure it all flushed down. Christopher demanding I tell him WHAT I DID. IT is adamant that I keep all transgressions and humiliations private. Deny, deny, deny even though he knows the truth. No possible way to admit to the degrading and habitual failure that is an Eating Disorder.

Dr. B. today: “I want to see you live. I want to see you grow old with your kids and grandkids. I want to see you feel peace.”

And yet, I have no idea what that means. Peace? I have never felt peace, restfulness, ease. I keep thinking ECT will somehow zap my brain into compliance. I keep hoping that taking the small risks in eating like I did yesterday will counteract all feelings of self-punishment. But they don’t. And all I am left with is emptiness—nothing left to write, nothing left to feel. Just a life circumscribed by ITs demands. Which is no life.

At least no life that I want. Where do I from here? That is the question that remains before me.