The Past

I feel really dark and really deep really fast. It's like something switched over to the dark side again, and I don't know what it is. It must be hormones. Holy shoot talking monkeys. The hormones are so powerful. Dear God, please save me from this hell of hormones, not by taking me out, but by being here with me through them. I don't know what to do or where to go.

I threw up a little bit for the first time in a few years. Totally came right back. I was standing in the kitchen, trying to nourish myself with something different: avocado ice cream, and I couldn't stop. It was delicious, and I knew it wasn't for Ryan at all, it was just for me. So I just kept licking at it and licking at it, and then Ryan just stood there, and all the while I knew I would be throwing it up as soon as he left. I knew I would just lean over and it would come right back up, sliding through my esophagus like old times. And sure enough, it did. It felt so guilt-inducing I can't even imagine how God has gotten me through my life so far.

I was RIGHT back to when I had my own apartment and EVERY SINGLE DAY was spent in the pursuit of food, in the consumption of food, the worry about food, the desire to be smaller and unseen yet SEEN. Every day was a constant purging of what was being taken in. Dear God. That is so sad.

Here's my snippet, if I were going to write out one small snippet of a day with an eating disorder.

4:00pm is my appointment with my therapist. She is stationed right down the road in a rehabilitation center. It's disguised as a place for people who've been injured, need spinal rehabilitation. It's an open gym, mirrors on one side, a desk and a hallway leading to the back. Janice comes out to get me, her long face, blue eyes, blonde hair, and lithe body welcoming me in. She has horse teeth, the ones that are extra white, a little smaller than the normal horse teeth, and super straight in rows. Her face reflects botox and a little plastic surgery. Looking 35 instead of 55 is perhaps what she wanted, but instead, to me at least, she got a mangled 45 with proof of insurance.

Inside I am cringing. Will she ask me how much I've purged? What will we talk about for an hour? Portion sizes? Meat vs. grains vs. fruits and vegetables?? My mind is disgusted, scared, and already trying to figure out how I don't need her. I've spent the entire morning not eating in order to prepare. I've gone for a walk in Garden of the Gods hungry, wishing for bliss, not wanting to live.

"The guy out there is so funny. Oh! Let me put away my chocolate covered almonds, I keep them in my desk for a little sweet, sustained energy. They're a great snack! Sit. I went up to Denver to go to..."

She continues to talk, I smile, ask her questions. She gives me a sheet on portion sizes, how much to eat and when. I look at it, nodding, in my head going, is this really supposed to work? Do I tell her that this is impossible for me to regulate? I'm living ALONE. She had told me and my mom, when I first brought my mom, that being alone after a meal is like being offered alcohol for an alcoholic. I should be around someone for at least 20 minutes after a meal. First of all, twenty minutes ain't got nothin' on purging. Let me just say, there's nothing that can keep a purger from the bathroom, a mug, a bag, an outside spot, anything. They're gonna purge.

I sit on the love seat as she has her cargo capri-ed legs tucked under her on a comfy chair all her own, and I just nod. "Do you like sweets or salty things when you binge?" She asks. "Umm sweet usually." "Mmhmm."

I listen to her stories about her sister the psychologist who can prescribe me anti-depressants. She winces, "They do make you gain some weight." As if that's the deciding factor. But she pushes them anyways, giving me her sister's card. "I helped another few girls with these. You should try them and see which one works. If any of them give you suicidal thoughts, you need to switch..." Ummm yeah, already having those...what's that supposed to do?

I tell her, "I just don't see the point in anything anymore, I don't like life. I want to die. I've been cutting and crying, and I don't want to live."

"It sounds like depression is your source problem. Anxiety after that. You see there are different types of people, ones with a rootedness in depression and ones who are anxious first and foremost. Yours sounds like depression, which is harder to treat."

Ok, great. Thank you for that. Good to know. Like I didn't already know since I LIVE IN THIS BODY. 

So, Janice has me sign over 150 dollars and sends me on my way with a chart about how much to eat.

I drive to the grocery store about a mile down the road. I buy soft chocolate chip cookies, soy milk, water, honeycomb, 4 large double chocolate chunk muffins, 2 apples, rice cakes, 3 boxes of popcorn, pretzels, and gum, powdered donuts, honey nut cheerios, and carrots, nuts, lots of nuts. I begin eating in the car, water drenching everything as I gulp it quickly after each round of chewing and swallowing. I drive the 2 minutes back to my apartment.

My apartment is on the 2nd floor of an absolutely gorgeous building overlooking the entire city of Colorado Springs. It backs up to Garden of the Gods. It has a pool. It has windows Everywhere. I walk up the steps with my bags of groceries, my stomach already a bit distended. I set things down in front of the television in my bare living room directly in front of the door. I have an old, secondhand sofa pushed up against the 3 windows that act like a window seat area. I close the blinds, continue to drink water as I turn on a few lights, grab my coca cola plastic cup my roommates gave me from the dorms when I lived there last semester, and set up for an hour or so of bingeing and purging.

I immediately purge what I've eaten on the way here. My muscles shake a little from the sugar rush of things already beginning their digestion. I heave over the toilet, watching each thing slide out, confident in my ability to do this one thing. I'm getting very good at it, but the nagging guilt keeps me from feeling anything but hatred for myself. I flush. It gets stuck. I jiggle things. It smells. I get scared. Try again. It goes down. Phew! Back for more.

I turn on Grey's Anatomy as I chew an entire box of cookies, carefully. My popcorn is popping by now. Popcorn is my closing food. If nothing else helps get things dislodged from the confines of my stomach, I can eat popcorn bag after popcorn bag and drink water until I'm a water balloon, lean over, and out comes everything a big slimy mess.

Dr. Grey is crying. She doesn't understand why she has her hand inside a victim with a bomb inside of him. Neither do I. But my eyes water with tears, from imagining what that would be like, how it would feel to save someone's life. I head back to the toilet for more purging.

I make sure to save some oatmeal, the apples, the carrots, 3 frozen stir fry dinners and some instant coffee for tomorrow, when I won't have enough money to buy normal food. I make about $350 a week, or maybe every two weeks, and that usually goes to a few binges, gas, and a little bit of normal food. It's usually gone within the first week, leaving me with not enough to eat the next, just subsisting off of green tea with soy foam that my sister buys me when we meet up at Starbucks.

To be continued...