Reality

I binged today on 3 cinnamon-raisin bagels with honey, a can of kidney beans, a tomato, and half-of-a cup of fat-free bean soup with spicy sauce mixed in.  What a waste.  And yet I'm honestly not that disappointed in myself.  I wish I was.  In a way, I have a feeling my deranged brain is telling me it's okay to let my guard down because I'm dealing with one shitty thing after another.  But it's also a wake-up call, an opportunity for me to remember what it feels like to purge again.  It's a strange feeling.  My hands are shaking right now, my lower jowels feel swollen and tingly, my brain tired and disconnected, and it's a little over two hours since my purge.  I woke up this morning fighting the urge to eat and drink.  For the past few mornings I have craved the cheese grits served at the Whole Foods breakfast bar.  Instead of waking up and preparing coffee this morning, my mind began racing the second my eyelids cracked open- at 6:20 am.  I fought not to binge for 6 hours.  I read my book, I drank a bottle of sparkling water, I ate a few fingers-full of shaved turkey breast, finally preparing my morning coffee almost two hours after I'd risen.  I finished my book while drinking my coffee, wrote a few emails, started my NYC Ballet workout DVD I borrowed from the library, willing myself to attend yoga at noon.  11:15 came and went, the cut-off time for me to leave the house in order to make it to the class.  I recognized my feelings of hunger and gave into the cravings to eat.  I wanted to prepare the brussel sprouts I bought yesterday, but I didn't want to stink up the house of the foul odor of steamed greens, knowing workers would be dropping by in the afternoon to fix the Ipod docking. system.  As if it matters what the hell they think of the way the condo smells.  So I took off my gray leotard, acknowledging my lack of strength to make it to yoga at noon, telling myself I will go to the 7 o'clock class.  I showered, dressed, bundled my belongings and headed off to the library where I dropped off the books I have read this week, skimming the shelves for any must reads, giving into my hunger only after 15 minutes of entering the public building.  Heading out the door, my trajectory planned (un)consciously, my feet marched towards Whole Foods, where I purchased a half-cup of salad with broccoli, some dried pineapple rings, and a bottle of sparkling water.  My walk home was feigned with desultory optimism, sensing the cauldron of doom I was walking into, similar to the way my surgery-operated knee feels when a cold front is brimming.  The food I devoured disappeared within minutes, my water bottle drained of its sparkling drops, the sugary rings from the pineapple leaving crested remnant rims in the cheap plastic baggy.  And from there I gave into my cravings.  I wasn't thinking, absorbed by the pleasurable numbing sensation the binge would bring.  One bagel turned into three within five minutes, the binge comparatively minute, about a 3 on the richter scale of my bulimic episodes.  I walked to the bathroom so bloated, my feet plopping in front of me, the pathetic slapping of my soles echoing against the bare white walls and cherry cold, hard-wood floors, the contrast of textures screaming with my ineptitude every step of the way.  The way I look after a binge is almost identical to the way I looked during my five-month installation of pregnancy, my stomach bulging and rounded, so tight you can almost see the blood pulsing through my veins.  The feeling is similar, as well, though being pregnant is more pressure facing downwards, whereas in overeating, the pressure rises up and out, like a ballet dancer stretching and reaching for her toes whilst in the splits.