Freezer

I just put the pizza and soup in the freezer.  Whomever invented the freezer is my new best friend.

Mayonnaise

My first weekly risk meal is over.  Today (mark the calendar), I ate the meal I described in the previous posting, sans mayonnaise.  I just couldn't do it.  Hopefully one day I will.  And now I want to binge.  Just to make life a little more complicated, because that is the epitome of my daily routine, I went grocery shopping after lunch.  I purchased only healthy items at Randall's (fruits, veggies, shrimp, beans), but I forgot to buy the mozzarella for the salad I am preparing tonight.  Yes, I'm preparing a salad with cheese for someone else to consume, not me.  Stupid.  When I realized the missing ingredient, I stopped at Whole Foods on the way home where I picked up not only the cheese, but also a slice of pizza and a small container of broccoli and cheese soup.  It's sitting on the kitchen counter right now unopened, tempting me.  I asked for it.  I made the conscious choice to buy it.  As I walked to my condo, I looked at the putrid soup, repeating to myself it's going to look exactly the same coming up, with a lingering vomit scent in its wake.  I promised myself I would write an email to Mathias telling him about the meal I most recently consumed to show him the healthy steps I'm making towards recovery.  I've checked my email and just found a glowing letter from my sponsor asking me to edit her website.  I'm beginning to hope there is a power truly greater than myself at work.  I will check back in in two hours.  If I can make it until six o-clock, I will have survived the fucking desire to binge.  

Stat

Did you know that anorexia is the deadliest of all psychological disorders?

Risk food

Okay, so my sponsor is back in town (she went to the beach for a week), and she is adhering to the weekly risk food principle.  This is not a foreign concept to me.  At Ridgeview, we had a risk food every Friday after lunch which amounted to a Hershey's kiss or a bite of cake.  My list of excuses are proliferating.  She sent me an email this morning describing my homework for the week - to eat a 6 inch Subway sandwich on whole wheat bread with turkey, mayonnaise and cheese and a side of lowfat chips.  My mind hasn't stopped obsessing since I read the email at 8 this morning.  I haven't kept a sandwich in my body to digest for over ten years.  My first thought was, "Fuck no."  My second was, "I can conquer this goal if I go to yoga a week in a row," proving to myself I haven't overcome the obsessiveness of this disease.  

I want to be pushed.  I want to struggle.  So why am I fighting this?  THIS is my medicine.  Just take it.

The road

Bulimics avow rakish lives deserted like a hitchhiker on a chronic stretch of pavement.  The heart strings are contracted as the car drives by, the pangs of guilt surfacing as the image appears in the rear-view mirror, fading, fading.  Stopping would remove the transgressions, vaporize the blatant neglect of the body screaming for help, but the fear of the unknown thwarts the spontaneous succor.  Drive right by as the silhouette blanches into the scenery, the impression of vitality missing from the field of vision.  But with the eyes closed, the haunting image cuts through the darkness.  Health clanging for recognition.  I wanted others to pull over and help me, but I was the course controller.  I didn't want guidance.  My path long ago decided by the voices in my head.  

Beginnings

My step is sparked with vigor as I choose my dress this morning, planning and kneading the day's events.  I soak in the tub as the story lines swirl around me, listening poignantly for the words to adhere into a sonorous first line.  Captivating, dramatic, humble and simply witty.  I am transcended to my bathroom in Geneva, a porcelain claw-footed tub nesting a shower head mounted in the middle of the white, square tiles, within reach just above the intended soap holder.  My bulimia was conceived in this bathroom, the purges hurled violently down the plumbing system as the sound of the bath water rushed into the tub, its tempest of soap bubbles and scalding heat ratcheting over the sound emitting from my body: my cloak to keep my secret within my four walls.

Titles

I need a storage unit for the titles running through my mind.  Here we go ...

Honestly

Mercy Me

Secrets: Memoirs of a Bulimic

Flushed

Hunger Pains

Torture

Identity Crisis

Failure

Pandora's Box

Triggers