The Lifecycle of a Binge

Penguin is gone.

I binged.  This time I paid careful attention to every detail.  Maybe if I lay out the horror that is a binge, I can stave off the next one. 

Step one: The Urge.  Sometimes it hits me like a punch to the solar plexus.  This time it is a slow crawl.  I am enjoying a pleasant Easter afternoon with my parents, dying eggs, enjoying my annual slice of fresh strawberry pie (an old family recipe - the only desert in existence worth every calorie), when my skin starts to crawl.  I crave solitude, the need to hide.  Lights in my head pop on, swirling with the craving to eat fat and cheese and salt and everythingbadforme.

Step two: It Builds.  I sit, fidgeting on the couch.  A token resistance is made, willpower straining.  My dad turns on the tv, puts on a show I don't usually watch.  It doesn't hold my attention.  The dramatic scenes are lost on me - they look like children playing at being adult.  I think, "If I can make it to the end of the episode, I can excuse myself politely.  I can go to the store down the street.  I can buy melty-cheese pizzas and creamy-sweet ice cream and..."  I stop the line of thinking.  My skin is pins and needles, it wants to rip off my body and fly away. 

Step three: The Bargaining.  I cannot buy binge food.  I am more than broke.  Vet bills have drained my bank account.  I will not binge.  I will go home, prepare a small bowl of quinoa stuffed bell pepper (crockpot meal - made with wholesome, whole-food ingredients).  Maybe just a little cheese.  I will be sick from eating dairy, but it will taste so good. I will eat this small bowl of food and be satisfied.

I will not binge.  

I will not binge.  

I will not binge.

The spiders under my skin, burrowing into my brain say different.  I salivate.  My tongue is too big for my mouth.  I feel helpless.

Step four: It Begins.  I arrive home.  My roommate is gone.  I am alone.  The ED in me squeals with delight.  My heart sinks.  Sometimes Na can stave off a binge with her presence.  I cannot eat in front of my fit little friend.  The kitchen beckons.  I feed the pups first.  Every movement is careful.  I want to rush.  I want to scatter the kibble on the floor and be done.  Instead I divide up their supplements.  Carefully measure their food.  Sprinkle the Cosquin on top.  Place the bowls on the floor.  Pup looks at me with soulful eyes.  He asks for permission, I tell him, "Okay."  He eats like me during a binge, with wild abandon, barely chewing, barely breathing.  I wish I had someone to portion out my meals.  Tell me when and what to eat.  Control this aspect of my life.

I open the cupboards.  Even in the chaos of a binge, my food choices are carefully planned.  First, a snack.  A handful of something carb-ie and bad for me: sugar-filled cereal.  I prepare my first meal: a heaping bowl of quinoa.  I start with just a little, then add more.  And more.  And more, until the food peeks above the rim.  I add cheese, a handful then two more handfuls.  It goes into the microwave.  While the plate is spinning - electromagnetic waves melting cheese and heating grains - I reach for more food.  A bite here and a bit there.  My hands are in perpetual motion, moving food to mouth.  Grab.  Bite.  Chew.  Swallow.

I am full before my meal has finished cooking.  That doesn't stop me.  I spoon in mouthful after mouthful.  My stomach hurts.  I hurt.  The food doesn't taste good.  That doesn't matter.  I keep eating.  My ED is giggling and dancing, free at last.

Step five: It Ends.  Somehow I stop eating.  I don't know what triggers the end of a binge.  The urge to eat doesn't go away.  It just becomes manageable.  I curl up on the couch.  I feel sick.  Everything hurts.  My stomach is going to split open, spilling out my secrets and shame.  I feel so gross.  I want the food out of me.  It sits in me like a burning weight.  I wish I could purge.  A voice whispers that I deserve to hurt.  I deserve to be miserable.  This is justifiable punishment.

Step six: The Aftermath.  I lie in bed with a sour stomach.  My insides feel like they will burst.  Bile rises.  I hate this.  I hate myself.  I am so weak.

Somehow I sleep.  When I wake, I am still full.  Some of the weight has moved from my stomach to my intestines. They feel inflamed, too big to fit inside me.  I wish I could pull them out, cool them off in an ice bath, put them back when they are normal again.

I am lethargic during my workout.  I'm not able to lift my normal amount of weight.  I have to drop the number of reps.  The nausea is overwhelming.  The back of my throat burns with bile.  I feel weak and gross. 

I don't understand why I do this to myself.  There is nothing enjoyable about a binge.  Nothing.  I can't do this anymore.

The next 30 days will be binge free.  No excuses.