An Awful Metamorphasis

Little plates are stacked between Terry and I.  A vertical rainbow, sloughed with panko crumbs and smears of eel sauce.   My stomach sits, comfortably full.  I ate just the right amount.  I made good food choices, pulled only the healthiest options off the conveyor belt: a fresh roll (not fried), two plates of vegetable sushi (three pieces each) and a small bowl of edamame. 

With a smile and a laugh I excuse myself. I hold my hands up, "sticky fingers" I say.  Ten steps from the table, the idea catches hold.  The bathroom is located on the far side of the restaurant.  It is a private room.  It is the perfect place to purge.

The door closes behind me, lock flipped.  With calmness and composure I wash my hands (hygiene is important), kick up the seat with my boot, lean over...

After, I check my reflection.  My eyes are a little glossy, but there are no other signs of my transgression.  I am getting better at this.  I wash my hands again, rub at the red, dimpled spot on my knuckle.  A smile in place, I walk back to the table.  The conversations envelopes me, barely a ripple as I submerge.

For two weeks I have binged and purged.  Every day.  Sometimes only once.  Sometimes ten times or more.  I learn something new every time.  Which foods work best.  The most effective methods.  How to purge in a bathroom stall.  I tell myself I can stop any time.  This is a phase that will pass.  I'm not sure if I am lying to myself.  I am alive.  I want to stop.  I feel invincible.  I am out of control. 

I am afraid.