It's Okay, I'm Eating Now

My mom beams at me, "Oh, [name omitted], I'm so happy to see you're eating more!"  

I smile as I put two more pieces of bacon on my plate.

"And it looks like you've lost weight!  It's like I've always said, eat more and it boosts your metabolism!"  Dad adds, wearing the look of a mountaintop-dwelling wise man.

I nod in agreement as I take another bite of my sister's homemade, pumpkin-stuffed french toast.

After brunch I excuse myself as quickly as it's polite.  "They're making me work this weekend to cover for a sick coworker, argh."  I hop in my car, drive the mile to work and head straight for the bathroom.  I savor the solitude.  I'm the only one in the building.

After I rid myself of that nasty full feeling, I walk to my office on unsteady legs and plop down in my ergonomic chair.  My head spins as bend over to push the PC power button.  I take a moment to contemplate my situation.

It's amazing how quickly things change.  A year ago, hell even six months ago, I felt sad and sorry for bulimics.  The way they are wearing down their bodies.  The health risks.  The awfulness of throwing up constantly.  Now I am bulimic.  I can't remember the last time I ate without purging.  The best (worst?) part is my dedication toward not keeping anything in stomach over the last week has paid off.  I'm down either two pounds or six pounds (see my last post on faulty scales).

My glue-eating ED has no problem justifying my actions.

"It's okay, you won't be one of those girls who ends up in the hospital because you don't purge everything.  You've never purged to the point of popped capillaries or puking up blood.  It's just a casual thing: eat something, excuse yourself to the bathroom, throw up a few times, wash your hands, go about your day.  You're okay.  You're fine.  Everything is fine." Mia purrs in my ear.

I'm okay.  I'm fine.  Everything is fine.

My ED Eats Glue

It snowed last night.  Six inches of white fluff litters the ground.  After finishing her morning potty routine, my youngest came inside covered in sticky balls of cold.  She pranced around, confused, nipping at the frozen bits. It was a good way to start the morning.

The drive into town required extreme pucker-power (my whole body was clenched in terror).  That's saying something considering I learned to drive on snow; not a lot scares me.  When I pulled into my gym's parking lot, I was flooded with gratitude for my fitness habit.  Exercising before work means I miss most of the morning rush-hour traffic. 

On light feet (because this is going to be a good day!) I headed for the locker room.  Inside a present awaited me: a new scale!  A small sound of pleasure escaped, it has been a month since I properly weighed myself.  At home the scale is kept in the kitchen; my tiny bathroom can't accommodate the poor thing.  Since I essentially live with four other people, I can't exactly strip down and hop on.  I've thought about bringing the small, rectangular box into the bathroom with me, but couldn't figure out a reasonable explanation.

"Why are you bringing the scale into the bathroom with you?"  He asks.

"Because I need to weigh myself naked.  That's the only way to get an accurate number, you know.  I may also want to obsessively weigh myself four or five times.  Maybe force a bit more fluid out before stepping on again.  I need pre and post shower weights, pre and post purge weights, pre and post..."

Hmmm, maybe not.

Unfortunately, the new gym scale is a piece of crap.  I weighed myself four times and got drastically different results each time.  Best case scenario, I am down one pound.  Worst case scenario, I am up four pounds.  In a month.  A fucking month of purging my brains out with minimal binges.

A sane person would think, "Okay, your tried purging and it didn't work.  Let's try something else now."  Like an ineffective diet plan, it didn't work so move on.  Instead what I thought was this, "Obviously you're not purging enough.  You must purge after every meal!  You must purge more, harder, better!"
 
My ED brain is a halfwit child, sitting in the corner eating glue.