It’s 8pm on a Monday night and I am blotto. Four sheets to the wind. I have the warm and fuzzies after my fourth drink. The hard edges have started to blur.
My girlfriend is disassociating from the man she lives with. I am disassociating from myself. Did I ever actually associate with myself come to think of it? Perhaps when I was eight? It seems that was the last time I knew ‘me’ before ED kicked in, took over, killed me and replaced me with a binge eating maniac.
Half way through our fifth round of drinks I start twitching. I am desperate to get away from here. I panic wanting to purge the food and booze we have consumed. There is even more food at home and it is calling me. I can no longer be in the moment. I can see the pasta that is waiting for me. I can taste it and feel it. I try to focus on our conversation, but to no avail. Once I have fixated on food, there is no changing course. I am determined. I am stoic in my quest to abuse myself. I slide fluidly out of the bar without skipping a beat and find myself standing at my fridge door. Always. Where else would I find pasta and oblivion?
I eat and eat and eat. I purge and purge and purge. It seems fitting that tomorrow there is an eating disorder presentation at the ballet school to help staff identify and deal with eating disorders. I will be there, of course, pretending.