It starts as soon as I slip back into my routine. Seemless, ceaseless, sneaking up on me and surprising me in a way that is sadly familiar and exhilarating.
After a month of traveling, being on holiday, dealing with chronic kidney problems, I have been eating like there will be no consequences. Part of me was terrified of being so sick, being in hospital every other week for four months, thinking I was probably dying just when life seemed perfect. I ate to nourish myself – not to binge. I ate for health – not to process overwhelming emotions. I ate “normally” using my kidneys to excuse the inexcusable: food.
Today the anxiety was there, waiting. For the first time in a month I contemplated purging. I had the urge to restrict, to count calories, to revisit “safe” foods: rice cakes, egg whites, celery. I felt the rush, the accelerating heart rate that accompanies starvation and fear. I plot my gym work outs for the week. I taste the emptiness. I long for the control I have lost to comfort.
I know it will kill me, but I don’t seem to care.