No...no...no...no...no
I can't believe it's happening.
5 years of the ED, and it never got to this point.
COE? been there, done that. restricting? been there, still doing that. Cutting? Flirted with it, still occasionally gives in.
Purging? never. I've knelt over toliets...I've jammed my finger down my throat...but I've never crossed that fatal line--never succeeded in throwing up on command.
Until today.
It wasn't even that much food. Just...I had a bad day (stupid paper), I was feeling bloated...and very incompetant. Questioned myself--questioned my ability as a writer, my directions in life...
But instead of trying to find the confidence and grounding that I needed, I went to the kitchen. Ate a pint of ice cream (a binge, definitely, but I've done worse--without throwing up afterwards).
And headed for the bathroom. It was the first floor bathroom. No residences on that floor...thus, almost no one uses it.
I won't go into how it felt...how utterly ironically (fittingly) disguisted I felt...how the cold tile floors reminded me of our kitchen floors, when my Mom once made me bend over and kiss my father's feet for ask for forgiveness that I didn't want...how the food tasted acid and bile--the smell of it kept me vomiting even after I wanted to stop.
How afterwards, I didn't feel empty, didn't feel redeemed...just horrified that it occured. Because if it could happen once, it could easily happen again. I always thought that somehow, I was immune to purging...immune to this God-awful experience that almost all other ED victims eventually deal with.
As usual, I was wrong.
Adrian im'ed me about 20 minutes later, as I was trying to write about what happened. We had business to deal with--he was curt, sharp, and seemed upset. When he called a little later, he obviously had a bad day, and was depressed...the situation isn't going well in general for him.
I told him that I couldn't be there for him--that I'm just too drained to absorb his depression as well. *sighs* We ended up having a huge fight over the phone. I couldn't...I couldn't tell him what happened. I didn't want to think about it (classic Freudian denial--pretend it never happened, and maybe it will come true)...didn't want to discuss it...
In the end, I finally told him. He pressed me for details. Couldn't he understand that I JUST DIDN'T WANT TO GO INTO IT? Yes, I know I have to deal with this...but not now...not now, with the taste of that bile still in my mouth, with my stomach unsettled and my throat raw. He kept telling me to explain, to tell him what happened...I kept asking him not to push me
I hung up on him. 99% of the time, he handles my ED very well. This is the 1% exception--but I just can't deal with him, with the purging, and with my fricking 20 page paper all at the same time.
5 years of the ED, and it never got to this point.
COE? been there, done that. restricting? been there, still doing that. Cutting? Flirted with it, still occasionally gives in.
Purging? never. I've knelt over toliets...I've jammed my finger down my throat...but I've never crossed that fatal line--never succeeded in throwing up on command.
Until today.
It wasn't even that much food. Just...I had a bad day (stupid paper), I was feeling bloated...and very incompetant. Questioned myself--questioned my ability as a writer, my directions in life...
But instead of trying to find the confidence and grounding that I needed, I went to the kitchen. Ate a pint of ice cream (a binge, definitely, but I've done worse--without throwing up afterwards).
And headed for the bathroom. It was the first floor bathroom. No residences on that floor...thus, almost no one uses it.
I won't go into how it felt...how utterly ironically (fittingly) disguisted I felt...how the cold tile floors reminded me of our kitchen floors, when my Mom once made me bend over and kiss my father's feet for ask for forgiveness that I didn't want...how the food tasted acid and bile--the smell of it kept me vomiting even after I wanted to stop.
How afterwards, I didn't feel empty, didn't feel redeemed...just horrified that it occured. Because if it could happen once, it could easily happen again. I always thought that somehow, I was immune to purging...immune to this God-awful experience that almost all other ED victims eventually deal with.
As usual, I was wrong.
Adrian im'ed me about 20 minutes later, as I was trying to write about what happened. We had business to deal with--he was curt, sharp, and seemed upset. When he called a little later, he obviously had a bad day, and was depressed...the situation isn't going well in general for him.
I told him that I couldn't be there for him--that I'm just too drained to absorb his depression as well. *sighs* We ended up having a huge fight over the phone. I couldn't...I couldn't tell him what happened. I didn't want to think about it (classic Freudian denial--pretend it never happened, and maybe it will come true)...didn't want to discuss it...
In the end, I finally told him. He pressed me for details. Couldn't he understand that I JUST DIDN'T WANT TO GO INTO IT? Yes, I know I have to deal with this...but not now...not now, with the taste of that bile still in my mouth, with my stomach unsettled and my throat raw. He kept telling me to explain, to tell him what happened...I kept asking him not to push me
I hung up on him. 99% of the time, he handles my ED very well. This is the 1% exception--but I just can't deal with him, with the purging, and with my fricking 20 page paper all at the same time.