how it goes down

A good weekend.  A good few days. Some serious victories in the lives of my friends and family, and a lot of fun to boot.  Not a lot of sleep.

An early morning of good motivation marked by my sassy new lip color quickly devolves into a day of chasing one project after another, trying to find the thread to pull that will cascade backward and make the first project work.  Instead of lunch, I drink Pepsi and toss back some trash sitting out for our student workers to munch on.

By 5:30, I'm hungry and cranky. I flee the building and grumble at the wind all the way to my car.  I visit twelve restaurants in my mind before persuading myself to just go home to eat.  After a sandwich (a favorite childhood indulgence) comes some chips (the kind I used for my first blatantly destructive binge at age thirteen). Nothing's on TV, so I have some lemon cookies (like my grandpa used to eat).  Two hours later I'm picking at half a chicken with my fingers (alternating between a Denathorn scene and a Medieval Knights princess fantasy in my head).  It's not a pretty sight.

My favorite TV show is on at ten, and I spend forty-five minutes trying to distract myself from an overwhelming compulsion for a milkshake.  At 9:45 I give in, get in the car and head to Dairy Queen. Closed. Grocery Store. Open. I snag some sherbet (like when my dad nursed me after surgery once) and a non-alcoholic, non-caffeinated mixer (because I'm being responsible).

I miss the start of my show, but I can't eat while watching TV anyway, so I get everything ready for the first commercial break. Mute the set, look away, ice cream.  TV, then more ice cream.  Starting to feel sick, I put it away, but I can't stop so I grab a different box of cookies for the next break.  As I watch the show, I write this blog post in my head, confession mixed with torture and self-loathing.  Next commercial break I rip open the box of cookies, noticing how sad and pitiful the compulsion is but unable to stop it.  I can't stop. Being full doesn't help. Not wanting more doesn't help. Being pitiful doesn't help. If only there was someone here or if I had the courage to call a friend. I don't. Nothing helps, not even crying out to God.

Oh wait. Crying out to God. I've been muttering at him but I haven't really said anything. Maybe I've just been muttering at myself. A pause. I remember that he gives miraculous strength. My fingers finish pulling open the box of cookies, then I watch them grow still. Do I have the power to set them down? Yes. I put them on the table, right next to my Bible. Deep breath. I'm shaking. There's been a war in my head all day and all night, and this is the first I've felt the rational side gain an edge.  As I sit, not daring to move, I feel the torpor of this strange intermittent binge settle on my body.  Like hundreds of nights before, I wish I could purge the food and make it all go away.  As always, I decide that one eating disorder is enough. Purging would make it worse.

Tonight, freedom doesn't feel very free.  I'm not bound by these chains, but when things get uncomfortable I don't know how to navigate without their familiar weight.

Familiar weight. Ugh, the scale will be ugly this week.

My demons have been chasing me tonight, but they aren't going to win the war. And I'm going to learn how to stand my ground. Someday.

For now I'm going to just ask my God to tuck me into bed.  With a good night of sleep tomorrow will be a better day.

...I know that through your prayers and the help given by the spirit of Jesus Christ what has happened to me will turn out for my deliverance. I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body... Philippians 1

And hope does not disappoint us... Romans 5