Ordinary day

I wake up, walk to Whole Foods, purchase 2 breakfast tacos with eggs, veggies, salsa and cheese, 2 everything bagels, one pound of grits, head over to breakfast bar and load up on migas, more eggs, rice, salsa, jalapenos, lots of cheese, maybe throw some polenta into the mix.  Some days I purchase a bag of popcorn or tortilla chips.  Return home, turn the oven on broil for the bagels, boil water for the grits, and begin bingeing on the tacos.  By the time those are purged, the bagels are perfectly toasted, the grits are light and fluffy, and I sit down in front of the tv with my breakfast bar mountainous with eggs and cheese, my plastic fork in my right hand, my bread in my left, using the bagel as support to shove the eggs onto the tines of the cutlery.  Overall, I purge 5 or 6 times just during breakfast.

I sit back, feeling faint as I see black spots.  I know I cannot close my eyes longer than a few seconds or else I will lose consciousness.  I wait a few minutes, swig a gulp of orange juice for the sugar, hold out my hand and observe as the shakes fade, my body's signal that I can walk.  I grab my purse and keys and head out for more.

The daily binges vary, but breakfast is pretty much constant.  My binge foods rotate from fast food to grocery stores to take-out restaurants, but, say, on Fridays, I don't have school or work, so my schedule is devoted entirely to ED.  I normally stop at HEB to pick up 1-2 bags of spaghetti pasta, a large can of stewed tomatoes, a couple of boxes of macaroni and cheese, a loaf of bread, a large bag of potato chips (normally barbeque), anywhere from 2-6 doughnuts and/or muffins, sometimes some frozen dinners (although the portions are so small I have substantially reduced the intake), maybe a large pound cake (if on sale), usually a few eggrolls and chicken salad from the ready-to-order counter, a frozen pizza, a bag of Goldfish, and always, always, always a bag of candy.  On my way home, I make sure to go through the drive-through to order a large French fry, 2 chicken sandwiches and 2 hamburgers with extra katsup, pouring honey mustard and barbeque sauce over every bite, which I consume before I get home.  I purge the second I enter the apartment door, and don't stop the binge-purge cycle until all of the evidence is destroyed.  I would say I purge on average every thirty minutes, depending on how full my stomach is.

If I have obliterated all my food with plenty of time to spare, I will either place an order at the Vietnamese restaurant for 2 large Pho Chuy noodle bowls and 2 spring rolls or at Frank & Angie's, the Italian restaurant less than a block from our place, my order consisting of my infamous Guido's salad topped with provolone and fatty chicken plus an order of bruschetta.  I refuse to walk to pick-up my food; the car is quicker, and allowing fewer people to witness my demise.

If you are in-town, we will go out to eat on Friday night.  Of course I am not hungry at all, but I cannot wait to go to a restaurant, where I will nibble minimally at my dinner and take the rest home in a Styrofoam box.  If I don't purge what I have eaten with you, this insinuates to me that my cover is blown, and if I do, then I will wait until you go to bed to begin grazing my leftovers.

I wake the next day dying for the first bite.

Anxiety is brimming as I write this knowing I am committing to never do this again, and you now know my daily patterns.  Sadly I know which one I fear more.

I wrote this passage at 10:15 am sitting at Starbuck's on South Congress.  This morning I woke at 7, not feeling hungry, browsing the Internet and reading my book in peace.  I headed over to the coffee shop around 9, ordering a grande coffee with no room for cream, emptying four packets of carcinogenic Equal into the black liquid.  I typed this up in Word, cursing the coffee chain for not having access to free wireless.  As I finished, I wasn't sure if the emotions rising bore out of anxiety or hunger.  I packed up my belongings, dropped of my computer at my car, and walked to Jo's a few blocks away, where I ordered my everything bagel, toasted, nothing on it, to go.  With my brown sack in-hand, I retraced my steps to my car and drove to my Wednesday meeting spot.  And here I sit, nestled in the corner of a church, typing away as I sip on my coffee and chew my breakfast, avoiding temptation with every breath.  The janitor just asked if I needed assistance; I replied with a cheek stuffed with bread that I am here for the OA meeting, wondering if he judges me for eating at all.