Maid

The first thing I do in the morning is lift off the sheets and check my belly.  This morning I saw a bubble, a tire, a doughnut, and I've been on the move ever since.  Yesterday was a frustrating day; I was ravenous from 6 am to 6 pm.  Hunger frightens me now, when before it was pleasurable because it removed the guilt from bingeing and purging.  At least I resurrected satisfaction from feeling my body needing food.  Now hunger signals an opportunity to binge.  I have to be conscious of every bite I place in my mouth, and yesterday I wanted to eat everything.  I woke up early, starving, and ate a bowl of soup (fat-free), then I had a salad with kidney beans for lunch followed by a fist-full of bran flakes to munch on.  I went to baby-sit around 4 pm, and while I was preparing dinner, I ate maybe five to eight pieces of steamed broccoli, a handful of (light) popcorn, one almond, one bite (as in one piece) of macaroni and cheese, and lots of Perrier.  I raged with the need to taste everything appealing.  I have to be extremely conscious to eat only one handful of popcorn, to place the mac-n-cheese out of sight before it's too late, to drink water instead of stuffing my face with foods I'm scared of.  I kept checking my stomach in the mirror after all that I ate.  I was wearing jeans with a black tank top, and I hated the sight of my stomach hanging over my jeans.  It makes me want to vomit.  (Surprise, surprise.)  I left around 7:45 and stopped at Central Market.  I perused the aisles, taking a sample of the 5-onion soup in my cart.  I left with 8 bottles of sparkling water, some pretzels and some candy.  I've eaten maybe 6 pretzels since yesterday, and after I woke up to my bulging belly, I threw the candy down the garbage chute.  It's 3 o'clock and I've consumed 2 cups of black coffee and a salad with 15 kidney beans, along with 2 large bottles of sparkling water.  I forced myself to eat because I wasn't hungry.  It's so much easier not to be hungry.

My manic side debuted after months of hibernation.  I slept well last night (1/2 tablet of Trazodone), dreaming and retaining tens of stories, none dealing with bulimia.  I specifically remember a dream where your younger hippy American brother was coming to visit, so we placed him in the guest house which was filled with roaches and dust.  You spent hours cleaning while I read my book in bed.  When I woke, the dream clouded my thoughts, the duress of my cleanliness infringing on my concentration.  So how did I ameliorate the situation?  I cleaned today ... maniacally. 

You've frequently asked if we needed to hire a maid for our apartments/houses.  We've never been responsible for more than four rooms since we've lived together, and every time the topic surfaces, I erupt like a volcano.  I've never explained why.  When I was seven or eight, I have one of the first memories of my mom telling me she loved me.  It was Saturday morning, she and my dad were out for some reason, and while they were gone I vacuumed the upstairs, dusted the entire house, and cleaned the bathroom I shared with my brother.  My mom walked in as I was rowing the vacuum backwards and forwards in the guest bedroom, the sucking sound so loud I didn't hear her come in.  When I saw her silhouette in the threshold, I turned the cleaner off.  It was rare for my mom to come upstairs unless she was waking us up, yelling at my brother, or putting up Christmas decorations.  The expression on her face glowed like she had just walked in on her surprise birthday party.  And then the words, "I love you" followed, a smile on her face zapping warmth directly into my heart.  I was immobilized with shock.  I vouched from that moment on to continue to clean every Saturday to please her, to have her love me because of how clean I could be.  I never heard her praise me for cleaning again, but she didn't have to.  The affect was sealed.  I finally found something I did worth loving.  

In the past five years I've rarely picked up a sponge, buffering resentment to have to clean every time we've moved.  Why should I clean if I won't get approval?  I'm seeking something I should have hurdled years ago, but I haven't shut off the sound of the vacuum inside.  And you ask if we need a maid?  That was one of the only things I could do for love, and I've failed miserably.  

I cleaned for hours today, scrubbing the eyes of the stove, bleaching the bathtub, scouring the pots and pans caked with residue.  It reminded me of my Saturday mornings and how content I was to clean our house.  My room was spotless, my organization spilling into manic mode, my relentless energy fueled to eradicate the scum in our bathroom overly obsessive.  But I was happy because it made my mother aware of me.  I was present, even in the reflection of the gleaming white tiles.