I threw up last night, on purpose. In fact, I have for the last two nights now. Each time, my stomach hurt so bad that I needed to get some of it out. Vestiges of an older me, a not-so-enlightened me. A very unexpected occurrence too.
I understood my cues all through Saturday (Day 73): when spinny, it usually meant I had to ingest something; when grumpy, it usually meant I had to ingest something; and so forth. Starting to get a handle on my cues when social stuff or work obligations don’t get in the way (that will be another hurdle, eating when I have to even when it interferes with my wife/my plans and work shit, like it did today and I didn’t acknowledge them by having a snack or an actual lunch), but then, it snuck up on me.
It was clearly too much to eat at once, but that didn’t stop me from sticking my finger down my throat.
It went against the add-two-portions experiment (and as such, the experiment will be repeated today, because I think that could also be impacting my gym/strength gains with my grandfather’s strength gaining system; also interesting that part of me didn’t want to give up those boxes yesterday and today anyway – maybe I am hungry for it, for more food…), but that doesn’t stop me.
It was clearly the wrong thing to do (not even getting into the starving African children debate), but that doesn’t stop me.
It goes against my wife having faith in my ability to be strong through this, that in understanding it, she and I will defeat it, but that doesn’t stop me.
Only I can stop me from becoming that bulimic monster again. It takes the food out of my system, takes away the bloat, but more than these, it takes away my satisfaction with eating. It is weird, because I actually feel hungrier than just replacing the food thrown up. I throw up two pieces of bread, I feel like putting two pieces back in wouldn’t be enough – almost as if giving in to the eating disorder, the perfectionism, the blackness, as if it strips more from me than what I see in the toilet bowl.