*B/P= Binge/Purge
I was asked to honestly explain a Binge.
And then what, where, and WHY purging is my only option after eating TOO much.
I figured the BEST way to describe to you, is to write immediately AFTER a B/P.
I couldn’t B/P as much as I would have today, because I was with my Husband.
Very rarely will I ever purge when I’m with other people.
I’ve learned my lesson from past behavior.
The acidic stench of vomit is hard to hide from others.
The red, watery eyes.
The red, raw, and sometimes bleeding, knuckles.
Raises a lot of questions.
I used to carry a little “Kit”.
A Toothbrush, Toothpaste, Mouthwash, Mints, Gum, etc.
Good God.
So no, I will never B/P with other people present.
It’s a very private thing for me.
Always has been, and will continue to be.
My Husband ran to the Grocery Store.
I chose to stay home.
Why?
Because an un-opened bag of Cheese Popcorn sat on the kitchen counter, calling my name.
Softly at first, and then screaming louder, and louder, until I couldn’t take it anymore!
I ripped that bag open and for about 10 minutes, inhaled the ENTIRE contents of that buttery, salty, and melt-in-your-mouth Cheese Popcorn.
Shoveling in handful after handful.
Not enjoying or feeling anything at that point except for the dirty aftertaste of Shame.
Discust.
Shock…..
After realizing just how MUCH food you just consumed.
Embarrassment.
An uncomfortably bulging belly.
Overwhelming fullness.
And dread.
Of doing what you despise but crave at the same time.
It’s time to now get rid of the evidence of your discusting habit.
I shut the Bathroom door.
Turn on the sink faucets.
Not too hot and not to cold.
I need to be able to rinse my fingers, hand, face, and mouth in between intervals of purging and chugging as much water as I can, bringing everything up more effectively.
Consistently.
A typical Binge will usually end with a half-gallon of Ice-Cream.
Produces a much smoother Purge.
Gross, I know.
But but after YEARS of being an experimental Purger, you unfortunately become more experienced.
You learn what you can and can’t eat due to how uncomfortable the aftermath is.
Trust me, when I say that BREAD is one of those foods.
Even WITH Ice-cream.
That shit turns into HUGE wads of dough.
Getting stuck in your chest and throat, like a backed up Sewer.
I’ve actually choked once while vomiting.
Scared me.
Definitely NOT one of my favorite foods to throw up.
Blech.
No, thanks.
I flip the Toilet Seat and Lid.
Listening to it loudly bang hard against the porcelain tank backing.
Thunk.
I grab a Butt Wipe, erasing any remnants of someone’s, who will remain nameless, piss.
Maybe a stray pube.
LOL.
Sliding slowly to my knees,
I stare dejectedly into the Toilet Bowl.
Debating whether or not I REALLY want to do this.
I don’t have to.
But I want to.
NEED to.
OR,
I could just be like everyone else.
Silently and sadly utter the words “Fuck it!”
Plop my fast-growing fat ass on the couch.
And ACCEPT the fact that THAT shit is going straight to my Belly.
Or my Ass.
And that I DON’T care.
It’s FAT seeping into every pore and fat cell.
Super gluing it’s discusting existance to my Body like a sponge soaking up a lake of spilled water.
Greedily.
Hungrily.
But I can’t.
I just CAN’T.
I’m ALREADY fat.
And I DON’T want to get FATTER.
No.
N.O.
Without a second thought, I quickly slip the first two fingers of my right hand, down the back of my throat.
As far as they will go.
I gag a few times.
My fingertips graze the little flap of skin above my tongue.
I jab it a few times.
Timidly at first, and then in desperation.
Hard.
And then harder….
As hard as I can without seriously injuring myself.
Which in all honesty, I HAVE done.
Scratching my Throat so badly that I got an infection.
NOT cool.
I blink.
Watching a thick wave of half-chewed popcorn, water, and Bile splash into the Toilet.
Pouring a cascade of turmoiled emotions,
Begging to be freed from their dark and dank prison.
I stop to rinse my fingers.
Moving quickly between the sink and the toilet, as to NOT drip puke onto the floor or rug.
I continue to repeat my Ritual.
Over and over again.
Until the insanity stops as abruptly as it began.
Because there is nothing left to give.
My stomach is knotted.
Sore.
Empty.
E.M.P.T.Y.
I shakily stand.
And wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
Smeared blood.
Great.
I rinse my mouth.
Brush my Teeth.
Change my shirt.
Droplets of vomit adorning your clothes isn’t that attractive.
At all.
Nor is the stench that seems to linger around.
No matter WHAT you do.
Even IF you’ve scrubbed your hands with the nicest and strongest smelling soap you can find.
I wash my face.
Use Visine.
Re-apply my Mascara.
I quickly wipe down the Toilet.
Sink.
The floor.
Erasing any evidence showing just what I am truly capable of.
10 minutes have passed since my Husband left the House.
I survey the Bathroom.
It looks exactly how it did before I started.
WITH an added pleasant Lemon scent, I might boast, thanks to the Clorox wipes.
Good.
I scan my blotchy and flushed face in the Mirror.
My eyes are still a little red.
Watery.
I smile.
Wiping the tears slipping from my eyes.
I feel like a Failure and a Winner at the same time.
I am ashamed.
I have to pretend this never happened.
Or the uneasy feelings that come with it.
I need to shove it as deep down as I possibly can.
I flip the Bathroom light switch off.
And go greet my Husband who has just arrived Home.
He has conveniently….
Brought home Dinner.
Lovely.
Shelly's Recovery 