Recovery Song
Day 18
I’ve been at a beautiful health retreat in deepest Devon for the last 18 days. Four hours of exercise every day (and that’s just before breakfast). Calorie controlled meals based on small portions of protein and lots of veg (carbs are the enemy).
I feel amazing. I am literally glowing. My skin is great and so far I’ve dropped 15lbs.
But all I can think about is the chocolate orange hidden right at the bottom of my suitcase. It’s nestled there innocently, beaming like a lighthouse: a beacon in the storm.
It’s my safety chocolate. I had to bring it. The sheer enormity of the panic attack of being stuck somewhere I don’t know with no access to chocolate is inconceivable. My heartrate has just risen from 65 to 127 just thinking about it.
It’s a problem.
It’s an addiction and I struggle to control it. The middle of week 3 and not one sniff of the beautiful, numbing, consoling, delicious, melty goodness. We’re not even allowed a cup of real tea FFS.
Beam. Beam. Pause.
I know I shouldn’t (I’m not stupid) and tonight I most probably wont, but this compulsion, this irresistible attraction, this uncontrollable urge is with me every day. I live with it. Some days I cope, some days I don’t. Some days I’m so driven to distraction and depressed by my utter lack of control that I feel like ending it all.
Over chocolate.
It’s a problem.
A very close friend struggles with alcohol. Her addiction is taken seriously. She has had treatment and is in recovery. She still struggles with it every day.
Another good friend is anorexic. Her condition is taken seriously and treated with compassion. She has had treatment and is in recovery. She still struggles with it every day.
My disordered eating is a joke. I’m just a greedy, fat pig with zero self-control who doesn’t know where or when to stop.
But the thing is, I’m not.
I’m not stupid, or disgusting or ugly or greedy. I eat less at mealtimes than most of the rest of my family. I eat healthy breakfasts and try to stay away from too many carbs and refined or processed foods.
But I binge.
When I’m tired, sad, lonely, fed up, depressed, pissed off, happy, unhappy, bored, alone…
I binge.
It isn’t pretty. It involves tubs and tubs of expensive icecream, milk chocolate, Minstrels, stilton, good red wine, olives, crisps, crunchy nut cornflakes, chocolate raisins…
All of my favourite ‘bad’ foods all at once. One after the other.
I will literally eat all night. I don’t feel sick; I don’t particularly enjoy it after the first few bites of each new thing, but it’s comforting and it’s numbing and it feels good.
So, down it all goes. Five thousand extra calories? Six thousand? Three times the recommended daily amount (and I wonder how I got fat)…
On a ‘good’ day I’ll maybe only do double that recommended intake, but on Friday nights or Saturdays or days off or ‘sick’ days or basically any time I’m feeling down or hating life: it’s on.
The megamunch.
It’s a problem.
Then comes the inevitable aftermath. The upset stomach and the crippling, agonising guilt. The shame. The self-loathing and rock bottom self-esteem:
I am disgusting.
I’m a slob.
I’m a pig.
I’m worthless.
I’m a greedy, ugly, fat, hateful piece of shit.
I’m not even worth the air I breathe.
So I curl up in bed (in BED) and I hide. From myself and the world. Until the next day comes and I do it all over again.
It’s a problem.
I need a solution. I need help.
Binge Eating Disorder [BED] is a real thing. It’s not sexy and it’s not pretty but it’s my reality and I live with it every day.
Some days I cope. Some days I don’t.
It’s a problem.
KMR @ Woodbury Park, Friday 27th January 2017