A Subway sandwich ended it. 6-inch, wheat, turkey, no cheese, lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles, and one line of mustard. No chips. Diet coke. I hate diet coke. At least if I was going to end forty hours of eating nothing, it would be a sandwich I would have ordered back then when I was actually sick. I finished it in what felt like seconds, and a rush of guilt immediately swamped my nervous system. What now? What did you do? How much do you weigh? When are you going to run? How are you going to be with friends for the next 4 days and hide this? You have to fake a stomach bug. Right now. Do it.
A few weeks ago (days, really) this behavior was not on my radar. A series of small events led me to this predicament; why is it so hard to stop avoiding events? I know exactly the poison it takes to be hyper-vigilant, to drown out all but my own voice, to fiercely succeed at a goal. Completely stop eating. The numbers plummet and your brain is high. You can’t think about anything else.
But, a Subway sandwich broke this high and a wave of depression hit me like a brick wall. I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want to be like this. I must be so boring right now.
It’s raining, so I don’t have to cry. The mist hits my face and I decide to bury this. I decide to wake up the next morning and pretend none of this happened. That I didn’t temporarily lose my mind. That I didn’t – however briefly – loathe myself so deeply that I would stop eating without an end in mind. I tasted the cocaine, so to speak, for a second and never wanted to leave, until I realized I had to walk away now or find myself on an icy slope.
No more silver box. It’s in the basement, the exact location unbeknownst to me.