November 17th, 2005

(no subject)

Right, so I’ve made myself sick four times since I wrote that. What’s all that about? Seems since I turned thirty, things have been on the slide. I’m certain it’s not the turning thirty that bothers me. I’m sure I’m looking at myself at thirty and wondering how I got here.

I never thought when I’d be thirty I’d weigh 16 stone. When I was 18, I really thought I’d have lost weight by now, and when I turned 21, I just hoped I’d still be alive. When I turned 25, I would have given anything to have weighed that little instead of over 20 stone. Strange how the years change your view of a single number.

I also never thought I’d be thirty and not have a mother. People my age usually still have two parents, they might even still moan about them. Sometimes I still miss her so much. I wish I’d written more about my feelings for her when she was still alive, instead of just writing about how much I miss her.

Let’s try and get to the bottom of why I’ve been making myself sick? It started on the 5th, 2 days after I turned 30. I had a great day, my husband treated me like a queen, my friends got me thoughtful gifts, people sent me cards saying we must meet up soon. Saturday during the day I drank a bit of damson gin, another thoughtful gift. By 6 pm I was necking shots of port. I can’t remember watching anything on TV, although Ian assures me I did, I can’t remember what I said as I held him, while I wept, and I don’t believe the things he told me are all I said.

I just lost total control of myself. It feels so good at first, and then it’s awful. I can never pinpoint the moment it changes, but I wish I could sit next to myself, see my eyes glaze over, and say, “Right, that’s it, stop there. You’re not thinking any more, but you won’t feel like crap in the morning.”

Then I baked a birthday cake for work, and kept one at home. The next two nights, I ate the whole thing in two sittings, and made myself sick both times. On the Thursday I put the wrong petrol in the van again, and had a panic attack on the back seat with everyone else in there. I was very close to getting out of the car and running into the road. I know that sounds melodramatic, but it’s the truth. It wasn’t guilt because of wasting everyone’s time or money, it was pure hatred for myself and how idiotic I can be.

The next day, everything was sorted, things were looking up. The van didn’t cost much to fix, I could easily cover it with the money I made selling my car. So why did I end up in the evening making myself sick? I hadn’t even had any alcohol; I just lost control of my eating urge without even being drunk. It was the usual thing; I’d bought chocolate to cheer me up, and I ended up eating slices of bread with proper butter, as well as the chocolate coins I’d bought for Ian’s stocking, until I eventually felt like I had to be sick. I don’t mean I felt sick, I mean I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest unless I emptied my stomach of what I’d put in there.

Then, just two days later, after a lovely day out including a nice meal with my husband, I ended up drunk at about 5 pm on the wine I was meant to be cooking with, and then I hovered up every bit of alcohol in the house, including Ian’s Sam Adams, a tot of dessert wine, and a bit of whisky. As usual it made me want to sing, and I ended up stumbling into Ian’s bedroom at 10 pm to watch a programme I now have no recollection of. I can’t remember when in the evening I ate a whole block of cheese cut into sticks and dipped in mango chutney, but whenever it was it didn’t take me long to throw it back straight up. I told Ian I’d been sick that time, but I blamed it on mixing wine with whisky, which is partly true; the thing is I drank them both because I knew it would make me feel sick, and that’s what I wanted.

That’s the last time I was sick, five days ago, but I’ve definitely felt the urges to overeat which usually precede the feeling of wanting to vomit. I’ve managed not to overeat, or if I’ve eaten more than I planned, I’ve managed to deny the urge to purge.

I’d love to go a day without it being an effort not to eat. I’d sincerely love to go a day without having something to drink, even if it is just a nip of brandy in my coffee. But more than anything, I’d love to know what causes these periods of wanting to make myself sick. I hate it, it makes me feel like shit, and yet I yearn to be able to do it. I miss it when I don’t.

At least I have one silver lining. At least I know now that Mum wasn’t the beast. The beast is still alive and well, somewhere inside me, and now I need to find where it’s lurking. Sometimes it makes me cry at unexpected moments, like listening to a song, reading a certain book, hearing something, anything. Is that why it tries to make me eat, to shut out that which might make me cry? Why is it that when I’m alone I must cry or eat?