Chronicles of a Late Bloomer

This is it.

I’m ready.

Theresa came over on Sunday morning to collect her prize. I had invited her to help me with the changeover between old ways of eating and new ways of eating. I had plenty of food — fine food — that I’d no longer be eating. I had flavored yogurts and loaves of bread and frozen dinners. Cereals. I needed to get them out of the house or I would eat them. She lives in a big communal house with a bunch of punk kids who always need food. It was perfect.

I imagined that we’d pack all of this food into one (or maybe two) plastic grocery bags full of the stuff, and send her on her way. Four bags later and I began thinking, “Okay, anything else I find, I will just throw away. This is too embarrassing.” I was so ashamed that one single woman had so much food crammed into such a small kitchen.

I didn’t remember buying all of that food. Didn’t remember putting it away. I couldn’t fathom the mentality which convinced me that I’d be able to eat it all — especially since I don’t eat the food I have at home anyway. I binge on fast food and pastries fresh from the bakery. Every few weeks, I go through my refrigerator and throw away anything that stinks. Then I hide my burger wrappers and milkshake cups and cheesecake boxes in the trashcan outside.

Four bags of food. Four stuffed bags — could have easily made five or even six. I carried a box of cereal in my hand. It was so much food.

(I kept the donut holes. I wanted to finish them off before I had to give everything up completely.)

You know it’s bad when the only image you can find to describe the scene is “needle to a vein” and all it involves is you, a super-duper-sized milkshake, and the slow-drip way you are sucking that thick, sweet, chocolatey goodness straight down your throat. Straight. Down. Your. Throat. Like, without even letting it touch your tongue. For forty-five minutes. Curled up in the corner of the couch.

Needle to a vein.

You wouldn’t believe the binge that began 5 minutes after I left my first Weight Watcher’s meeting and has lasted over 24 hours now. It included trips to In-n-Out, McDonald’s, and other places too unspeakable to even mention. It also included a box of toaster strudel, half a container of ice cream, and rice pudding. Oh, the rice pudding! (Koooooozy.)

I’m trying not to beat myself up too much about this. I haven’t even read any of the program materials yet. I’ve just thought about what a sell-out I am to have bought into the consumerism of weight loss and the full-on civil war that’s being waged inside of me. I love myself. I hate myself. I coddle myself. I punish myself.

But it doesn’t feel right. Doesn’t feel good.

Theresa agreed to come over and help me sort through the food I’ve currently got in the house. Honestly, it isn’t much junk food (junk food doesn’t last long here!) but fairly good food that I just won’t be eating anymore. Food like pint-sized breakfast yogurts (but the sugar-and-fat variety) and bread and pretzels. Anyway, I still have no idea if this or any other “program” is going to work, but I suppose I won’t know until I try.

I just want to refuse to buy into this vanity-driven market. Gross.

I had only managed to eat half a box of cookies and a couple of the donuts I bought last night. No one can fathom just how much food $25 worth of pastries is, but it’s a lot. And after getting home, binging away, and getting halfway through the cookies, it didn’t even look appealing. None of it. Not one little morsel. I sat for a long while, staring at the two plastic grocery bags full of my shame.

Then, packed them up this morning, took them with me to therapy, and left them with my therapist.

I had intended for the lady sculpture to fit, head-to-toe on one page. Seemed like nothing I could draw that night would fit into its allotted space.