Binging and purging and purging and binging……just add nauseum

Sometimes, just sometimes, the hunger stalks you, creeps up on you, a tsunami of desire, of need and then there is nothing you can do.

There are no evasive actions, nothing that will de-rail this lumbering leviathan,

Journey marked out

Calling at all stations

everybody change at the end of the line

First stop….The kitchen, you stand on the balls of your feet, poised for flight, for travel, for a quick getaway…..fooling no-one

You are your own hostess, your own bustling trolley dolly, gathering the in-journey refreshments

( as if there is any refreshment in any of this food….fixed smile…I’m mandy….eat me)

next stop….. the bedroom

( even when the house is empty, will always be empty, this eating must be done behind closed doors, a secret, even to the weary traveler herself)

Lay out the foods, neat lines, bisecting junctions of sugar and fat and carbs ( food reduced to its parts, sans taste, sans color, sans pleasure), tracks reaching out, journeys made again and again – a commute of hunger sated.

next stop ….the eating

automata….hands move like pistons…..hand, bag, plate, hand, mouth and repeat and repeat and repeat

chugga chugg, chugga chug, chugga chug

The rythmn of this journey, familiar, comforting…..

a known landscape and the next stop coming up sooner than you can believe.

Almost the end of the line……the window

And like a dozing suit, warm, comfortable, in that space between wake and sleep…a moment of peace, of calm and then……………….

A crash of grinding gears, metal buckling, brakes applied too little, too late…..

Almost de-railed,

Almost fallen off the tracks,

Head jerks up, terrible realization of what has almost happened

Next stop…..purging

hair pulled back with a practiced hand

The same hand that rams into your throat again and again and again

Half chewed, un- digested food hits the toilet bowl

red and green and orange – traffic signals of loss, of cleansing against the white porcelain.

journeys’ end…..destination reached

final stop…..the bathroom floor

face puffy, stomach bloated from the food that got away

hot forehead cooling on the black and white tiles

The traveller has arrived…….



About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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