I threw up today—not because I’m sick, or for any other reason than the fact that I forced myself to. I binged two packs of sushi, chicken tenders, sticky rice, and an avocado… oh, and a slice of cheesecake for dessert. All washed down with a crisp Diet Coke.
I walked to the bathroom and got down on my knees in front of the toilet. I thought it would be harder to find myself in this position again, but for some reason, I felt calm. Like it was inevitable. I couldn’t help but think about how much I missed the comfort of eating until I couldn’t breathe—and then throwing it all back up.
I looked in the mirror once it was over. My eyes were bloodshot, my face red and puffy. I did not miss this, nor the taste of vomit in my mouth. I rinsed with mouthwash, trying to forget the last five minutes I’d spent on the bathroom floor.
One feeling I do wish I didn’t miss is the sensation of sucking in my stomach afterward, as if nothing had been eaten in the first place. That feeling makes me want to start all over again. But I won’t.
Yes, I know I shouldn’t have kept eating. And I shouldn’t have thrown up. But healing isn’t linear. I haven’t been in this position in close to a year. I couldn’t tell you why today was the day my brain decided to relapse… but I do know that at the beginning of my recovery, I could barely make it a day.
So—almost a year? I’ll take it. Because one day, I believe this will end. Maybe today was the last time my eating disorder gets the best of me…maybe it’s not. But at least I’m making progress.