I usually want to capture a good moment. It's a technique I learned a long time ago in therapy, and probably on a less formal level a long time before - take a snapshot of something wonderful, hold onto the feelings that come with it, tuck it away and in the darker moments, take yourself back there. I was always being told off for 'dreaming' as a child - had it been observed by someone more objective than my parents who found it intensely annoying (understandably - I failed to respond to instructions or retain any information which could of course be vital at that point), it probably would have been flagged as dissociation and a sign that things probably weren't quite right. I've always needed the security of a cherished moment of feeling loved or feeling free, imagining myself back into the arms of someone who cared for me and made me feel safe as I drifted to sleep on my own. And I've often sat staring out of the window at work or as a passenger in the car or the train, picturing myself galloping around in fields with my horse - real, nowadays, imaginary in the past. The real thing is a little less romantic, as she tends to be huffing and puffing and grinding to a halt after a field or two, or jumping sideways or coming to an abrupt halt causing me to flop sideways or crack my nose on her neck which has suddenly grown six inches in her panic. Anyway, not the point. Being somewhere other than where I am, and noting when I am somewhere, that it's a place I might want to come back to in future is the point. And as I mention, it's usually somewhere good.
Not so the other day. I hate purging. I have always known and always said this in any context where anyone may have asked. Being sick as a child was accompanied by absolute terror - my mother was terrified of it, and I caught onto her panic. Vomit was both fear-inducing and guaranteed to make me feel abandoned. as her fear caused her to withdraw, become obviously anxious or occasionally even angry. So to deliberately seek it out is...odd. There are probably myriad reasons for doing so, some of which may lurk in the above information, and some of which are simply linked to the fact that I really like and often cannot control eating, but really don't want to be fat. So purging is punishment and rebellion and freedom and independence and a glorious act of defiance of what is expected and required of me. It is also bloody miserable.
I became, as I got to the point of realisation that I was eating more than I could handle as a morning snack, increasingly terrified of what I was about to do. It was like being an impartial observer as well as a somewhat panic-stricken player in the game. I noticed my mind beginning to speed up, noticed my heart rate rising, suddenly felt very, very cold even in the warmth of my kitchen and felt the shaking, trembling fear begin to take over. I knew the next step, as I gulped lukewarm water and took some deep, shaky breaths, turning my stomach over and encouraging the slight nausea. Leaning over the toilet, breathing in strong gasps, shoving three fingers hard down my throat. It was part of an inevitable pattern, and yet, after a few moments of the familiar routine, I noticed what I was doing again. Felt the scratch of nails in my throat, felt the thumping of my heart in its panic and the struggle of my lungs to draw in air. Felt how hard the muscles in my abdomen were having to work to create this act of violence against myself. And after a few minutes, I straightened up, went to refill the glass to start again, and found myself sobbing. What was this
for? Why put myself through the horror?
I'd love to say it stopped me in my tracks. It didn't. I simply carried on through the pain and the tears, occasionally lifting my head and leaning it on the wall behind the toilet to let the sadness and hopelessness wash through me and possibly away. But not away enough for me to forget. I wanted to remember how much this had hurt, how horrible it was. I needed to tuck away this snapshot too, of the negative experience, so that I could take it out and go back there at a time when I might not be past the point of no return. When I could put down the slice of toast, the tub of ice cream, put the family sized block of cheese back in the fridge and say a firm, direct NO to bulimia. It won't work miracles - I know by now there aren't immediate fixes - but there are ways to gather an army of things that might just come together to pull me in a better direction and overcome the moment. Maybe just once or twice, maybe more, maybe, ultimately and with the right conditions, in the long term. Little steps. Being present is a powerful weapon in this. There it is again. I am here, now.
