Picking Myself Up Again

Last week I ate yumalicious brownies (in moderation) and spent a lot of time thinking about how I'd probably come out even, or maybe even slightly better off, if I just ate more of what I want instead of a huge binge every couple of weeks.

Frankly, I'd definitely come out better off, because I'd be less embarrassed and would at least get to eat things I really want to eat, as opposed to, say, loads of (not-great) cheese. Or pulled pork. Or peanut butter and chocolate on white bread. Or whatever.

Saturday night I'd agreed to attend a charity event with some friends. After I'd already paid I realized I'd be the only single person in the group – and on Valentine's Eve. Ugh. Dinner was to be of the standing up variety – which I hate, because I can't keep track – somewhere north of 9 pm. After discussion with a very wise friend, who asked me what would allow me to be most present in the moment (as opposed to obsessing about the food), I decided I'd eat beforehand. "I bet no one will even notice," she said. "And if they think you're anorexic, so what?" (I'm not slim enough to be mistaken for anorexic, but, um, thanks? I think.)

I felt reasonably prepared to deal with this event – and maybe even enjoy it. Then I woke up at 7 am and was unable to go back to sleep. Me tired at anxiety-inducing events = not so great. I should have known things would unravel from there.

It was bitterly cold, but I'd signed up for a 5K in Finsbury Park, and so I went and ran it anyway. Then I headed to a meeting in Fulham where afterwards I saw BN2. For the first time in nearly two months. He was wearing, I noted, the shirt he wore on our first date – and a watch one of the women he cheated on me with gave him for Christmas in 2008. He hates wearing a watch. I wondered idly if he'd just gotten out of bed with her.

I kept things light. When he said he wanted to apologize for some things, I held up my hand, saying I didn't want to get into anything emotional. At one point he put his hand on my leg and commented on how "trim" I was looking, saying he'd been worried that without his steadying influence I'd be bingeing my way back up to my former weight. (He said it only slightly more delicately than that.) I moved my leg out of reach and tried to think of a response. Instead I said I had to get going.
And off I went, thinking happily about the evening's plans, and the fact that if I'd still been with him, I wouldn't have been able to go without a struggle.

I got home at 7 pm, in a rush to throw on my dress and get down to the boathouse for the event (dress code: black tie on the farm). I had a moment of gratitude racing in my door for the fact that the dress I'd planned to wear but hadn't bothered to try on definitely would fit. (I'm not always that confident – it's just that the dress is a size too big.) Then I spied a card-sized envelope with some familiar handwriting. A Valentine's Day card from BN2.

I opened it just enough to confirm that it was a card, then put it aside, thinking: If I read this before I go out I'll get upset.

So far, so good, right?

Then I went to the event. I was fine and fine and fine. Better than fine, in fact – I was telling the friend who'd invited me how happy I've been.

I was chatting to random people, which as an American you can just about get away with in this country. I was amusing other people by being able to name (correctly) the designers of various dresses. I was playing Nirvana and Red Hot Chili Pepper songs with the band (don't ask).

And then I was deflated by a (perceived) rejection, and I went whole hog. For the pulled pork. And the cheese. And then – on the way home -- the jar of peanut butter and chocolate a friend had brought me. I ate until I couldn't feel anything but the familiar discomfort of being far, far too full – and the shame of being caught (I'm quite sure my friend saw me dive into the cheese, and I wasn't eating delicately).

I woke up in bed with my old friend despair and his pal disgust. And then I lay there thinking about the work I've done and the work that still needs to be done.

For months I clung to BN2 because I thought he saw and acknowledged the real me: the hideous, unlovable, flawed person I believed I was. I clung to him because the alternative was just too hard: To leave him I needed to form a vision of myself as worthy and valuable – and to acknowledge both the sparks of fury and the yawning chasm of fear I felt when he pointed out, as he did nearly every day, all my defects of character, and all the ways that I wasn't good enough.

I spied my dress on the floor, memories clinging to it like smoke. I thought about the last time I'd worn it: To an event in October that was one of the rare escapes from the BN2 cage. I binged that night, too.

I looked for the Valentine's Day card he sent but literally couldn't find it. (Still can't.) I thought briefly about how much it would enrage him when I didn't acknowledge it, and how little he could do about it. Then I texted one friend, went for lunch with another, and then headed to bikram yoga to detox.

Two days binge-free. I've got a bunch of challenging days ahead (the BAFTAs and a royal visit, aka one from my dad), but I desperately want to hit 30 again.