Last Tango

Sunday, for the fourth or fifth time in less than three weeks, I woke up and wished I could be anyone but myself. I'd spent much of the night awake, too full to sleep, marinating in disgust and fear. I wondered whether anyone had noticed how much I'd eaten and at what speed, and what I might have said.

I binged at both the rehearsal dinner and the wedding, and I'm sure a couple of people noticed. I hate that.

I didn't (and don't) want to write about it. I just want a break from being in my own head for a while. But that is not to be.

If I'd written this yesterday or Sunday it might have been a very different post. I was so sad and fearful both days. I'm always a bit depressed post-binge, but the depression was particularly bad this time around. I picture the bingeing like a bloodstain seeping into clothing – how many more days of my life and friendships will it taint? I thought about all the days and should-have-been happy events (or carefree ones) that have been spoiled by my inability to think about anything much besides: How can I get some more of that? I thought about all the days and hours that have been spoiled by my shame and regret of the things I did to get more, and my fear of what people might say.

I think I've written before that a friend of mine has said repeatedly that I should not tell men I've recently met how much heavier I used to be. I think the reason I bring my past up more frequently than perhaps I should is because I feel this need to explain myself. There are so many times when I behave what feels like (and sometimes flat out is) so irrationally that I want people to know: It's not me; it's that. Except frankly, having once been overweight does not explain why one, say, ate more than just her own wedding favour chocolates.

I spent a lot of time on the airplane back from Chicago thinking about when and why I binge. Alcohol is always involved, and – as I know I've written about before – there is an element of me feeling trapped. But you're not with BN2 anymore, you say. What could possibly make you feel so trapped now? The answer is that I feel trapped almost every day: Trapped by too much to do and not enough time to do it in; trapped by the almost-paralyzing fear of never having enough money and of yet another day spent trying to make it stretch and trying not to think too hard about where and when I might get more and if this will ever end. Trapped by trying to pretend it is okay, that I'm okay, that I will get through this and oh yeah, here's a funny story about the crummy date I had last week. I feel trapped by circumstance: Single and living in London and unable to do most of the things that I want to do – that one should do when one is single and, um, living in London -- because I can't afford them. And often I feel trapped by the sheer time and energy required to exercise and (attempt to) eat healthy – the huge chunk these things take from my day; time I wonder if I should be spending sending out story ideas. (Or finishing my taxes. Or cleaning.) And I feel trapped by the push and pull of balancing exercise/healthy eating with the rest of my life, because I do sometimes go to extremes. (Me? Extreme? What you talkin' about, Willis?)

Is it any wonder, then, that I have a couple of drinks and I go crazy? It's an escape from reality and from obligation, if only for a few minutes.

I think I preferred the days when I used to escape by daydreaming.

***

Today is three days post-binge, and I can honestly say that I never again want to wake up and feel the way I did on Sunday. Or Saturday. Or the Monday before that – all post-binge mornings. Why can I not remember this in the moment? What kind of disaster is going to have to befall me? I don't want it to get to that.