You Better Belize It

First the eating was messy. Then it was bingeing. Then it was messy again. And just when I was thinking to myself: Maybe 2012 will be the year I don't binge, it happened.

On the morning of January 3 – a day that involved three airports and various car rides – I started eating in the morning and Could. Not. Stop. It was like someone else had taken over my body. The ¾ leftover candy bar in our refrigerator. Some homemade hot flour tortillas. Another round of homemade hot flour tortillas. And another. A handful of American chocolate bars. And I don't even like American chocolate any more. And this was just before we got on the first plane.

I had spent much of the week in Belize fearing whether my jeans would fit at the end of the holiday. I managed to get them on that very last morning, but then seemed to be on a one-woman mission to bust myself out of them, blowing up like Violet Beauregarde in Willy Wonka. At the tail end of the plane ride from Miami to JFK, I had to undo them covertly, I was so uncomfortable.

And when I got home at 10.45 pm, having been travelling since 7 am, there would have been just enough time to get to Magnolia Bakery, what I really wanted, but again I was too full. (Also too cold.)

I did crazy things on this trip. Two times I got a slice of cake then went back to the shop about four minutes later and bought another, claiming I had dropped it. (The only place I had "dropped it" was down my gob.) The person serving it to me would the second time place the container in a plastic bag, which (a) was embarrassing and (b) only made it take more time until I could eat it.

I could speculate about why I binged: The lack of exercise options (the streets were unpaved, potholed, and it was pouring rain). The feeling of not-quite belonging to our group of four, even though (obviously) I had been invited. The fact that one of the women in the group was sticking to the most rigid diet ever, which somehow seemed to kick me into new levels of defiance (why why why? Nobody was telling me I had to eat that way; maybe I felt like I should be, or wished I could have that discipline?) The feeling of shame that I can find going on vacation – something I know I am very lucky to be able to afford – so unbelievably difficult, and wish I were back home. The feeling of frustration that I cannot just overeat like a normal person (though I did have a few days of overeating that weren't bingeing, and those felt like the most incredible of victories). And more frustration that weeks and weeks of exercise and clean eating literally could be undone in seven days (there were clothes that fit at the beginning of the trip that did not fit midway through, let alone at the end). The feeling of shame that at meals I was eating quickly and cleaning my plate, which no one else was doing. The feeling of shame that I was getting cranky waiting an hour for food (standard island behavior -- and they don't offer you drinks or anything in the meantime.) Blah blah blah.

The truth is it doesn't matter. As I have been realizing over the past few weeks, knowing why I do it does not stop the urge.

I feel strangely not angry with myself, though. Or at least, not as angry with myself as I once might have been. I haven't given up.

This week I did things I don't normally do post-binge: I went out to dinner three nights out of seven. I accepted a spontaneous lunch invitation. Less control; more life. More Magnolia, maybe (though when a friend suggested it the day after I returned I have to say I did turn it down; I was too worried it would spike an 'I'll start tomorrow' binge, which could last weeks.)

Nor have I exercised as much as usual.

At the moment, I feel like a barrel with little arms and legs sticking out. (Or, if you have seen my arms, not-so-little arms.) But I have had seven days without a binge. I don't feel any slimmer, but I do feel unbelievably grateful. When you think you might never ever be able to stop – and really, that binge on the January 3 may well have been the worst one of my entire life – even one day feels unbelizeable.