On Saturday night, after a Passover seder I cooked for 10 curious, non-Jewish friends, I binged.
It was a pretty small binge, by my standards, but embarrassing in its semi-public-ness, and frustrating because I’d been doing so well: Not bingeing, not starving, not overexercising, and having dessert a few times a week, kinda like a normal person. So well that I was beginning to wonder if I really did need to go uproot myself for four months to get help; if the switch had finally flipped.
I feel like I did it almost to prove to myself that I do need help; that stressing myself out to get everything arranged to get to London is really necessary.
Because, yeah, I decided to do it. To go for treatment. I don’t know if it will work, but what I do know is this: I don’t want to keep doing what I’m doing. Ten years from now, I don’t want to wish I had done this and wonder what would happen if I had. I do that a lot, you know, and I think sometimes it’s related to the bingeing. I choose the solution that is the most expedient at present, because I don’t think I can handle all the hassle. And believe me, trying to get myself to London for four months is a lot of hassle.
I’m scared I won’t find anyone to sublet my place in New York. (I’m decluttering; it’s not quite in shape to take photos of yet.) I’m scared I won’t have any work in London. I’m scared I’ll sit around in London, feeling not a part of things there (Friend Bearing Chocolate, who some of you may remember, is behaving very strangely these days) and like I’m missing out in New York. Maybe everyone will be away on holiday.
It is four months. Not that long in the scheme of things. When I first left for London all those years ago – 14 years ago, in September – it was supposed to be for six months. And look at what happened – some of the most amazing and unexpected things ever. Round two, here I come…