Some of my clients, bless them, love to tell me about addiction.
Because I’ve never been addicted to anything before. Ever.
Never thought that if I didn’t have that one last piece, I wouldn’t be happy. I wouldn’t be whole. And no, I don’t feel the guilt drip from my pours as I try to huff and puff up the stairs to my room.
I get territorial over the contents of the kitchen – so much so that my husband has gone out in the middle of the night to replace items sought after by me and this ORANGUTAN on my back.
This has been a struggle for a very long time. I used to insult my mother; yell at her for running to the bathroom on my birthday as she vomited an $85 dinner. On purpose. Two years prior, I was doing the same. Binging, purging, restricting… I apologized to my mother tonight amidst my tears, for being a hypocrite and explaining why: I didn’t want to see her pain, because I could feel it. I lived a similar pain.
I don’t restrict anymore; I don’t purge. But I won’t stop until I’m full, then I’ll take a few more bites. The uncomfortableness doesn’t hit me until it’s too late. It doesn’t help that I have slow motility, which doesn’t allow for my body to remove things as quickly as it should.
But I can’t stop – I want to stop, I need to stop.
But no; I’ve never been addicted to anything. Ever.