Tuesday, June 6, 2017
DAY 3 9:54am
Good morning, pages. Last night wasn’t so bad. After I finished writing last night, I ate some mixed nuts, two dried apricots, and a cup of tea with honey and almond milk. It felt like a normal snack. I didn’t feel like I overate, at all, but now it sort of feels like the act of eating late at all feels like it’s just for comfort and not for hunger. Maybe I’m looking too much into this. It was a successful night. I felt so anxious all freakin’ day, but I did it.
Tonight we’re having Steve’s parents over for dinner and I’ll be drinking, so it won’t be a typical night. But even though I’ll surely be full when they leave, I might still want to eat something. I can say for sure that I probably won’t actually be hungry then. So if I do still want to eat something, I’ll definitely write.
Wednesday, June 7, 2017
DAY 4 10:06pm
Well, I’m not hungry, so that’s good. I still wanted to write. We ate dinner at 7, and after that I had half a glass of wine, because it’s all that was left in the bottle, and then a cup of tea with honey and a splash of almond milk.
Last night was not my finest moment. Exactly what I thought was going to happen, happened. I drank too much, and after Steve’s parents leave, I walk over to the cabinet where the snacks are and open it. Steve is doing dishes. He hears me and looks at me over his shoulder. “What are you doing?” Making a snack. “No.” He is almost laughing as he says it. “You can’t be hungry. You need to write.”
I immediately turn to the emotion I know best when I’m feeling embarrassed or ashamed – anger. I slam the cabinet door shut (as much as I can – they’re those cabinets that automatically slow down as you close them so it really sucks for the moment) and stomp upstairs to the bedroom. Steve basically just told me to do what I told myself I was going to do this morning. But now I’m drunk and I don’t care.
I’m not sure how long I’m upstairs for before I come down again. Steve is still doing dishes. I open the refrigerator and pull out the tupperware of leftover broccoli and cauliflower from dinner. I open it. Steve looks over at me, incredulous. “What in the world are you doing?” I look over at him with a look of sheer disgust. I don’t even say anything. I just slam the lid down on the counter and again, stomp up the stairs.
When I tell Kelly about it the next day, she tells me that the way I was acting is how an addict would act. Yup, because I’m an addict. I’m a late-night snack addict.
When Steve finally comes upstairs, I apologize. I couldn’t say anything when he called me out because he was completely right. All I could do was be pissed. He accepts my apology, but in the morning I feel so bad. I apologize a few more times and a little more in depth.
And I’m so sorry I didn’t even help you clean the kitchen. But I couldn’t be IN the kitchen. I had to go upstairs.
Steve doesn’t care about the cleaning. He just cares how I reacted. “And then you didn’t even put the broccoli and cauliflower away! You just left it on the counter.” I can’t help but laugh about it now. Now I thank him so much for not letting me eat.
I really appreciate you. “You’re welcome. It was so weird because normally you’re so… sane.”
I’m so embarrassed, but I finally don’t have shame wrapped around it. Because I have Steve with me. I couldn’t do this without him. I try to explain to him. I have a real problem. You’ve never seen me like that but I’ve seen that version of myself many times, and it’s not pretty. Being able to write out my thoughts, and having Steve hold my hand along the way, is the only way I can do this.
It’s 11:20pm and we’ll probably go to sleep soon. I’m not hungry and I don’t want a snack.
Clearly, alcohol is not my friend during this experiment.