binge, purge, starve

notes on the manic-depressive cycle

binge

When I am depressed, I eat. I love candy and dessert and soda and refined sugar. I will eat frosting right out of the tub; marshmallows one, two, three, four, five, six, seven at a time; lick cookie dough off a spoon and wash it all down with a vanilla Coke.

I love salt and grease. Pizza and burgers and bacon and chips and fries. Food that is good for a minute, but in my stomach sits like a rock. I do not know what moderate means. It is all or nothing. Never any leftovers. I am a glutton; do not punish me.

I eat it all so quickly. I can’t get it down fast enough, needing to fill myself overflowing. I nearly choke on my bites. Instead of slowing, I swallow down water to push past my discomfort so I can stuff myself more.

I go for seconds and say: this is all. Then I fill my plate with thirds. Then I set my plate in the sink, and in the dead of night I grab the cold leftovers and eat them in the light of the refrigerator bulb.

My dog begs me to share, but I am greedy. I eat beyond what I can take, and I feel myself bloat. Empty calories, all the nutrients I should avoid. I am 30% of your daily saturated fat intake, 30% of your daily cholesterol intake, 30% of your daily microplastic intake, 30% of your daily carcinogen intake.

And yes, even here I am overflowing, overfull. Grandpa used to tell me that ice cream fits between the cracks in my stomach, so I never miss dessert. Grandma used to say I had a hollow leg, the way I would always ask for seconds, so I never skip a meal.