Bulimia is Sick of You

They will have me believe that I binge and purge because I loathe myself, lack will power. And not this. Industrial nation. Foods I binge then purge are laden with chemicals, laced with acids that make dogs lick their noses dry.

There is far more than fear and self-loathing creeping in eating a dozen donuts, gallons of ice cream, milk chocolate and powdery peanut butter, tarts, cake, muffins, waffles soaked with butter and syrup and burgers and cheese and cookies, pudding, toast and pretty much anything that is decadent and might rush then soften when washed in the tummy with water. Toaster strudels. Icing.

My old blood does not tolerate these worldly concoctions. I am allergic to myself here.

To always say, no thank you, is so lame, has never been my forte. I shame myself to not say no. All the world's a martini, a song and dance, a thriving poem. Please say, yes! With cheese and pie and nuts and cocoa... No no. No more ritualistic celebratory sweets. No more nothing. I do restrict too much. All right, alright, but I have failed to find the in-between. Just enough. It's too heavy.

Then here today. Hooray. These days I find myself walking so fast I'm nearly leaping. Swaying jovially at corners. I have things to celebrate. After thirteen years of hardcore, hours a day, ravenous, seedy and deeply secretive bulimia, I don't binge and purge, don't anything with any of it anymore.

Figured it far differently than they implied I would. Completely dig myself. Can't believe I'm still alive. So feel I could fly.