hand-mouth: binge eater’s poem
*To me, to you, to my clients, and to every woman and man out there who has ever struggled with binge eating.
Warning: Some may find the content triggering.
Bad day at work. He stood you up.
Old lady in a red truck flipped you of.
Teenage cashier gave you attitude.
At least that’s what it seemed like.
Your dinner plans fell through.
What did she say?
It hurts. What’s next?
You know the drill.
It’s the tickling sensation of anticipation.
It’s the planning, the expecting.
The gathering of the bags, racing home,
Running upstairs, locking the door.
Put out the food on the floor.
And sit in the middle.
Rip packages open.
The floor is cold against your thighs.
Now is the time.
Throw food at the feelings
Until they stop.
Until time stops.
Lost in the moment.
Is there anybody out there?
Take the pain.
Fool the pain.
Move it. Shift it.
That temporary fix.
Can you taste it?
Don’t stop. Can’t stop.
Hold on to the numbness.
You can’t even slow down.
Not a single pause, not a second.
Not even to take a breath.
That’s what the rules say.
Hand. Mouth. Hand. Mouth.
Not fast enough.
Familiar tightness in the stomach.
From belly button into your throat.
You are almost there.
Nothing but fullness.
It’s here. Relief.
It is ok to stop.
You are safe.
Also, check out:
- coming out
- fat days, or what to do when you feel like a pregnant whale
- you are not alone, and (and whether picking chocolate chips out of the tub of ice cream is illegal)