o3) Strange Rituals

Twitching, shoulders slumped, toes jumping.  The smell of a philly cheese steak.  Half.  Home made.  Portion sizes purposefully portioned out so that rather than three, it's six servings.  Technically only 1/3 of a serving.  The smell lingers.  Fingers twitch.  Mouth watering.  Salivating.  

Horrifying.

All the weight lost.  The movement, the running, made into nothing.

I need to eat.  I'll just eat a little.

You ate more than a little earlier.

You know what to do.

Flick of a lighter.

Deep inhale.

Hold for ten.

Lungs constrict, eyes water, body shivers, smoke pouring out on a ragged cough.  Limbs settling, I take a fortifying breath and reach for the meal.

I'm supposed to be in recovery.

Eating defeats her.  I must defeat her.

She can make the pain go away.

Chew.

Chew.

Chew.

My esophagus shudders as if in protest--as if it, too, is terrified by what is worming it's way down to the stomach.  I manage more bites, each one taken quick, chewed fast, swallowed faster, as if to devour it with utmost haste before the fear takes hold completely.  When the beast is slain, that sandwich eaten--when my edible Goliath lay masticated in my belly--I take a breath and try not to feel the way my stomach sticks out.  The way my breasts sit heavier on my chest.  How my back is softer, the flesh almost seeming to be preparing to form back into rolls.  I try not to feel how thick my thighs have gotten, or baggy my arms have become.  I only think of nutrition, the requirement to live, the reminder that the weight gain came from stress inspired binges with my ex.  

I try not to let the trembles hit, though a few break through.  A harder day.  But they are steadily becoming that way.

I take the pipe.  Take another hit.

The anxiety eases.  A part of me crows in victory at the knowledge of what my life has become.

I have trained myself to eat only when high.

So when I give up pot?

I'll give up food, too.

What roundabout bullshit.