I WON’T resort to bulimia, I WON’T resort to bulimia…

I had a good week last week, I really did.  I was a good girl.  I limited my intake of all the bad-for-me stuff.  I did.  I didn’t eat after 7:00 p.m.  I had club soda with lime instead of the Rusty Nails and Chocolate Martinis that called to me. 

Until Saturday night.  That night it all went to hell.  After a sensible dinner of pork tenderloin salad, where did David and I go?  No Frills.  What did we buy?  Bags of gluten-free brownies, and rice chips and a tray  of Nanaimo Bars.  We went out for eggs.  If I really think about the calories I ingested, I might have to commit Hara-kiri.

Food rehab may be my only option.  If I went to food rehab, I could maybe sweat out the addiction to chocolate, sugar and salt.     This once-a-week bingeing is going to kill me.  I know that I’m an emotional eater.  I know that.  So when I’m feeling low because of my freaking ridiculous health issues, that’s when I should just go to bed.  Even if it’s 7:30 p.m.  I should NOT have two bowlfuls of cut up miniature gluten-free brownies with added chocolate chips, topped with a dollop of sour cream, followed by an ENTIRE FUCKING bag of dill pickle flavoured rice chips.  That is stupid.  I know that it will make me all dopey and stoned on the sugars and that I’ll then feel like crap.  So why do I do it?  Why can I not eat healthfully?  Why can I not ignore these stupid-ass cravings?

Although honestly?  After I ate the two bowls of miniature gluten-free brownies with added chocolate chips,  topped
with a dollop of sour cream, followed by an ENTIRE FUCKING bag of dill
pickle flavoured rice chips, I didn’t feel all that bad.  I thought I’d have the urge to purge, but… no.  It was all good, except for the all-consuming guilt, of which I wanted to rid myself immediately.  My strategy will now be this:  eat ALL the remaining gluten-free brownies to get them out of the house.  In one sitting if I have to.

‘Cause my body can’t take this.  This health issue roller-coaster is sucking the big one.  I exercise every fucking day of the week for at least 60 minutes – I shouldn’t have to worry about weight gain!  This shit is actually making me contemplate bulimia.  I contemplate heading to the basement with a bowl into which I could blow chunks so that David and Rissa wouldn’t hear me hurling my guts out in either one of the bathrooms.  Although, if I turned the fan ON in the upstairs bathroom… NO!!  This is NOT healthy behaviour!  Plus, I’m sure that I’d still get caught, noise really has a way of travelling in our house what with the extra staircases.  The echo of my retching into a stainless bowl would probably resonate through the entire house.  Plus, if you’re woofing your cookies from self-induced retching?  You give yourself a headache and burst those wee little vessels around your eyes.  That is not a good look.

If I were an alcoholic, this is where I would now call my sponsor.