(black forest cherry cake), May 21st, 2008.

(Melodramatic– I thought so even then!– but honest.
May I regain and retain the self-introspection, mindfulness, and awareness of this day, especially in regards to food, every day of my life.)

—

I came home earlier than usual, a rare occurence, and when I stepped through the door my mother greeted me with words.

These words can’t be called criticism, yet they can’t be called insults either. They comprise one meaning that, in these days, holds a much more negative connotation than “ugly”– only this word, the concept of this word, could possibly transcend the age-old adjective for unattractiveness.

These were words my parents used to describe me every day; they’d called me this and that since the onset of my adolescent life. The only difference between now and then, however, was that now, they actually meant it. They actually had reason to. I, as a physical being, had changed, somewhat noticeably.

Another difference though, was that these kinds of phrases, sentences thrown at my already too-fragile, broken-twice-and-more resolve, confidence, esteem, whatever you’d call it– my self-image, if that makes things more tangible to you, even if it’s still an abstract concept. I imagine it like glass covering my heart– not cold glass, but a kind of protective glass. Fragile, yes– easy to break, yes– but hard. Strong. Resilient.

Words like the ones that escaped my mother’s mouth like an easy snake, effortless in their appeal– they once, maybe only a few weeks ago, they would have broken me. I would have shattered, senseless, broken, struck stupid by their overwhelming and unreasonable power. Yet somehow, the fragile glass had strengthened over time.

Today, I had chocolate cake. German chocolate cake, the kind with chocolate chips, chocolate frosting, and delicious cherries inside. I’ve had cake before, obviously. In fact, I had the exact same cake, baked by the same wonderful woman, a year ago. But this time, of course, it was different.

The last time, also the first time, was a Monday. I had taken two slices, not because I wanted them, but because I wanted to stuff myself as much as I could before I purged. I had taken laxatives. I don’t remember when, if it was morning, or right before I ate the cake. When I ate it, I didn’t feel it much. Or enjoy it. Food gave me no enjoyment, let alone satisfaction. It was simply a twisted sanctuary for the fears that I tried to swallow in vain.

Afterwards, my stomach began to have spasms of intense pain. I went home before the school day was over, lying, saying it was my period. I went home and purged and purged and purged myself of the dirty deed I had done. I had committed a crime against myself, against the world– how dare I eat cake with such gusto. How dare I eat cake. That was my thought when I was eating it, and that was my thought when I was getting rid of it. How dare I.

This time, though, I hadn’t stuffed myself beforehand, and I didn’t stuff myself afterwards. I ate one orange in the morning to ward off a strong hunger– it wasn’t hollow, though, I just felt like I should let myself survive for a few hours before the cake. I was “warned” about the cake the night before; that was my reason for anticipation.

This time, I had two slices, even though I was moderately satisfied after the first slice. This time, it was not because I was planning to gorge and then purge myself, but it was because I enjoyed it. So many years of eating senselessly and I had never actually really enjoyed it, or learned to enjoy it. To cherish the experience of life for what it was. It pleased me– it was sweet, soft, yet still a little crunchy with the chocolate chips, and with the chewy textures of the cherries. And this time, it was also because I knew now. I could eat it, and not hate myself. I could eat it, and not want to die afterwards. I could eat it, and like it, even if for only the moment.

I had a sugar high and then a sudden drop. It was unbearable, I became extremely sleepy. Yet, I was somehow grateful for this feeling too. It showed that I was still human– in the days that I devoured gallons of ice cream, cookies, cake, and other pastries and sweets and desserts, inhaled sugar in a matter of mere minutes, I rarely experienced a sugar high, I had withstood so much sugar that I almost became immune to it– that my body could still react in human ways, in so-called “normal” ways. It also showed that I recognized the feeling for what it was. Before, if I felt sick to my stomach– quite literally– and if I felt like I was truly dying from what I ate, I still would not stop. I would keep on going, in an endless battle against myself, to punish myself, to tear myself apart, to show myself I was worth nothing and did not deserve the care I so needily needed. But this time, I realized.. I liked the taste of the cake, and enjoyed it in the timebeing, but I actually craved something.. more substantial. Not all sugar. Not something that would send my forehead to the table in the middle of a novel at a bookstore in public.

After I came home, I ate, too. I didn’t pick two of the once-”usual” choices– starve or stuff. I actually found it harder to be full, to be satisfied, to be content, than be hungry. I’d rather be hungry or bursting until I felt like I was going to explode any moment. Comfort, contentment, were foreign– they were fears.

But I was hungry, and I recognized it by the soft rumbles of my stomach, suddenly so gentle to me now, in the weirdest of ways. I had originally planned not to eat again after the cake– I was already tired, sleepy, what-have-you, and the cake was enough energy to “nourish,” if only temporarily, my body for the day. But I had been hoarding some simply– what do you call them? Foods? Dishes? For a few days, I had been waiting for an opportunity to eat specific items.

I walked outside barefoot and ate at a dirty, grubby table that had not seen the darkness of the interior of our house since it had been banished to the backyard. I ate while being cleansed by the sun. Lukewarm soup, rice and eggs, a few crackers. A modest meal, yet I enjoyed it thoroughly. It gave me strength. It gave me realization, growth, maturity somehow. I was eating, I was living. I recognized the overwhelming and irreplaceable feelings of the amazing human experience, life, and suddenly things became a little clearer. They still remain a bit murky, a bit blurred– I’ve hoped for “quick fixes” too many times, only to be disappointed each time. I’ve realized that things take time, regardless of the hackneyed quality of that expression. “Time will tell.” This simple meal, this offering from God, from life, to nourish me, helped me along. Even though I’m far from reaching the end of my road, the road to recovery from my constant and current demons (for I’m sure there will be more demons to take arms against in the future), I’ve taken another few steps. It was as if I had been waiting for this meal my entire life.

read more:

1. why I stopped purging
2. the 6 secrets to bouncing back after a binge
3. the road of self-love is not paved for slackers.