“Here I am again. 23. Alone in this sparse, dimly lit hotel room with its sad, chintzy covers and square pillows I’ve come to despise. It is my den, where I come to abuse myself. Where I lose control. Where I come not to cope. No one sees inside here, so no one sees inside me. The dull news channels of satellite TV drone on in the background, reminding me I am an alien in a foreign land. All alone.
The familiar smells of the liquid soap dispensed from sterile white containers on the bathroom wall remind me again where I am. Hell. I wonder if anyone suspects what happens in here.
I strip off my already tight-waisted work suit and don my uniform of knickers and baggy T-shirt. I am only a head now. Just a head. If I have no body, how can I acknowledge I abuse it?
I start with a sandwich. Always start with a savory. As I pull back the flimsy cellophane, I know the next 10 minutes will be a frenzy. I will taste nothing. I will feel nothing. I am a head. The first bite tastes creamy, cheesy and buttery — oozing with mayonnaise. From then on I taste nothing. I chew. I swallow. I do not taste. I do not feel. I do not even think. Just eat. I am consumed as I consume.
The sandwich is gone, but the void is still there. More. Biscuits. Always savory, sweet, savory, sweet. I spend no time enjoying the crunch, the crumble, the sweet icing on top. I just eat. Devour — like a wild native hunter. No time to stop now. I keep going. Crisps. Sweets. Peanuts. Cake. Pizza. In it goes. I am a head. My stomach is beginning to ache, but still I go on.
Everything finished, I survey the rubbish and feel disgusted. How could I do it? I told myself I had stopped. I was in control, but I did it again. Feeling guilty. Feeling sick. Feeling ashamed. Feeling trapped. Feeling worthless. Like this, sleep finally comes as my body gives up. It tries to cope with what I have done to it. It is not me. It is separate. Peanut and chocolate still stuck to my teeth, tear-stained cheeks, I sleep. Sweet relief. Just a head. All alone. 23.”
This was an entry from my diary in 1997. Now when I wake up after an abstinent day, I remember how I used to feel the day after a binge like this, and I thank my God for saving me from it.
I came into OA in late 2003, and in a short space of time I found my life transformed “beyond my wildest dreams,” as promised. Rereading my diary reminds me how far I’ve come, thanks to the OA Fellowship. When I attended my first meeting, I felt so defeated I was scared to hope. I’ve been blessed with abstinence since that meeting. But I know I am only a bite away from the unmanageable life I led so long ago. Now, day by day, my HP is showing me who I am and how amazing life can be when I am honest, abstinent and trusting.
