When the nomnom's go too far.

binge

noun

1. a period or bout, usually brief, of excessive indulgence

verb (used without an object)

2. to have a binge

I have an addiction to binging. Last week, every day for lunch, I ate Wendy's. As my child would leave for afternoon kindgergarten, I'd get in my car and drive-through my secret sin and order something. This something started out being a single slab of beef and, through the week, upgraded to a triple slab. Oh, and large. Always large.

I went, I devoured, I came home. But it was more the method that bothered me. I've attended many AA meetings with my mother, so I know the sneaky habits employed to hide your addiction.

First, I charged it on my debit card.

Then, I started doing grocery runs for neighbors. I would take their cash, charge their necessities on my debit card, then use the cash at Wendy's.

I would ALWAYS eat in the car, and throw my trash out in either an outdoor bin at some random store or in a neighbor's trash. Gotta hide that trail, yo.

My husband would not have cared, really. He's super supportive. He might have given me that 'aww Sarah' look, or briefly reminded me how good I feel when I'm not eating meat and cheese. He's not pushy about it, and loves the heck out of me regardless of my booty size. I still felt compelled to hide it from him, and my friends, and my family.

In an effort not to hate myself, I tried to become the watcher instead of a self-loathing fat woman in these situations. Then, I realized something:

Binging is nothing more than a transference of pain.

For years, I have dealt with depression. For me, I get very lethargic and everything hurts. It's a battle to care about anything. I have been off all medication since November, and doing very, very well. Then, two weeks ago, it started. I was sleepier than normal and, eventually, even my ELBOWS hurt. This made little sense to me as I had nothing going on in my life that should depress me, but I knew the signs and symptoms and realized what was happening.

And there, in the middle of the Wal-Mart parking lot I was hiding in to shove dead crap into my mouth, I realized that I didn't want to feel the pain anymore in my head and body so I was cramming my stomach full in order to bring the focus there. I have control over this. If I feel like shit, it's MY FAULT, not some silly chemical imbalance. For hours, I'd feel bloated and angry and lethargic and fat and dead and it was MY FAULT. So, ha! Ha to you depression! I can beat you!

...sort of. Uh, okay - not really.

I imagine a lot of people do this, and don't realize it. We just can't help ourselves, after all. It's an addiction, we need to do eat and eat and eat. However, I think our addictions are little more than personal power plays to assert a perverted control over our lives.

This is my life and I choose to live it vibrantly.

This is your life, and you can choose to live it vibrantly, too.

I love you.