of cheat days

I don't know how to feel about them anymore. Pre-Cheating, it sounds like a great idea. I fantasize about what I will eat. What forbidden foods I'll pick. Post-Cheating, it's always panic. Always. No matter what. You would think I would learn my lesson by now.

I wonder what it's like to have a "normal" relationship with food?

It's 1:00 am. I just got off the treadmill.

I thought I could have a "cheat day." It started with that donut. I attempted to eat yogurt and strawberries for lunch, but the yogurt was disgusting and winter strawberries are sad, tasteless little things. But then. Then for dinner, the Mr. surprised me by taking me to a neighborhood bar after work.

It's ok. I told myself over and over. Today can be a "cheat day." I'll just order whatever I want. I'll eat it. I'll enjoy it. It'll be ok.

So I got a beer. And then I ordered a cheeseburger. A real cheeseburger with Gouda cheese and sauteed onions and mushrooms and real tomato and real lettuce. I honestly can't remember the last time I ate a cheeseburger. I can't remember the last time I ate red meat. The first bite was amazing. I chewed. I swallowed. And then I put it back down.

I could be finished right now. All I need is that one bite. 

But I didn't stop there. My hands picked it back up. My mouth kept chewing and swallowing. I ate half. I put it back down. Then I picked off the bun, lettuce, and tomato and ate the rest of the meat.

Half a pound of beef. Sitting in my stomach. Fat soaking into my body, filling up my veins.

It's ok. I told myself. It's a "cheat day." It'll be ok.

We got home, watched a movie, had a chill Friday night. Then the Mr. started feeling sick. He ended up puking up his hamburger. I felt perfectly fine.

What if he wasn't really sick? What if he was lying? What if he just made himself throw up because he knows that we should NEVER HAVE DONE THAT.

He passed out early, not feeling good. I sat on my computer and spiraled into anxiety. At midnight, I couldn't take it anymore. I changed, marched down to my basement, and turned on the treadmill. At least it's something. At least I did something. Right? I'm sitting here, tracing my collarbone with my fingers, just so I know that it's still there. That first sign of success, sharply jutting out under my skin. That I haven't immediately gained all the weight I've lost. That I haven't bloated up into a fat fat FAT lump of human disaster.

Even if I feel like one.

I think I should stop having cheat days.