Guess who has spent All Day sitting on her pile of blankets in the corner of her room with the cats? And has been Really, Really, Hungry? Drinking cup after cup of coffee; eating carrot stick after unfulfilling carrot stick; rummaging in the pantry for any forgotten packets of diet hot cocoa; nosing ceaselessly in the dark crumby corners for leftover sugar-free cappuccino mix; nibbling with dissatisfaction on dried cranberries; and finally, after walking back and forth to the kitchen cupboard and staring at the place where the coveted, craved item sits, picking it up and then putting it back, standing, thinking, deliberating, hesitating, thinking . . . finally licking spoonfuls of peanut butter directly from the jar.
The menses are approaching again.
The one thing that I really miss about being a full-blown bulimarexic is the amenorrhea: None of this periodic bullshit Hunger X 50,000. None of the elusive, indefinable, skin-crawling, boiling agony searing through me. None of the flaming Medusa heads terrorizing me from all angles. My body couldn’t raise bloody hell every month the way it does now when it was half-dead.
Midol doesn’t work; it doesn’t do squat for the crippling hunger. Back in the days when I still had health insurance, and before I became tolerant of them, prescription tranquilizers worked. After all, how can you feel anything when you’re tanked on a serene Valium euphoria? But now I wouldn’t be able to get a hold of those things even if I hadn’t allowed some quack to prescribe me too much of them, too often, over just a few too many months, to the point that they are now as effective as sugar, and nothing, nothing, NOTHING will deliver me from this piercing agony.