I can’t remember the last time I vomited. I don’t try to. Such a violent act — my insides coming out. My body’s intuitive wisdom, ridding itself of what it identifies as clearly foreign. An organic process.
It is hard to imagine I would ever try to bring this on. But I did.
A long time ago. And thankfully, not for very long — I wasn’t very good at it.
I haven’t thought about this in more years than I can remember. Probably because I haven’t binged in at least that long.
But I am brought back to it here, in the darkened Greenhouse Theater for Danielle Pinnock’s showcase performance of Body Courage — Artist Date 104.
In these 75 or so minutes, Pinnock is the embodiment of her more than 400 interviews, her words verbatim.
She is man and woman. Black and white. Straight and gay. Young and old.
She is a former Miss California USA pageant contestant sporting a red bathing suit, gold high heels, a long blonde wig and Valley Girl twang.
She is an Irish priest with early-onset Parkinson’s Disease. A Muslim woman touching her thighs over and again — the site of her burn scars, scalded by her ex with the contents of a crock pot.
She is Tan Mom, whose 15-minutes of fame I missed somehow, and a Temple University professor who also missed her arrival on to the American pop-culture scene.
She is a gay man with gynecomastia — overdeveloped male breasts — the one who keeps his shirt on during sex.
She is a 20-something waitress who vomits.
My ears perk up when the waitress mentions “the trick” — puke immediately after eating, before any food has begun its journey towards digestion.
How could I not have known this? It is so obvious. And yet, my flirtation with this brand of disordered eating was pre-Internet, before Google was a verb and I could type “How to vomit” into the search bar.
Unfortunately, I never needed any special instructions regarding bingeing. It was easy. Intuitive.
The black-out tornado roaring through my kitchen — stuffing bite after bite into my mouth, not fully finishing the last before starting the next. No mere episode of overeating, emotional eating, or eating when I am not hungry — although all of these factors may be at play.
The binge is a high. A distraction. Numbing.
And it is shameful. A secret. Dissociating.
It is me at my friend Carlos’ house, dog sitting — on the kitchen floor eating Girl Scout Thin Mints by the sleeve and peanut M&Ms from a cut-crystal jar.
He returns, unexpected. My mouth is full, my hand loaded for the next bite. We look at one another and say nothing about it — now or ever again.
It is me lying on the bed in my underwear and nothing else, trying to bargain away the hurt — both physical and emotional. Trying to pray away the remorse.
It is me walking down the hill to one market for yogurt-covered raisins, up it to another for Pepperidge Farm cookies, and next door to a third for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s — too ashamed to buy all of this at once.
It is me successfully unloading my body of macaroni and cheese from the cafeteria before my afternoon lecture. I look in the mirror. The blood vessels around my eyes are purple and broken. I fear people will notice, will know what I have done.
It’s been nearly 20 years since my last binge. I don’t remember it. What I ate. If I vomited. Or how I stopped.
I only know that it stopped “working” — no longer providing the desired effect of distraction, and if I was lucky, oblivion. That the pain of my behavior — both physical and emotional — became too great to continue. And that I no longer do it.
A miracle is defined as “a highly improbable or extraordinary event, development, or accomplishment that brings very welcome consequences.” This is surely one.
However, I still overeat — sometimes. I still emotionally eat and eat when I am not hungry — sometimes. And I likely always will — sometimes.
Sliced pork on focaccia, oil seeps through the waxy paper, while I sit on the edge of a fountain in Campo de’ Fiore. My body says “enough” at two-thirds, but I continue — uncertain when I will be here again.
The last few bites of a burrito from my favorite taqueria — not enough to bring home.
Fresh dates in my refrigerator — nature’s crack. I have two, then two more, and then another two.
The dinner plate I push away — done — and then pull back and return to as my friend broaches the topic we have neatly avoided all night.
The difference? My intent. My response. My awareness.
I remember these moments. Some, like the porchetta in Rome, are joyous. Others, like the reminder of my “still single” status over dinner, more than uncomfortable. But mostly they are neutral, evoking neither shame nor pain, just information — a physical sensation of “too much.”
And the comfort in knowing it, and in knowing that sometimes “too much” is “just enough.”