Sat at five am eating a cheese burger with a knife and fork - my mum walks in. She doesn't question it but nonetheless it's suddenly impossible to swallow as my throat fills with shame and contracts with the strength of my self loathing. What are you doing? I am not sure, I was anxious so I couldn't sleep and suddenly the idea popped into my head and then it was all I could think about until eventually I figured I wouldn't get to sleep unless I got it over with.
Sometimes, often, I cry when I eat. As I put larded handfuls to my lips I hear someone in my head screaming; what are you doing?
I feel nauseous now. Not intentionally, although I am certain that my binge eating is both emotional and disorderly, but as a pool of disgust wriggles in my flabby stomach.
I try to be honest, in fact I am known for it, but every once in a while I write something so true that the thought of releasing an inventory of my flaws into a starscape of eager critics makes me sick to my eyeballs, so I close them and try to be brave. Hoping that this won't be the time when everyone says - "no, that's just you". Hoping that someone else might feel how I feel, and that I won't need to feel afraid anymore. Ashamed anymore. Maybe they won't need to feel ashamed either.
I write about it, knowing that I am telling the world one of my deepest - bottom of a lightless cave - secrets and that now the whole world will see all the reasons why I hate me, so the world will hate me. But despite that, and the maggots already festering in my dying rubber organs, I finish the burger. I cry.