Fierce Medicine by Ana T. Forrest

Author:Ana T. Forrest
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

Chapter 6

Hunger Pains: Learning to Listen Within

I LOOKED AT the clock: nine P.M. Finally, it was time. I was home alone, so no one would see me; I wouldn’t have to cower in the tiny bedroom off the bathroom or in the storage room. I’d been planning this moment, thinking about what I was going to do a hundred times throughout the day. I was ready.

I started in on the leftover tofu lasagna. There was three-quarters of the pan left, made of the finest organic products. I shoveled it all in with my bare hands, too eager and starving to bother with reheating it. Then macrobiotic rice and beans still warm from the Crock-Pot. It was nasty looking, like a cow afterbirth, but I made short work of it. Then a few strawberries, some chunks of pineapple, an apple. Once I started to eat, I’d become more and more indiscriminate. What else was in the fridge? A block of tofu. A second and third block. I wolfed them down while crouching on the floor in front of the open fridge. Then some cooked vegetables. Then some ice cream and cheesecake. The more I ate, the deeper into trance I went. Numb, like when I’d gotten drunk as a toddler on the floor near the liquor cabinet. My stomach hurt, but only from a dull distance, as if it didn’t even belong to me. I didn’t really feel anything, except the tightness of the skin over my belly.

I walked down the hall and knelt in front of the toilet. At first I’d needed the finger down my throat, but now I could just concentrate and do a reverse swallow. I couldn’t help but see the humor in my situation. I’d spent so much time painstakingly preparing all this expensive organic food, soaking all the beans and almonds. It took hours and hours to prepare, but just minutes to eat it and puke it out.

I liked the more immediate methodology; laxatives were just too slow. As the toilet bowl filled, I told myself I was just a goat chewing my cud, bringing it up in reverse. I was dimly aware of a steady undercurrent of disgust, but the puking felt like a purge of even that. Gotta get it out. Get it out. Get it out. There. Relief. The effort was exhausting, which was useful. I curled up in front of the wall heater for a few hours, then lay down on the couch to read for a bit, then did a little Yoga. Then back to the kitchen to start the cycle all over again. Finally, at about three or four in the morning, I was tired enough to fall asleep.

The next morning I woke up exhausted, my throat sore. I could barely lift my head. When I looked in the mirror, these dead red eyes stared back at me; I’d burst all the blood vessels in them by puking. It wasn’t until I took a drink of water and it

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