Once the drugs are really working (the ones to make me immediately less of a lunatic have already slowed me down just enough to dislike being insane), ideally before, I will get my diet under control.
I will get my diet under control.
What’s a nicer way to say that? I will take my food medicine? Gag. I will embrace nutritional healing? Whatever.
I will quit eating crap that swells every part of my body, (it helps to imagine my brain swelling up like one of those sponge animals, soaking up my cerebral spinal fluid until my skull just pops right open). I will quit drinking to slow myself down. I will honor the cupcake and reserve it for it’s rightful occasion.
A note about mania: Mania is that person who comes to undo everything I have ever done, who intentionally pushes my buttons — eats food I don’t eat on principle, drinks beyond reason, makes me fat because HA HA! Mania likes to fuck with me. Mania asks, “What would really piss her off?” and then does that thing.
And yes. I am really pissed off. My belly is swollen — not with fat, but with constipation, gas, internal revolt against the poison I’ve dumped into it.
None of this helps with pain either. Or migraines. Cupcakes, Monte Cristo sandwiches (no matter how expensive or gluten free, freaking Steeping Room), baskets of chips and free flowing Mexican Martinis don’t just make me fat, they actually hurt me.
This episode has been the first time I’ve recognized manic bingeing as a form of self-harm. In the past I’ve viewed it as self medication or the “freedom” of mania. But this time I could almost hear the cackle, the maniacal laughter as I unwrapped my hundredth Hershey’s miniature. It is a step beyond “fuck it”. It is a deliberate “fuck you”.
Let’s not do that.
Let’s make sauerkraut instead.