eat. I taste big mac, I taste oreo, I think I even taste chocolate, but then the tasting ends and the needing begins. I need some of this and then I need some of that. I need the McDonald's food so that next time my kids have it it won’t sting so bad. I need to eat the cookies so when my husband eats his in front of me I can remind myself to stay strong and starve. I can have cookies too, just not with him, I can have them in my car, in my car with you. I need to have some Ben and Jerry’s because I love ice cream and it is now or never. So I eat more. I am full almost immediately but I keep going. I eat most of the big mac, some quesadilla, half of each donut, a cookie dipped in ice cream, bites of this, and pieces of that. I gulp down diet coke in between every few bites, lots and lots of diet coke. I finish one diet coke and start on the other. I don’t taste. I just eat. After both diet cokes are gone and my stomach feels so full it may explode I start combining packages and bags. I smash all the fast food bags into grocery bags and tie knots in the tops of each bag. Then I make my way into the back seat and grab a bottle of water. I chug it as I reach into my trunk bag and pull out my plastic tub. It took me a while to find the perfect sized plastic tub to use and this one is just that. A large deep gallon ice cream bucket. Next, I reach in and pull out a giant ball of plastic grocery store bags. I open one up. I open another up and put it inside the first, I repeat the process until I have four layers of grocery bags. Then I line the plastic bucket with the bags. This process is like the lighting of a cigarette, the chopping of a line, wrapping the rubber around your arm. It is anticipation. It is like the knowing you have before orgasm, or the last moments before you lose consciousness. I reach into the pocket behind the driver’s seat and pull out my window shades, opening one in each side window. The feeling of aloneness overtakes me but I like it. I pull the towel from under the passenger's seat and lay it across my lap as I spread my legs wide, one behind each seat. It always takes me a moment to start. My hair is up, my towel is on, my bucket is lined. I lean over my bowl and just stare in for a moment. I feel like I am procrastinating but also I begin to panic because I have to get the food out of me. Time is ticking and I can feel it start to digest. I shove my fingers down my throat and I am so full of food that it flies up out of me without warning, but I am prepared. It flies into the bucket seemingly without end and I start to lose my breath. Even though I am panting when the vomiting pauses my fingers go right back in. More comes out. Over and over until my lips and hands are held together by strings of drool. I can hardly take a breath but this is the time. This is what I came for. Everything stops. I am leaning over the bowl but I don’t see vomit. I don’t see. I just feel my breath starting to slow and I feel a calmness and clarity that I feel nowhere else in my life. Growing up with a family steeped in diet culture I can’t remember a time when I was not aware of my need to be thinner. Under the guise of health I detoxed and fasted my way through my teens and 20s. Somewhere in there I gained a husband, children, and a full blown eating disorder. What started out as health morphed into anorexia. I found myself an adult with a family and a full time job embarking on recovery. It took me three years but I recovered. Fully. Yes, full recovery IS possible even after a lifetime of illness. I am proof. These essays describe the very start of my recovery, they talk about my relationship with Ana and how much I loved her. They visit my hatred of night eating and my love of purging. I hope through my vulnerability they can give you some guidance and peace. If you are suffering yourself, or are here because a loved one is, let these essays give you hope for a recovered future.