I was mentally assessed today. She was lovely. And was genuinely concerned as to how I’d get through the weekend. I told her not to worry because I had an audition on Monday. Hey. That’s actors for ya.
So I didn’t last long at the emotional overeating group. The very nice lady had a quiet word with me after the end of the session and we decided that food may be the least of my problems… After a bit of a binge fest over the last few days I have been thinking about how throwing up a litre of ice cream rather than leaving it to digest could, if one struggled, be seen as an act of optimism. No, hear me out. So. If you are far behind the thick and cloudy perspex which separates congenitally miserable cunts from the rest of humanity, you will not bother being sick because a) you cant be bothered putting pants on let alone sticking your head down the toilet and b) being sick implies that you have some thought for the future and for your future self. It is your preservation instinct. You are aware that tomorrow will come and you try to give yourself a helping hand/finger. Yes, I realise it may come across as a little far fetched, but it is to some extent a theory empirically spawned as the thought occurred to me after four days of non stop binging whilst feeling really rather melancholic. Why had I not said hello to any of that food a second time? Because I could not/would not conceive of a future self. Ergo: bringing it back up is a signifier of one’s faith that life will continue. It is a peg stuck into the rockface of life. It is an act against deathliness. It is also, I concede, completely fucked up. Cake, anyone?