"you're just a 'midnight snack'"
[Not safe for work, sorta. Contains food imagery.]
I wake up and I feel like I got some good sleep. A full night. I remember probably not, actually; I didn't fall asleep until past 10:15 and it's still dark outside. But I feel pretty rested.
I don't resist the urge to pick up my phone. My phone is already across the room. In order to look at screen I have to use feet to get there.
But I'm awake. The alarm in my head went off. It feels like a gearshift without a foot on the clutch. It feels like a wooden spoon stirring mac and cheese. What's actually happening is some muscle or muscles in and around my neck and shoulder and face are tensing up again and it's just pulling at my skull. No biggie.
I usually take a muscle relaxer before bed but I haven't bothered the past few nights. I haven't felt like getting a full eight. A week or two of that was enough for me for now. As if I need more free time.
[I think, as I write this, that I should take one now, since it's not that much later and I still have plenty of time to get plenty of sleep. The dry skin on my forehead protests. I let the opportunity slide on by.]
So I'm awake and my body remembers I have given up on curbing its sense of hunger. It's been ten years three months since I fed it last (or three hours by some metrics). But before that it was about ten years of snacking, sharing meals, sharing meals during meals, having treats swiped from my pantry, always cooking, cooking, cooking for others.
So, it about evens out. It's all about balance, you know?
I'm a side sleeper although that is not how I prefer to eat in bed. As such I keep a pillow between my knees to align my posture. It's firm -- my grasp is firmer -- but it provides feedback. It surprises me sometimes. It feels like a thigh if I forget it's a pillow.
I think about how one of my therapists uses the term "backstage pass". I think about how I use the term "open book". I think about "theatre of the mind".
By this point I am seated firmly on a cushion. I am biting another thigh, I imagine. I am not particularly steady in my seat. I forgot how good this tastes. I denied myself this for a long, long time. That's how you think when you are in the depths of chronic deprivation.
I forgot I could be this ravenous. I am usually such a patient diner. I chew my food thoroughly. The cupboard empties slower that way. But I'm always lacking in impulse control at this hour (1:30, as it turns out).
My meal and I spill onto the floor. Well, actually, I bring it there in a very intentional manner. The metaphor is collapsing. I tire of eating or purging. I grab a few utensils. I elide many details. I finish my meal, and I take my empty plate to the sink, and I wash up.