You’ve either got to love to hate, or hate to love the relationship we all have; with the 5am closing time of the takeaway Domino’s Pizza, the doner kebab hut that never appears to close, or the intoxicatedly created phone alarm; set perfectly so as to ensure the evening is completed before the closing of the McDonald’s next door.
It was far from uncommon that upon almost every occasion when alcohol was consumed, there would inevitably be a stuffed chicken pita, a hearty portion of fries swimming in a pool of burger sauce, or enough McNuggets to feed a family of 10; not forgetting a bottle of water of course – to be healthy; that always loomed in a fantasized bubble for the end of that evening. It was ritual, and you’d almost definitely feel congratulatory if you weren’t to discover the pile of takeaway packaging, left empty except for the crusts, sprawled on the floor in the morning after (#unilife).
There doesn’t seem to be anything more undeniably satisfying than when the gallons of alcohol are absorbed with said calorific greeting; hence why the morning regret to the thought of what we’d consumed, never compensates for repeating the same ritual; every single night out!
With maintaining a constant control over my calorie intake and expenditure, 24 hours a day and 7 days a week; alcohol for me, became a worry-some period of time, where I’d fear the consequences this powerful, clear liquid had, on the inner illness and my meticulous control.When previously “Just one more shot!” turned into five, no sooner had the voices prevailed and the guilt from just one drink became so difficult to handle, that it wasn’t beknown for me to find myself running, yes running (more calories, obviously), back home, before the pathetic effort time of midnight! It would be on these occasions whereby the personified illness felt most threatened, as it seemed as though alcohol, was attempting to make me become my old, sociable, care-free self again.
Particularly as I was regarded for drinking an extortionate amount of alcohol on social occasions, it would be hard to believe that rejecting the offering of one more drink, wasn’t the most challenging change during the course of the last year. It was more the indefinitely felt hunger, alcohol seems to give, that I feared would arise, if I opted to go out with my friends that evening. So what happened? My friends would lavish in their post-night out meals, I so wish I could have enjoyed alongside them; to clambering over the kitchen work-top, chopping up the only calories, my mentality accepted… a pineapple. As ill-fulfilling as this was, it certainly beat having to gaze upon my friends’ food with a pitiful, wanting look in my eyes; as I picked a cube of pineapple from my Tupperware while they enjoyed the pineapple from their pizza.
I don’t allude to wanting to be able to sit down from a night out and enjoy some perfectly fried chicken and chips with my friends, but more so just create a broader picture to the social inconveniences that an eating disorder so unwillingly has on a sufferer. (This, and the fact that one single unit of alcohol produces a loose tongue almost immediately!)
As much as I can still appreciate and can still undeniably revel in a good tasting espresso martini or two, I do still await the day where alcohol doesn’t make me feel like I’m cheating on the illness with my former self. Perhaps one day, a McDonald’s portion of fries at 2am will go down a treat, again.