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Dan wakes up half an hour before his alarm. He opens his eyes and with a sinking feeling realises today is not going to be a good day. He’d been doing so well up until now, coping with Phil being away. He’d set himself a checklist for each day, making sure to include self care as well as work related tasks on the list. His therapist would be proud. He’d even managed to keep a fairly normal sleep schedule, in bed by 2am and up by 11 at the latest - maybe not that normal for other people, but for him that was pretty good going.
The problem is that after a while, the shine of being good and doing all the right things starts to wear off when no one’s there to notice, when the only person it matters to is him. Sure, he’d spoken to Phil every day at least once, but he’d felt embarrassed to bring him these small victories and ask for his reassurance that it was all worthwhile, that he was worthwhile.
When they’re together, it’s shown, it doesn’t need to be said. Dan knows Phil loves him, that his happiness and wellbeing make Phil happy, but when they’re apart, that knowledge never seems to stick.
He’s only got one more day til Phil comes home, and he wonders if he can hold it together until tomorrow. He could get up now and be in plenty of time to keep to his plan for the day, but instead he just lays there, staring up at the ceiling, letting his brain spiral. One negative thought chases after the next, all telling him he’s worthless, that he doesn’t deserve success, doesn’t deserve to be happy. There are only two ways a day that starts like this is going to go – either he’ll lay immobile for hours on end, not having the energy or motivation to move, or else he’ll end up seeking comfort in all the wrong places, which for him always revolves around food.
It was a terrible coping mechanism, he knew, but it had started back when he was a teenager and it had been the only sure fire way he’d found of taking his mind off of how hopeless things had felt. At first, he’d raid the cupboards at home, or go round to see his nan, hoping that she’d have done some baking. But then his mum had started to notice all the food that was going missing, and his nan had made a couple of well-meaning comments about his weight, and so he’d started to get more sneaky, spending his pocket money on packets of sweets or biscuits that he’d hide in his school bag, or going to the chicken shop on the way home and gorging himself before throwing away the evidence and then going home for tea. It was weird he knew, but there was something about it that made him feel powerful, even when his life made him feel anything but. He was in control of what he bought and what he ate, he was making the decisions and he could do what he wanted, and as long as he kept it hidden, there was no one to stop him.
He hears his stomach grumble, and his mind drifts towards thoughts of cheesy pizza covered in his favourite toppings, garlic bread oozing with butter, crispy potato wedges coated in every kind of dip imaginable. He knows it’s not a good idea to order takeaway when he’s on his own, that he can never just order an appropriate amount and stop when he’s full, but in the moment when the food thoughts take over his brain, it’s like all the logic melts away and all he knows is “Feel bad. Food will make it better.”
Dan’s phone is in hand and he’s pulling up the Domino’s app and tapping in his order, hands shaking a little in anticipation. Once he’s at this stage, when he’s given in to the urge and made the decision, everything in his brain seems to calm. He’s done wrestling with himself, trying to be good and make the right choices. Instead, he’s said fuck you to self care, he’s giving in to his impulses and screw the consequences.
He lays there until he gets a notification that the driver is on the way with his food, then he gets up, has a pee and goes into the lounge to switch on the TV.
The buzzer goes, and he heads to the door. He’s painfully aware of how differently this feels when Phil is there, when ordering pizza is a treat and not a form of self harm and they giggle and argue about who's turn it is to speak to the driver.
He brings the food up, takes a moment to put the ice cream in the freezer and then carries the rest through to the lounge, setting it out on the table in front of him.
He opens the first pizza box, barbecue chicken. Somehow in his head, it makes sense that he has to order two pizzas instead of just one, because that way it’ll look like there’s definitely at least one other person in the flat with him or else why would he order so much food? It’s that old habit of lying and pretending and never wanting anyone else to suspect how much he’s eating that he’s never really been able to shake off.
He grabs his laptop, opens up his web browser and spends the next hour mindless scrolling with one hand and stuffing slice after slice of pizza, a stack of garlic bread and most of a box of wedges into his mouth with the other. He only ever really enjoys the first couple of slices, after that it’s like he’s on autopilot. Once he’s got the taste of the greasy, stodgy food in his system, he’s overwhelmed with this urge to just keep going, to have more and more and more. He keeps eating, past the point of being uncomfortably full.
Eventually, he gets to the point where he just can’t eat any more. His stomach is hard, distended, and he knows he’s imagining it but it feels like all the grease he’s put into his body is oozing directly out of his pores. He hasn’t showered or even washed his face today, so a general sense of dirt and dishevelment doesn’t really help dispel that feeling.
He slumps back on the sofa, feeling nauseous and extremely uncomfortable, holding his stomach and trying to decide what he should do now. Sometimes in this situation, he’ll just sleep it off, go to bed and let himself fall into a carb coma. He knows that’s the better thing to do, but the problem is that he never seems to follow common sense when he’s in this frame of mind.
The little voices in his head have started up, the ones that tell him he’s fat and disgusting and all that food he’s just eaten is starting to break down in his system, is starting to be absorbed and if he’s going to get rid of it, he’d better go and do it now.
God, he doesn’t want to. He hates being sick; the way it makes his throat ache, the smell, the fact that no matter how much he cleans his teeth and scrubs his tongue afterwards, it takes ages for the taste of it to fade. But those voices, once they’ve kicked in they just keep getting louder and louder and more insistent until he feels compelled to do what they want, even though he knows it’s a terrible idea
When he’d first started doing it, it had felt like a godsend – a way of eating what he liked, but not having to deal with the consequences. That, along with a growth spurt had meant that he no longer had to worry about his weight – there was enough for the bullies to work with already without adding that into the mix. But over the years, he’s come to hate it even at the same time as never quite being able to shake the habit off.
He suddenly realises that he can’t sit here feeling like this a moment longer, he needs this food out of his system right now. He’s up, on his way to the bathroom and then he’s leaning over the toilet with his toothbrush in his hand, using it to poke at the back of his throat to trigger his gag reflex. It doesn’t take much, probably because he’s filled up almost to the back of the throat with food that he hasn’t chewed properly and is sitting in chunks all the way up his gullet. Suddenly, those chunks are moving, up and out of his mouth and into the bowl. His stomach keeps heaving, spewing half-digested food along with bile that goes up into the back of his throat and down his nose. After a couple of minutes, the spasms in his stomach start to subside, but he can still feel there’s food in there, so he does it again.
He finally lets himself stop when he’s convinced his stomach is empty. He stands up, his back aching from leaning so far down. His mouth tastes awful, and the smell of vomit mixed with his own vaguely unwashed scent combine to provoke a wave of shame as he looks at his pale face and sunken eyes in the mirror.
God, he’s disgusting. Why does he do this? He should never have been so weak as to order the pizza in the first place, he should delete that app from his phone and make Phil do the ordering for them in future.
He shuffles into the hallway, grabs his phone from the lounge where the smell of the leftover food is strong enough to make his stomach turn over, and then goes into his bedroom, flopping into bed and pulling the covers over his head.
He checks the time; it’s only just gone 3. He could still make something of the day. He’d planned to check the Internet Support Group email address and start picking out the questions he’ll use in his next video, but the thought of wading through other people’s problems, real or fictional, and trying to think of something funny to say just feels overwhelming. It can wait, he thinks, it’s not like his work is vitally important. Sure, he’s already been getting snarky comments on Twitter about how long it’s been since he last posted, but the erratic posting schedule is part of his brand, he can get away with it.
He sighs, flopping an arm over his head. He doesn’t want to work, he can’t go back to sleep, he’s too agitated to focus on watching anything and he isn’t in the mood for gaming. Then he remembers the tub of ice cream that’s in the freezer, and he gets a little zing of pleasure. Yes, that’s what he can do, it’ll soothe his throat and help disguise the taste of vomit that’s already making itself known through the minty flavour in his mouth.
In the kitchen, he opens the freezer and pulls out the ice cream. It’s too solid to properly get his spoon into, but he drags it across the surface, scraping out little chunks. It’s not long before it starts to melt and he can dig into it in earnest, scooping up big lumps and sticking them in his mouth, chewing through the bits that are still too solid to melt in his mouth. He’s in a trance, the spoon seeming to move of it’s own accord. He can vaguely sense the nausea that’s starting to build, but it’s easily ignored. He empties the tub, tipping it up into his mouth to get the last drips from the bottom, then puts it on the kitchen side – he’ll need to do a run down to the communal bins before Phil gets back tomorrow.
He knows Phil wouldn’t judge him, they’ve talked this through before and Phil understands that it’s something Dan is trying to work on, but at the same time he knows that it makes Phil worry about him, so he’ll hide the evidence and pretend that nothing’s wrong.
He suddenly realises that he’s not been in contact with Phil all day, and pulls out his phone to check it. He sees a missed call and a couple of messages, and he quickly taps out a response, hoping that Phil doesn’t notice anything’s amiss.
He slips his phone back into his pocket and wipes the back of his arm across his mouth, trying to get rid of the sticky feeling on his lips. He can feel the melted ice cream sloshing about in his stomach, and suddenly gets the idea that eating some solid food would be a good way to soak some of it up and settle his stomach a little.
He heads back to the lounge and looks through the boxes that are piled on the table. There’s a few slices of pizza left, one of garlic bread and the few undercooked wedges that hadn’t seemed appetising earlier but now went down the same way as the rest of it. As he eats the last mouthful, he realises his mistake. Now he’s reawakened that appetite for stodgy carbs, it’s taken on a life of its own. The leftovers weren’t enough, there’s still some part of him that’s calling for more.
He sighs, knowing there’s no point in trying to ignore it. When that urge to eat kicks in, he’s powerless to stop it. He can try to delay it, but he knows he’ll give in eventually so he might as well just get it over with. He pulls himself off the sofa, and heads into the kitchen where he sticks four slices of bread into the toast and takes the butter out of the fridge.
Half a loaf later, he’s finally too full to carry on. He still doesn’t feel sated though, and that’s the worst part. It’s like his mouth and his stomach are two separate things, and he still craves the comfort and distraction of putting food into his mouth even when his stomach is fit to burst. That feeling is that triggered this whole thing off in the first place, that antsy feeling that he’s a waste of space and his life is shit and everything is meaningless, it goes away for a bit when he’s actually eating but it always comes back, and it’s on him now. He could cry, he feels so overwhelmed with it all.
Then the old twisted logic kicks in. If food makes everything better but he’s feeling too full to eat, then surely the best course of action is to empty his stomach and start again.. It’s like this sometimes. At its worst, it can go on for the whole day and the longer it goes on, the more horrendous he'll feel tomorrow, but all that reasoning feels distant and vague when compared with the promise of the relief he so desperately craves, even though he knows its temporary.
Back in the bathroom, his throat hurts more this time. His body is not being so co operative and he needs to try harder to get the food to come up. His head is throbbing, his stomach muscles ache. Eventually he’s done. He shuffles back from the toilet and sits with his back against the bathroom wall, letting his head fall against it. He doesn’t know if it’s really over yet, doesn’t know if he’ll be back here in an hour’s time. Right now, he barely has the energy to hold his head up, let alone drag himself off of the floor in search of more food.
At that thought, his stomach roils and he isn’t quick enough to get himself back over the bowl. Thin, acidic bile splashes over the front of his t shirt, and makes a puddle on the floor. Fuck, more cleaning up to do he thinks listlessly, looking down at himself with self loathing but too overcome with lethargy to do anything about it right now.
He’s not sure how long he sits there, he might even have drifted off a little, but he’s suddenly brought back to reality when he hears a wholly unexpected sound – Phil’s key in the door and then a cheery greeting as he makes his way through the flat, looking for Dan.
Fuck. Dan groans, knowing Phil will understand exactly what’s been going on as soon as he sees the pile of discarded boxes on the table in the lounge. Why did it have to be this way, instead of Phil getting what he deserves – a boyfriend who’d be thrilled that he was back early and who he could enjoy the rest of the day with.
Instead, he’ll search through the flat and find his sweaty, smelly boyfriend slumped on the bathroom floor, a total mess. Phil’s eyes will be huge, full of concern and he’ll gently coax Dan up, get him out of his clothes and into the shower, will insist on tucking him up in bed and attending to his needs, and then earnestly suggest that maybe this is something he should be talking about more in therapy.
As Dan braces himself for Phil to appear in the doorway, he swears to himself that this has to be the last time he does this, that he’s never going to let it happen again.
Part of him almost believes it.