Ice Cream is the Enemy

I'm intimately acquainted with ice cream. More than most people anyway. The way it slides down my throat, leaving its creamy residue on the back of my throat. Grainy texture coats the roof of my mouth as I frantically shovel more of the dessert down my throat. Most people view ice cream as sweet treat, a delicious end to any dinner. Not me. Ice cream is a tool, and sometimes a necessity. I don't even like the taste of ice cream anymore. And on the rare occasion that I keep it down it makes me bloat and fart uncontrollably. It's not exactly a pleasurable dining experience. So why eat it one might ask? Because the eating isn't how I 'enjoy' my ice cream. When ice cream hits my stomach it surrounds my previous food sins in a creamy, rich envelope of forgiveness. Each morsel slides back up my throat with ease. The normally acidic taste of a purge is replaced by the faintly sweet aftermath of ice cream-flavored puke. The normal scratching irritation of food that was only meant to be swallowed once is gone, traded for a slow, almost pleasant burn. But even ice cream can't stop the after effects. The guilt that starts to bubble up the second that my fingers leave my mouth. The wave of disgust that washes over me as I hit my knees for the umpteenth time to clean up after another binge episode. The frustration that my life is like a CD stuck on repeat and the only song that is on is "Bulimia". Ice cream can make the act easier, but I know now that it won't make my life easier. Ice cream can be my enabler but it will never be my cure.