French Toast.

This morning, I woke up, thinking about everything I needed to accomplish today. It's a beautiful day, and I knew I wanted to go running. I had to finish a long book for a class. But what my main goal was, was to make French toast. So I looked up a recipe online and made it. I ate it and then I drank my coffee, had a fag, and sat down to read.

Breakfast seems to trivial to the normally developed mind. You want French toast so you make and you eat it. To me, it was more a task. I decided last night I wanted it. My father had taken me grocery shopping and I had decided to buy maple syrup. I wanted to use the maple syrup so I made it a goal last night to make French toast so I would actually do it. If I hadn't made it a goal, I would have ignored it. I wasn't even hungry this morning.

After the French toast, I could feel my stomach expanded and that nauseous sense of fullness that I hate so much. But the French toast was delicious. I counted in my head how many calories it was. I wish I hadn't. It had been so delicious but now I wish I had never done it.

I am so proud of myself though. I took the time to treat myself and made myself sit with what I had done, something that four years ago, would have never happened.

I love food. I really do. There are very few foods that I don't like. I think that is something that confuses many people when they learn about my illness. I can tell that they're thinking, "But I know you love food. I know that you do." That's probably one of the first signs my mother noticed. I was claiming to hate foods I had once loved. I still loved them.

It's harder still being a senior in college. In high school, my friends didn't talk about calories or anything like that. I struggled silently, but we would all go out and get food together. Friendly's was a number one hangout spot. Or Kevin and I would go to my friend Jessica's house with her boyfriend Nick and we'd make quesadillas every weekend. Eating was a pasttime.

In college, my friends want to exercise all the time. They talk about how fat they are or how much they're eating or how out of shape they are. It's harder to hide and it's harder to try not to think about it. Especially at this stage in my recovery when I have made all of these great friends (and they really are great friends) but they are those girls who are so body conscious. Food isn't what we do for fun; it's drinking or exercise or studying. So if I have friends over and offer to make them breakfast, they say that no, they're all right. So then why would I want to make breakfast?

I was alone this morning when I made French toast. I'm sitting with it, filled with guilt, but still pleased with myself. I'm going to be going for a run soon, as soon as my food settles. I'm glad I chose to eat first and run second. I know I wouldn't have eaten if I'd run first. I would have claimed I was too tired, it was too late for breakfast, I had too much to do now. But I didn't. I ate my breakfast. I sat with it. I did what I needed to do.

Four years ago, I would have skipped it. I would have been weak, tired. I'm wide awake now and I have the energy to accomplish everything I need to do today. And damn, French toast is delicious.