The Holiday; It was the Best of Times and the Worst

The holiday season is the best of times and the worst of times. It always was. There is beauty of tradition. City lights gleam. Faces beam and homes are decorated in recognition. Each year and every year there is a celebration. Everywhere you turn people are giving. People give time. People give space. They make provisions. Mothers, fathers, and children find religion — they cook. They bake. They bloviate. This year will be fantastic. Don’t they know; it always is? If you are bulimic this is your season. The food is plentiful; it’s phenomenal. There are sugars and spices and everything that is nicest.

Delicacies appear in the oddest places. Unexpected treats fill all our spaces. Stockings are stuffed from the chimney with care in hopes that candies soon will be there. Confections are everywhere. Coffee is laced with vanilla. Strawberries are dipped in chocolate. Sweet potatoes become marshmallow pockets.

In the spirit of the season, we do a lot of shopping. Department stores are lined with popcorn tins and cookie bins. You know the saying. “Too much is never enough.” If you need more, stop at the grocery store. Welcome in. The shelves are stocked. Did you see those cashew nougat cookies? Those fluffy white wonders melt in your mouth. Delicate doughy dinner rolls line every shelf. On every aisle delicious buns stare you in the face. Might these be strategically placed? No matter. We need a reminder. Don’t forget the butter. Chips. Dips. Pies and cakes. All that on top of stuffing. Oh what a taste!

Soak it all in. Where to begin? With sweet and savory eggnog? So many decisions. Let the celebration begin! As America partied, so too did she. However, her festivity was a bit less conventional. She sneaked. She peaked and was not looking for presents, other than a presence of mind. She had her visions. She had her traditions. And she had what for her a religion.

A Christian, a Jew, a Gentile, or among those who worship Jehovah — Muslims, Agnostics, Atheists, we all eat. During the holidays we feast. All these foods. Let’s commemorate. ‘Tis the season to be jolly.

Ebullient or disheartened? The feelings that fill a heart, a mind, or is it her stomach can cause enormous sorrow. Immersed in the rituals of bulimia bring inordinate pain. She lived there and that was her folly. No matter the hour, she would think about food, buy her wares, cook, bake, and eat as though she was starving. Then she would purge, purge, purge and purge for days. It was an endless cycle. Weeks would pass. Then months would follow. For years, she did her thing. Yes, she was starving. She was starving to find a way, a way out of what she would not betray.

During the holy days, and for weeks before, she found her way. To the store, to the frig, to the stove, to the sink. No, she did not stray. Opportunities to indulge are available in myriad displays. Food rewards us. The secretive practice of self-imposed solitary confinement was her gift to herself. It was the best and the worst of times, and again it was abundance.

To be able to find an escape in food, and yet never escape the feelings? Fortunately, a bulimic can and does take flight. She needed no lights, no tinsel, or tree. A menorah, or a Kinara were not necessary. The crescent moon, the five-pointed star, neither were important parts of her ceremonial gala. All she needed was food. She no longer required family to enjoy. Food was her kin, her kind of company. As America celebrated, so too did she.

Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, a Joyous Kwanzaa, a regal Ramadan — for her, none would be as long as she was bulimic. It would always be the best of times and the worse of times. Indeed, the holidays are wondrous and woesome.

© 2007 Copyright Betsy L. Angert