Sunday night and all of Monday I was clutching the cold porcelain after every meal. My stomach clenching and throat tightening, tears streaming from my eyes from the sheer force of the sickness and the feeling of helplessness that slides over you when you can't keep a mere cracker down.

Thanks barbecued beef that was apparently left out on the counter overnight.

I hate it. But it reminds me of when I loved it.

I loved the feeling of hunger, the scratching at my throat, the acidic scrape of my teeth, the sting of tears and mascara as it ran into my eyes and the furvative trips to the bathroom.

Yesterday, as I huddled pathetically on the floor, I remembered I used to live for this. For the emptiness. For the pain. For the putrid reassurance I was doing something about the fat on my thighs.

Last night, I saw myself in the mirror. My cheeks are fuller--perhaps too much so. My tummy is rounder that I would like it to be. My body isn't nearly as thin as I would like. Yet, it will never be fat enough to do that again.

Lowering yourself to cowering like an animal in the hidden corner of the bathroom.

As a dog returns to his vomit, so a fool to his folly.