Numbers
It’s 5:00 am. I am staring at the empty space under the cabinet, in the bathroom.
This is where it used to live.
And now it’s empty.
I would have, on a typical day, with eyes half closed, with a bit of a pumping heart, mounted it slowly, hopefully, anxiously. A Michael Phelps bestriding the winner’s podium. My toes encountering its cold glass mien gingerly, not to wake anyone up.
I read that adrenaline pushes the heart rate of a F1 driver over 170 bpm during a race.
I didn’t have to be Mario Andretti to have a taste of this. I didn’t need to manhandle a race car lurching via all the quick cambers of the Grand Prix.
All I needed was my scale.
My Formula One Lotus 79 Torture Device Deluxe, was right there, in my very own bathroom.
And then, Z-O-O-M, the thrill, that adrenaline rush, the rapture, as you cross the finish line.
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Blink blink blink, the numbers would flicker.
My day would have been good or bad according to the output. The exultation would grow in proportion to the reduction in numbers.
The slightest elevated number would leave me gutted for the rest of the day. I couldn’t even countenance a day without it.
I know, the journey down Recovery Road is merely at its onset.
But now, at least, there are no more numbers controlling my life. What a strange concept this is. I no longer need to eat, or, more accurately… not eat, for those numbers.
Yesterday, I didn’t eat for numbers. I ate for freedom. I ate for my recovery. I ate for life. Today is a new day, that begins, for the first time, in a long, dark, painful time, without numbers.
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