A sudden wake in the night, the intense fear of poverty, the anxiety of 'overdue' notices.

The kitchen.
The plate of cookies.
The chocolate squares, broken up individually to try and make it look like more food; or does it look like less?
The plate is full.
Overfull, it needs a hand over it as feet ascend the stairs.

A sick feeling in the stomach, a handful of chips, another, and another.
Half the can is gone, so are the cookies, and most of the chocolate squares.
Moments, mere moments before the plate is empty.

How many kilos of food was that?
The scales haven't changed, but the stomach is full of a plate of chocolate.
Water to wash it down.
Room temperature at first, then warmer, warmer to melt the chocolate, to help it rise.
Choking as the fingers dig in, trying to pull an invisible string, desperate to somehow regain the control, the guilt, the time lost to food.
The money, always money.

How much is in the toilet bowl?
How much money is purging upwards?

There's still no control; none, not over food, or money, can't control thoughts or anxieties, grief has disappeared with the dirty water and the flush.
Somebody else, somebody else has control, not me, not anymore.