Binging and Purging... is it really so wrong?

I know. You're thinking that I am making a statement about eating disorders.  I am not.  I am merely talking about the psychological need to binge (do too much of something) and purge (getting rid of things).  I have spent the week being snowed in (we got a very rare 15 inches of snow here in the NW. It sucked).  Despite school being called, I went in and worked three of the four days.  On the day that I stayed home and the subsequent evenings, I purged.  I cleaned out closets, packed up the clothes I needed to get rid of.  I carried four bags of clothes, plus two boxes to the garage.  I cleaned out the storage room, and got rid of baby clothes we were hanging onto for the potential next baby that will never materialize.  Oddly enough, I felt very refreshed, invigorated.  Oh, believe me, I totally lost it at least three times.  Completely bawled. Thought, why did he leave me?  Every time I picked up a shirt and thought, "I remember..." I just lost it.  Which, I like to think is normal.  But purging seems to fulfill something deep, something psychological that sets us free.  I don't know; I try not to be amateur shrink, but there seems to be some kind of endorphin rush to the letting go.  It brought me peace, and I know not why.

On the same note, I've also found it quite lovely to binge...  so to speak.  On red wine (just convinced myself I could handle opening a second bottle... I am sure that there's no need to be concerned with that...) and self-pity.  I feel like I hold myself to a level of "don't eat that", and I don't, but then when I am ready to eat, I do, with gusto. I had a beautiful smothered pork chop with a maitake mushroom cream sauce that was to die for tonight.  I had tea and toast for the other meal (note singular).  And I am currently in love with the fig newton.  And the raspberry newton.  Pathetic.  When your most satisfying relationship is with a cookie; no correction: fruit and cake. 

X emailed me tonight.  I love talking with him; he just makes me feel, if for nothing more than a few moments, that I have a partner again, someone to talk quietly with at night, to share, to listen.  He probably thinks that he's earning his way into martyrdom by being sympathetic to a widow, but I have to say, I wait for his emails.  It's lame, I know.  I think that must be the hardest part.  Not just to lose the person, but the intimacy, the partnership, the sharing.  I miss that the most. 

I know, I can hear you.  You're passing judgment and commenting that I shouldn't have opened the second bottle. 

Whatever. Tomorrow, I will clean out another closet and call it good.