On Sunday around noon I broke my fast, with a chunk of three-day old bread. Physically, I could have gone on with the fast until Monday (the intended end), but mentally I was tapped out, and I had stuff to do that required brain juice. Things to write, poems to record and send off, phone calls to make. Not eating, I could not concentrate, could not remember anything, was not able to think clearly. I now see why people fast on retreats, in bath-houses removed from society.
Monday morning: I felt awful, inside and out. Stuck in a Möbius strip of empty thoughts, gripped up inside, still not remembering things. In addition to these after effects of the fast, an old skin irritation returned, a piece of the healing crisis. I’m now eight pounds thinner and despite all the negative side effects, I would try another three-day fast, because I can see how it helped; I did feel better on Tuesday, clean and without the usual nausea that rules my house. Today is Thursday and I just baked cookies to give to the teenagers who live next door (along with a note asking them to please not throw raging parties on school nights) and I feel just as sick as usual, but this is probably because I ate a cookie with my morning black coffee. Yes, I will fast again, and hopefully in some remote mountain retreat with a bath-house.