Just Another Bulimic
There was something very lonely about her life that she couldn’t quite understand. She had plenty of friends, but she never felt complete. Whenever she went out, she spent the entire time looking forward to the moment when she could go home and be left alone. When she finally was alone, she longed to be filled. She hungered for people, but desired to be invisible. This was quite the conundrum. None of her friends really knew her. She was a little bit different with every one of them. It was just easier to pretend and agree and go through all the motions than to expose her real self. She did have some semblance of the person she was inside, but revealing this person would take far too much effort. Aside from that, she also doubted that her “friends” would like the person behind the smiles.
When she was alone, she was free to eat to her heart’s desire. Taking joy in the food was so effortless. It was pure enjoyment and nothing more. She couldn’t shovel the bites in fast enough. Each one was good and warm and filling. Every swallow made her a little more complete. She would eat numbly until her stomach was distended and she could barely stand. Then she would find some container, usually a two liter soda bottle, and vomit until she was empty again.
She never did understand why she preferred soda bottles to the toilet. Perhaps she was too lazy and bloated to stagger to the bathroom, or maybe she just liked to have the disgust she felt for herself be contained as something tangible and real. Once she acquired a large collection of these morbid souvenirs, she’d leave them somewhere for strangers to find. She liked to picture their reactions when they opened their mail box to find two liters of chunky vomit. Their faces would contort into a mask of shock and confusion as they gazed at the very soul of a girl they had never met.
Once the purge was over, she always had to be sure that she was back in control. She’d walk to the bathroom, undress, and step on the scale. She’d pray for a low number. If her prayers were answered, she was free to clean off the vomit and crumbs and make herself clean and desirable once again. On the days when the numbers were kind, she would vow that she would never again binge and purge. She would make promises to herself to become a new person, a kind, normal person. She always truly believed that by the next day she would be able to be perfect in every way. If the numbers didn’t submit to her desires, she would cry, try her best to vomit again, and swear that she was done with food entirely.
Her attempts were always futile. Sometimes she could make it for a day or two, but she always fell back into this vicious cycle. Her weight jumped up only to crash back down. Her teeth began to hurt, and she had horrifying dark, dizzy spells. She still went to class and made her way through life, but all the while this horrible secret held her back. She knew her problem had a name and a treatment, but she couldn’t face it. She had been strong for so long, and this was the one weakness she allowed herself.
Eventually with a tired, haggard soul and a disintegrating body, she would die. She feared it constantly. Sometimes, at night, she would lie in bed and feel her heart skipping and rumbling in her chest, and she’d pray that death wouldn’t come. She’d bargain with God, promising that if He would spare her, give her one more chance, she’d never do it again. Though she tried and raged and fought, her desperate promises always ended up as lies. This was it. She would die over something as paltry as a bag of potato chips. She would discard every gift and talent and dream she had for those few moments of hedonistic joy that she had while eating. She was beautiful, bright, and kind, but she could not love herself enough. She cried out to be saved, but drowned in a pool of rancid vomit.
There was something very lonely about her life that she couldn’t quite understand. She had plenty of friends, but she never felt complete. Whenever she went out, she spent the entire time looking forward to the moment when she could go home and be left alone. When she finally was alone, she longed to be filled. She hungered for people, but desired to be invisible. This was quite the conundrum. None of her friends really knew her. She was a little bit different with every one of them. It was just easier to pretend and agree and go through all the motions than to expose her real self. She did have some semblance of the person she was inside, but revealing this person would take far too much effort. Aside from that, she also doubted that her “friends” would like the person behind the smiles.
When she was alone, she was free to eat to her heart’s desire. Taking joy in the food was so effortless. It was pure enjoyment and nothing more. She couldn’t shovel the bites in fast enough. Each one was good and warm and filling. Every swallow made her a little more complete. She would eat numbly until her stomach was distended and she could barely stand. Then she would find some container, usually a two liter soda bottle, and vomit until she was empty again.
She never did understand why she preferred soda bottles to the toilet. Perhaps she was too lazy and bloated to stagger to the bathroom, or maybe she just liked to have the disgust she felt for herself be contained as something tangible and real. Once she acquired a large collection of these morbid souvenirs, she’d leave them somewhere for strangers to find. She liked to picture their reactions when they opened their mail box to find two liters of chunky vomit. Their faces would contort into a mask of shock and confusion as they gazed at the very soul of a girl they had never met.
Once the purge was over, she always had to be sure that she was back in control. She’d walk to the bathroom, undress, and step on the scale. She’d pray for a low number. If her prayers were answered, she was free to clean off the vomit and crumbs and make herself clean and desirable once again. On the days when the numbers were kind, she would vow that she would never again binge and purge. She would make promises to herself to become a new person, a kind, normal person. She always truly believed that by the next day she would be able to be perfect in every way. If the numbers didn’t submit to her desires, she would cry, try her best to vomit again, and swear that she was done with food entirely.
Her attempts were always futile. Sometimes she could make it for a day or two, but she always fell back into this vicious cycle. Her weight jumped up only to crash back down. Her teeth began to hurt, and she had horrifying dark, dizzy spells. She still went to class and made her way through life, but all the while this horrible secret held her back. She knew her problem had a name and a treatment, but she couldn’t face it. She had been strong for so long, and this was the one weakness she allowed herself.
Eventually with a tired, haggard soul and a disintegrating body, she would die. She feared it constantly. Sometimes, at night, she would lie in bed and feel her heart skipping and rumbling in her chest, and she’d pray that death wouldn’t come. She’d bargain with God, promising that if He would spare her, give her one more chance, she’d never do it again. Though she tried and raged and fought, her desperate promises always ended up as lies. This was it. She would die over something as paltry as a bag of potato chips. She would discard every gift and talent and dream she had for those few moments of hedonistic joy that she had while eating. She was beautiful, bright, and kind, but she could not love herself enough. She cried out to be saved, but drowned in a pool of rancid vomit.
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