My Story Bulimia Nervosa





When I fought with my mother, I'd never back down. But April 7, a little over 6 months ago, I went farther than I'd ever gone. In the middle of a fight, I ran into my bathroom, shut the door and shoved my fingers down my throat. It was strange, but it felt so good when the partly digested dinner rose, poured out of my system. I was clean--the fight didn't matter because I could be thin. Since elementary school I've felt fat, but could never really lose much weight. Yet, as I grew older, the weight became more of a priority in my life, and I was determined to somehow get rid of it. But I've run cross-country for years in high school--sometimes 7 miles a day--but felt disgusted and depressed when I looked at myself- so, the first purge, it was like magic. All my preconceived fears about bulimia and actually forcing myself to throw up were gone, because in the heat of my rage, I had power----or so I thought.

For the first week or so, this thing was my own private secret--kind of this trick that would allow me to eat all the junk I wanted without seeing the effects. Because I'm surrounded by beautiful, thin friends who eat A LOT, I would no longer have to suffer the detrimental consequences of these social feasts we'd have. That's all I really thought it would be--some experiment that I would never actually continue. I mean, even the notion of letting this thing last scared the shit out of me. I thought I could stop any time at all, but it sucked me in.

Before I knew it, I was on the computer, reading all about bulimia. how the definition describes throwing up at least biweekly for three months. OK, I started April 7, July 7 became this idolized goal for me. It was sick, I knew it. I knew exactly the hole I was getting myself into. But by that point, anything I'd eat, even baby carrots or strawberries, made my stomach pour out, explode uncontrollably. Shit, my metabolism was already screwed up, there was nothing else to do but comply with the system I'd failed into.

Lacrosse was in full swing--in my dark moments, late at night, I blamed my coach for part of the problem. I mean, she moved me up to varsity, away from my friends... My mother also became a target, as an outrage long ago triggered my self-image issue. I'd made my own breakfast, 4 pieces of toast. She was disgusted that a seven-year-old could "inhale" so much food, started screeching that I was getting fat, getting fat.... like it was some crime, some gruesome character flaw that she would never accept...

Anyway, this spring and summer it escalated, while some days I'd throw up 7 or 8 times. But I felt I had to--once in the kitchen, I was in this sick high, stuffing whatever I could find, basically any combination of filling carbohydrates, into my system. It would usually last about 20 minutes--that was my warning. Anything longer than that, and I'd start to digest the excess food. I'd lock the bathroom door, turn on the shower. doubling over, my toothbrush handle would glide down, and in my "perfection" the food would rise up, causing the utmost relief. I was pure again. Every time, after the clean up, I'd vow to change, vow that this was enough! I mean, I was in control, right? God, I was so wrongÉso, so wrong.

But I felt so helpless, my god I had pushed so hard the image with my friends that I could care less about dieting, that I was an athletic teenager who was self confident, etc. I respected everyone too much to say anything. My parents would surely send me to all types of counseling, but I didn't want to face my shame.

Eventually food ruled all my thoughts. In the summer, I worked at a day camp, and after arriving to work starving after throwing up my 3 bowls of cereal, my mouth would water, water at the kids' snacks and lunch. I glamorized going home, where I would eat until it pained me. Then I'd throw it all up, feel so much better, be ready to go out at night.

I did it all the way until the beginning of this month. you see, after I'd purge, I'd feel the strongest sense of self-hatred, that I'd write poetry to get it out. I hid the poems in a drawer--then, worried one day, my mom searched my dresser and found them. Now my parents are suffocating me with this issue, trying to get help. Yet I denied and denied, attacking them though inside I ached for this sick disease to just go away. I couldn't stand being weak and dizzy, experiencing the sore throats and disgusting heartburn.

So one day I did it-- I stopped throwing up after I'd clogged my toilet so much that it wouldn't flush.

And then I started again, throwing up in plastic bag and hiding it in the garbage, before I'd sneak it out to the garage. and then one night, I forgot to take it to the garage. I was downstairs watching TV with my mom, when my dog came downstairs with lettuce stuck in her teeth, and this pit of fear erupted in my stomach, this innate realization of what had happened--she'd gone into the trash in my bathroom, ripped through my layers of plastic bags--and ate my throw up. I cannot even fully express how nauseous I felt, how ashamed...

I hid that episode, but really stopped after that. It had been almost four weeks without any bingeing or purging, until today. It's Halloween, and I just couldn't control myself with all the candy on top of the refrigerator in my house-- so I had to let it out, and when my toothbrush enticed my "cleansing", every feeling I'd worked so hard to get over resurfaced. I came and found this site, and read many of the stories. What can I do? I need help, I feel as though I might be headed back to bulimia. and I can't do that, I can't. My hair is so thin now, it falls out in tufts. I beg anyone not to start this--it's not cool, it shouldn't be accepted, I'm living this secret double life of shame and self hatred--it is sick to fear a digested meal as I do, and no one else should ever have to. Bulimia just sucks, it's a never-ending ordeal.