My story - Completely Anonymous Bulimia Nervosa

It's my dirty little secret. It's the one thing in my life that only I know about. I am the only one that can make it happen, and I am the only one who can make it stop. My ritual is almost automatic, as I close the bathroom door and turn on the sink. It sickens me as I look into the toilet bowl and realize that my face has been in this position every day for a year. That I have stuck my head inside this porcelain bowl as my face and hair get splashed with vomit and toilet water. I get up to rinse my face off, but know that the work isn't done. I look at myself in the mirror with hatred the only thing staring back at me. I go down for another round. I jump up, gasping for breath, staring at the contents of my stomach. I wash up and look at myself. "I hate you."

That's what bulimia has done to me. It has given me a reason to always hate myself. It is my revenge on the world, but the hostage is me. I get into a fight with my dad, well what's he going to do, I'm going to make myself throw up. My boyfriend doesn't want me. Well, won't he be sorry, look at what I can do, I can throw up.

What the hell does that mean?

I throw up to cleanse, to purify, to try and make things go away. I'm smart. I know exactly what I'm doing. I know exactly how to stop. And I know that there is enough wrong with me right now, because I don't want to. I'm not ready to stop. I have begun to wonder what it would be like if I had a heart attack. Would I have to tell the doctors I was bulimic? I assume I would, so then the cat would be out of the bag. I think of my parents' expressions as they would look down on me in my bed, "I can't believe we didn't know." I have become a magician. I hide things in places where no one will ever find them. I have pain stored in places I didn't even know existed. So I guess I am working on my disappearing act. I'm hoping that the grand finale will be a resurrection of the girl I used to be.