How Did I Get Here?

Why didn’t this bother me yesterday?
Or did it bother me so much that I am only remembering now, as I stare into the bleak hole that has become a common sight throughout my daily life. Days that I spend in a bathroom that perpetually smells like vomit and lemon cleaning detergent, a smell I grew up with while my sister suffered from a disorder I inherited. Not to say she is to blame, no one is to blame, except me. But the alternative is death, or close to it anyhow; so I keep on at it, shoving my fingers down to that scared spot, where my insides are suddenly thrown into the harsh, cold water, more often than not splashing onto my face or shoulders or feet. Humiliating is the first word that comes to mind as I recall these purges, but in the throws of the ritual, other words comes to mind. Savior is one of them. Necessary is another. I think of savior because it does save me, from a life of self-hatred, body hatred, and shame. The shame of being fat far outweighs the shame of being bulimic. Fat is something everyone can see, a public failing. Bulimia is private, secret, and virtually undetectable to an untrained eye. Only another bulimic, or a trained specialist in the disorder, could identify the physical manifestations, which only occur after a year or so of purging. The small cists between my middle and ring finger go unnoticed by friends and family, and only bother me in those horrific moments of total clarity, where it feels as if everything I thought I had securely repressed comes back to screw with me. At first bulimia was an exciting “savior” to my problem, then a stress relief and unusual habit, and now an addiction. The worst effect being a bulimic has had on me, besides the physical symptoms, is that it made me no longer trust myself. It’s a hard moment in one’s life when you realize you can’t differentiate between what is good or bad for you, or worse, that you no longer care.
downthisroad downthisroad
18-21, F
Oct 29, 2012