I bought them. I bought laxatives. I bought laxatives- and I ate them. It started out as a once a week thing if I needed to binge, but slowly got addicted to them. I doubled my laxative intake. I stared at my now visible ribcage in the mirror. Soon I noticed my shoulder bones popping out a little. I was getting skinny. In weird places. You could see my spine and ribcage and shoulder bones but I still had child bearing hips. Huh.
I dreamt all the time. I dreamt of buttered bread and milk, of fried chicken and fries, foods I continually deprived myself of, lying to my mother, lying to my best friend, lying to all my friends, lying to everyone, about how much I ate, what I ate. To them, I was a carb addict, when in reality, I wasn’t eating lunch and often threw out my breakfast.
I shook. I shook a lot. I shook from the caffeine. I gulped black coffee and Diet coke together, hands shaking. The caffeine kept me awake, but it also kept me anxious. About everything and anything. I worried, cried and slept, even with the caffeine running through my blood.
I became a hypocrite. I worked on helping eating disordered friends, helped them with meal plans, got upset when they weren’t eating enough, begged them to stop torturing themselves, when in reality, I couldn’t stop.
I was up at emotional hours. 4am everyday, purging, shitting water, shitting blood, shitting food if I had binged. I would stumble back to my room, sweaty and gross and tired, and do sit ups, counting my ribs, whispering numbers over and over.
I was dehydrated. I dehydrated myself both intentionally and unintentionally. The unintentional bit was when I purged and purged and lost water and minerals from my body. I dehydrated myself intentionally by refusing water.
I was sensitive. So, so sensitive. I was easily agitated. I cried and binged when a teacher who disliked me and knew I had an eating disorder told my good friend that she was so skinny (and that I, was not) and I was so damaged by that.
I could never seem to shut the voices in my head up.
I started living for the adrenaline rush. The rush that came from starving myself, the rush that came from bingeing, the rush that came from purging. I lived for my growling stomach and my full one and the caffeine and the running and the compliments.
It got to a point where it wasn’t the food nor the weight anymore. It was about using bulimia as a coping mechanism to control all that was in my life. If it was a bad day, I would binge and purge. Or I’d starve. I didn’t so much as care for my weight now, I was living off the high, the feelings. I was addicted and messed up and soon I couldn’t recognise the girl I used t be.
I am frightened.
I am frightened of my body. I am frightened of my brain and the fact that it can destroy me when I am the one who should be in control of it.
I am jealous.
I am jealous, of the successful skinny anorexics but mostly of the people that can eat normally without thinking about the calories and fat in their food. I’m jealous of the loss of innocence and of the waste of my youth.
I have lied. I am not vegetarian because I so solely care for the animals, although it did develop at a later stage. I did it to control all the red meat and cholesterol and calories in my diet. There are 440 calories in a double cheeseburger.
I am a liar, I am a green-eyed monster, I am a coward, I am a hypocrite, I am an addict. Mostly I am delirious and damaged, and definitely not in the romanticised way.