Telling your friends can help
“Do you guys want to get a pizza?”
This question terrifies me.
The idea of eating hot greasy pizza in front of other people scares me because I’m afraid that they’ll somehow know that I want to eat all of the pizza myself. It’s also frustrating because I know I can’t.
Until about a year ago, this was my routine: First, I would go to the grocery store and stuff my shopping cart with ice cream, pasta, chocolate, pizza and french fries. While it was important to get the junk food I craved, I also made sure to get food that would easily come back up.
When I got home, I would put a movie on and mindlessly eat until I felt a familiar pain and queasiness in my stomach. Then came the cleansing part.
I would kneel down next to the toilet, bend over, and wiggle my finger around in my throat until the vomit came. After throwing up, I would feel an exhilarated high mixed with self-disgust.
I wouldn’t feel like crying, but the tears would come anyway, running down my face and mixing with the swirling water. My heart would pound erratically as I wiped the mucous and vomit off my finger into a wad of toilet paper.
The first purge always felt good because it relieved the pressure on my bursting stomach. Each time I threw up after that became more painful, but I would keep going until all I could get up was stomach acid. As the high started to wear off I was left alone with my regret and the haunting smell of barely digested food.
My bulimia was worst during my freshman year of college, when no one knew about my dirty secret. I would binge eat outside of my dorm, run home and puke in the sink in my room because I was afraid the girls next door would hear the splashes if I used our shared toilet.
But most often, in fear my roommate would walk in while I was mid-puke, I would use a well-hidden handicapped restroom. Once, when the handicapped restroom was occupied, I even walked all the way to the library to use theirs.
When no one knows you’re bulimic, it’s easier to tell yourself you don’t have a problem. But after I told my friends, I felt like I was letting them down every time I purged. Eventually, I could tell them when I felt like throwing up, and their watchful eyes would keep me away from the bathroom.
And now that it’s out in the open, I feel like a normal human being with a treatable problem instead of a repulsive psychopath.
Unfortunately, I’m moving to San Francisco in two weeks. I recently spent five days there looking for an apartment, and on day three I crammed a pile of mussels and french fries down my throat, followed it up with ice cream, and then had gelato for dessert.
But I didn’t puke.
My friends are moving there too, but not until August. That means I have to make it alone for six months.
Wish me luck.
Contact Campus Press Freelance Writer
Lillian Hanna at lillian.hanna@gmail.com.
