The abundance of pro-ED sites on the internet would probably shock people who have never lived this way. For those who are unfamiliar with these websites, a pro-ED website is a place where eating disorders are endorsed, glorified and warmly condoned. They go so far as to affectionately name the most popular and well known diseases such as Ana (anorexia), Mia (bulimia) and ED (eating disorders in general). I feel obligated to verbally bash and condemn such places but even from my post-recovery point of view, I still can’t bring myself to do so. Though we could never undermine the dangers of these online communities and the toxic environments they breed, there simply isn’t any malice in their creation. What we are discussing here is sick people talking to other sick people, seeking refuge and understanding. To judge would only prove to accelerate our own ignorance. Moreover, I simply can’t lie to you dear reader and therefore must admit that in these underground worlds, I felt I was finally home. The sentiment I once had for these hidden places and silenced people is, to this day, tender to the touch.
It was more than a hot-spot for ‘thinspo’; this haven and these people provided the company I had beseeched for so long. Their words, struggles and even personalities leapt from the screen and straight into the most empathetic part of me. I knew these people as I know myself because we shared our darkest demons in that place. Free of persecution and the constant feeling of abnormality, in that safe space, I could step out from the shadows even if only briefly. I was myself for the first time in a long time. I was the self that she, my Mia, had created and I wasn’t embarrassed about who I was or what she had made of me. If anything, I heard the affecting stories of others and even begged of her to take me in as she had done so with these people. This was her mercy and she was my own personal heroine. Mia, Ana, ED – whoever she was, I now wanted to be hers entirely. No friend and no boyfriend could ever have what I gave to her because as I wasn’t worthy of them, so they were not worthy of her. Unable to take back all the self-worth I had given away of myself before, instead it had been merely shifted from one place to another. That worth fell into her hands; the hands with which she caressed me from time to time if I was good.
There in that terrain, the one which rests behind closed doors, tucked under baggy clothes and sizzling beneath burnt-out eyes, I had found my soul mates. They knew what it was to hate yourself. They understood how important it was to step on a scale every 45 minutes. They underwent the burden of sacrificing old friends and former loved ones for her benevolence. They felt the loneliness that plagued you during late hours awake in bed and the stabbing knife of hunger during daylight. Whomever the girl, she was the me of Jacksonville and Seattle; the me of Brisbane and Sydney; the me of Sheffield and Manchester; whoever she was, we were the same person because despite the different lives we lead, we stood united in our underworld of misery and depravity. Suddenly, I wasn’t so alone.
Aside from the camaraderie between the people who frequented such sites, I found a degree of freedom in having such a place in which to retire. I traipsed endlessly from page to page, soaking it up and breathing it in. I accepted the normality in which this world was being executed. It was as if this lifestyle and this state of being were so obviously natural to us all. I teetered my way through tips and advice, ways in which to properly conduct the progression of my disease. I discovered how best to suppress the hunger that was now a permanent part of me and more importantly, how to conceal everything with an almost professional air of efficiency. Moved and softened, I read the painful accounts of others and watched as they poured themselves into their words, seeking reconciliation and acceptance. The empathy and longing for their well-being remains as strong today as it was then.
Fasting competitions and gospels about the glory of eating disorders left little doubt that I was living as I was intended to. This, surely, was my destiny in life and the path God had set out for me. He had meant for me to share my life with my bulimia, I was convinced of it. There was a false sense of completion to who I was and my place in the world. I belonged here and thus, belonging anywhere else didn’t matter to me all that much anymore. Furthermore, these websites helped me justify my new lifestyle.
This isn’t a problem, I started hearing her whisper. This is a blessing in disguise and our gift to the world. Together, we are worth the air we breathe. United we stand and alone, neither of us may even dream to exist. I had discovered the Holy Grail and it was there, amidst those black feelings and lost memories. I was home.
***
My obsession, which had been born in the tiniest embryo of my mind, turned outwards and visuals worked in sync with feeling. What I saw corresponded greatly to what I felt thereafter. The problem was that even my ability to interpret such imagery was, in itself, contorted and insufficient for lack of a better word. Online ‘thinspo’ of celebrities and model-like figures wasn’t enough anymore because it could not attack my senses in the way reality did. Only through reality could my sharp thoughts and swelling feelings take life and walk the streets in front of me. Through the reality of my disease, those thoughts and emotions soon appeared everywhere. They were the kick in my morning coffee, the smoke from my cigarettes and every interaction I had with people. The epidemic had spread at a feverous speed and no longer existed only in my mind; finally, the world seemed to live in its reflection.
The pro-ED websites did not create my bulimia, but they crafted her. She was shaped through their existence, among many other things, as we continue to explore. Reality was found when I saw women exposing themselves on those sites. They weren’t models, or actors or a-list faces who walked red carpets for a living. They were genuine people living secret lives and were everything I could ever dream to be. I started to believe that there was an authenticity to their eating disorders and not to my own. What determined this credibility and degree of success in my bulimia would take various shapes and forms, which we will discuss at a later point.
But for the time being, I think I can safely make the note that it was these websites that classified my own eating disorder as bulimia nervosa. I say this because I learned – similarly to how a student in a classroom learns – the differences between what it meant to be Ana and what it meant to be Mia. Equally, I sought to define myself within the given conditions of the disorders I was learning about. I think once the disease was comfortably instilled in the workings of my mind, choices like these were easy because I wasn’t the person making them anymore. So, perhaps I didn’t choose to have an eating disorder. It chose me. Yet, once in full swing, I suppose I chose to classify my eating disorder to bulimia; I felt empowered by the very decision itself.
I knew I could never live the life of an anorexic. Though I had developed an adversity to food and a general discomfort with eating, I still never envisioned myself sacrificing it completely. Bulimia seemed an obvious answer to all my problems. It would be mine to keep forever and sometimes I wonder if it was as simple as “picking” it. I mean, nobody forced me to put my finger down my throat the first time I purged. I think sometimes though that by that stage I just chose to accept the lifestyle which already existed in my mind. It wasn’t a process of “picking”; it was one of submission.
Ultimately, what seems to define bulimia in the minds of others is the purge. The reality is that purging does not occur without a binge and sometimes a fast before it. My bulimia was defined by all three and as a result, was well underway in its manifestations long before I ever regurgitated my first meal.
But that crucial point was always going to come. It arrived sooner than I could have ever anticipated. That’s the thing with an eating disorder; for something that takes years to develop, when it finally shows itself, it snowballs. I was riding a free-fall and for some of the time, I rather enjoyed it. Granted, it went on to become the most dangerous and devastating chapter in my young life. But it wasn’t all bad, not at the beginning anyway. One doesn’t persist in this kind of existence unless one truly feels that someth
ing is to be gained from it. God help me, I really believed in it.
The various facets of my illness aside, I look back on the decisions I made during that time in my life with utter embarrassment. I’ve had so many moments of wishing I could return to that place, go back to that girl and shake her. I would tell her that it’s never going to be worth it; that if she continues this way, she will damage her family, her friendships, her education and future. But most importantly, I would tell her that she will damage her mental health almost beyond repair. Perhaps it’s a good thing I can’t do that because if I did, who knows what kind of person would be writing this, or if indeed such an account would even exist.
Both the fast and the binge have, until this point, been the blurriest stages in my disorder. Denial reigned through them and thus, distorted my recollection a great deal. It would be a very long time before I would ever admit openly what I had finally admitted to myself, as my denial to others outlasted my self denial by a large stretch. But in my own mind, there was no doubt anymore about what I had become. I knew it before I had even purged. Finally answering the screams of that person who lived in my mind, I thought to myself, Yes. I am bulimic.
The Purge
I stared at the toilet bowl in front of me, now painted in an array of oranges and skin coloured pinks. I was light-headed and my vision had blurred slightly, but still I could make out small chunks of food that swished around the basin. Watery noodles were still sliding their way downwards, while my mother’s chocolate cake had sunk under the water surface at the bottom. That had been rather painful to regurgitate. The spongy texture of it kept getting caught in my throat and landed with a plonk when it hit the base of the toilet. But by now, I was a pro at this. Knowing that I had limited time before someone knocked on the bathroom door, I put my index finger in my mouth, wet it with saliva and slid it back down my throat.
Purging had become the most important part of my day. Depending on circumstance and opportunity, sometimes I could only purge once or twice a day. This meant that when the time came to expel the food that riddled my weak body, I would commit to the moment entirely. I knew that it would be hours before I could do it again. I suppose this is why I never stopped fasting completely. I usually only ate when I was sure I could purge afterwards. In the beginning, breaking my fasts was an almost involuntary act. Overpowered by the hunger sirens that sent electric shocks up and down my body, I would binge purely out of desperation. After the first bite – no matter how small it may have been – I told myself that I’d ruined everything already and thus gorge until I thought I would burst.
Now, however, I was more strategic and meticulous about my eating. I had the tune down to a note and played it with flawless execution. An ideal day would see me fasting until dinner time, when it was nearly impossible to get out of eating the family meal. I would eat as was expected, all the while washing it down with buckets of water. After dinner, I would take my daily shower. While most people showered in the mornings, my parents had simply accepted that I just preferred to wash up after tea time. It suited everyone because nobody took as long in a shower as I did; sometimes I’d be in there for almost 40 minutes. But it was routine now and little to no questions were ever asked. Even 40 minutes never seemed like enough time. I would purge for anywhere between 15 to 30 minutes, saving time at the end to give myself a quick wash over.
Such a day was a rarity though; I grew up in a house that was always busy with people coming and going. The key was balance and timing. Most of my days at that time were spent as a trapeze artist on a tightrope, never putting a foot out of place and always fastidiously coordinated. I hated eating in front of people but for the sake of proving a point, I usually began a binge not long before my family left the house for their various errands, jobs and social coffees. Once alone, the binge would kick into full swing and I would blitz the entire ordeal to the point of a ravenous blackout, leaving myself just enough time to vomit before they came home. In this way, I was reassured that they would see the used pots and pans, the chocolate wrappers, the milky cereal bowls and whatever else I had used to feed myself. I wouldn’t have to eat again until dinner, which could be remedied during my usual shower or bath.
The purge was not always intended. I remember once or twice starting a binge with a fruit salad, convinced that I would merely eat healthily for the day. But once in the momentum of my feeding frenzy, I usually consoled myself with the knowledge that the food would not stay in my stomach. I couldn’t just leave it there. And, on occasion, I started regurgitating before I’d even finished my binge. For the most part, however – and certainly quite late into my bulimia – the act of purging was premeditated, enabling me to plan for it in advance.
I avoided meat while bingeing because I knew it would be very painful to vomit back up. Similarly, pizzas and chips were always a struggle for me. That’s not to say I didn’t binge on them though; I ate whatever my fingers touched but consciously aimed to eat more water-based foods that wouldn’t hurt me while purging. Noodles and eggs seemed to just slip right out with the correct push and they always featured in my binge if the purge was calculated. If this wasn’t the case, I would have to just accept what needed to come up and get on with it.
Snapping back to the task at hand, I hadn’t finished my purge yet. I checked the time on my phone and saw that I only had about ten minutes left until I would have to wash up and return to the world outside the bathroom door.
Hurry up you fat cow!, she roared in my head. If I didn’t do it now, I knew I would have to listen to that unforgiving voice for the rest of the night. The soft whispers that she graced me with before had long since disappeared and were replaced with screams of abuse and filthy words. She had poisoned my thoughts with words and phrases I never envisioned myself ever thinking, let alone using in reference to myself. Finger down my throat and the blood rushing to my face; this was her moment of glory and when she was most alive in my life.
I’d gotten most of it up by now but had to continue until I was sure I’d left nothing in my stomach. The noise of the shower was thunderous and blasted overhead, while the scalding water steamed up the tiny room. I was sweating from my head to my toes and could feel droplets of perspiration running through my hair and down my neck. Even without the hot shower turning the bathroom into a 40 minute sauna, I probably would have been sweating anyway. After a few minutes of purging, my adrenaline would pump up a gear and make the blood that ran in my veins sizzle.
I no longer knew what was running down my face. It was a mixture of sweat from my brow, mucus running from my nose and flooding tears from my eyes as I gagged. Taking a breather for a few seconds, I would look at myself in the mirror, dazed and breathless. Vomit and spit traced the corners of my mouth, while my cheeks puffed out red and swollen. Everything about my face seemed to puff like that when I purged. My eyes bulged and I swore on several occasions that I could see a vein about to burst open on my forehead. Splashing my face with cold water, I couldn’t lose momentum or else I would be too exhausted to finish. I knelt back over, my knees buckling beneath me and a fresh piece of tissue in my left hand. I caressed my index finger in my mouth for a while, warming it and sufficiently lubricating it. Ready for the next round, I shoved it down my throat.
I wonder sometimes if my gag reflex had become in some way desensitised. More and more, my finger down my throat would have little effect on me and I was forced to wiggle it around and violently reef it from side to side. Only then would I gag, usually holding my breath at the same time. I would retch several times before giving my stomach that extra push to expel the food. With each episode of regurgitation, I arched my neck and my jaw would lock open. If I’d consumed all the right kinds of food, it would spew out effortlessly and in huge amounts. In other cases – like that of the aforementioned chocolate cake – it would hit the toilet bowl in large chunks, clogging my throat along the way and leaving me gasping for air.
I was certain I could have done it even without the shower running in the background but never wanted to take that chance. If the secrecy I enjoyed in that room was ever compromised, I knew my relationship with her would change forever. Still, I endeavoured to be as quiet as possible and by this stage, had mastered it. Despite the ease of vomiting up liquid-based foods, there was little I could do to prevent the sharp clap one could hear when they splashed into the toilet. I knelt to the side of the bowl and aimed for its inner wall, hoping the noise would be lessened. Four or five retches later and a flood of orange liquid and chunks splashed against the basin at such velocity that I was thankful for the noisy shower. The later into the purge I got, my stomach heaved and made a most distinct noise along with it. I once compared the sound to that of an animal squeezing out its last breaths. By the end of my self-induced vomiting, when finally nothing was left to come out, the sound was usually very loud and, to a large extent, mentally satisfying. Job done; the sound of emptiness had confirmed it.
Nevertheless, I was very quiet. I couldn’t control what happened once the food had come up but demanding a solid command over myself was a necessity in these endeavours and I did so perfectly, most of the time. Every time I retched and heaved another spell from the pit of my stomach and up to my throat, with it I suppressed every noise by holding my breath and tensing every muscle that ran from my abdomen to my face. With every gag and each spew of vomit, my body lifted a heavy weight of skilled silence. I read on one of my beloved pro-ED websites, that sometimes it was effective to simply never remove your finger from your throat and thus allow for an uninterrupted continuation of purging. I could never do this. If I did, I would almost certainly pass out from a lack of oxygen.
My Secret Life Page 10