When I was eleven years old, I watched an after school special about bulimia. At that time, I had no idea what an eating disorder was, how one might make oneself vomit, or remotely understand human physiology enough to understand the dangerous effects of repeated vomiting on the body. Apparently, I was also not old enough to understand that the show was intended to be a deterrent. All I thought was, I should try that.
And so I did.
I went into the bathroom, stuck my finger down my throat, after a lot of wiggling and a little jabbing, voila, produced vomit. And hence my lifelong struggle with purging began.
It has taken 23 years, multiple forms of restrictive eating and purging methods and several remissions and subsequent relapses, to see the light at the end of the tunnel. But I am not yet recovered. I can not claim that at this time. I don’t know if you ever can truly recover in the most definitive sense of that word. Perhaps you only find some balance and “do better”. I want to be better. I want to find that elusive real recovery, because every time I think I have made it, I fail- either though purging, restriction, exercise bulimia or laxatives. In reality, my life, my "recovery" is a cycle of dancing through mild cycles of these and calling it "healthy". I feel as though I balance delicately on the edge, teetering. Stress, mayhem, self-esteem- I know I could be triggered to relapse. I am on the edge of relapse as I start this blog. This blog represents my attempt to prevent it.
And more than anything, I would love to just be a normal woman. To look in a mirror and not see something horrifying looking back at me. To look at a plate of food and not debate whether to keep it down. To not count calories obsessively in my head with my perfect calorie counter.
Until that day, I'll just keep accepting who I am. Because, that's all I can do.
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