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Work in progress about living with an eating disorder (1 Viewer)



“I hate myself”. That is her mantra. She whispers it to the girl in the mirror “I hate you.” She says it to the woman in the store window “I hate you.” And screams at the child that wants to eat just one more cookie: “I HATE YOU.”

But that greedy, sticky fingered little kid can never eat just one cookie. She eats four, five, ten. Then she goes to the fridge. Sitting on the top shelf between some leftover mush in a blue plastic bowl, and a pitiful bunch of brown speckled bananas, is half a cake. The hands grab for it, rip off the saran wrap, and a finger swipes a trail into the rich pink frosting. Strawberry. With bare hands she grabs a chunk, and eats it. While the cake is being devoured, a voice whispers “Keep eating. No one is watching.” The “kid” is home alone and the delights resting behind kitchen pantry doors are enough to make her dizzy. So she keeps eating, but at a frenzied pace. She grabs a bag of chips, barbeque flavored, tears open the bag and mechanically shoves handful after handful of the salty crisps in her mouth. But that is not enough. “No one is watching.” A bowl of cereal. A loaf of bread. More cookies. More chips. Soda. Grape Juice. A tray of Oreo cookies.

After a while her eyes lose focus and everything becomes a blur. It is almost as if she standing above a centrifuge and looking in. She keeps eating. M&M’sabagelwithcream cheeseEasyMachalfofaleftoverchickenyesterday’sblueberrypieTwinkiesandtwohotdogs. “No one is watching.” She is eating, spinning, floating, dreaming.

After nearly wiping the once bountiful cabinets clean, she eats the brown mush in the fridge. It is disgusting, but she eats it anyway. She looks down, and everything is revolving so fast to the point of looking still. She puts down her fork, and notices the silence.

All of a sudden it is as though someone is watching, and she was found at standing the crime scene with a bloody knife in her hand and a body at her feet. The whisper becomes an angry chant: “Guilty.” Louder. “Guilty.” She goes to the bathroom, throws up, and passes out on the cold tile floor.

She is me. I have lived with bulimia for a long time. I have know recollection of when I discovered purging, it just happened.