I find myself at the grocery on the phone with my sister asking her which laxative I should buy. Behind me are the giggles of two college students buying lube and condoms. A straight couple, of child bearing age—no worries if it be known that they have sex. Myself, coming up on 31, single, white, female, middle socio-economic status. Does this make is predictable and okay that I have an eating disorder? After the buffet, I search the internet and minutes later am swallowing tablespoons of pink salt and warm water and feel so relieved to finally be rid of something because I can’t rid myself of self-hatred just yet. I can’t help but internalize my inability to get a job that gives me meaning, find a relationship that gives me goosebumps, love my body no matter what size. It has been years now that I’ve been purging, a little dirty habit that I find solace in on Netflix as I watch documentaries of other young women. As I write I wonder if I need to hide this too—I’m a role model, I’m a helper. No one needs to know. They might think less of you. But I can’t take the giant hole anymore. I’ve gained 20 pounds this summer forgetting the feeling of hunger letting all my work (and I call this starvation–this binge exercise, body numbing, mind fucking, soul sucking–work) go because I wonder if it was ill begotten in the first place. Look to the past, two years ago, running up to ten miles a day tears plopping down on a treadmill belt rotating in time, if only I hadn’t been so fat he would have loved me, he wouldn’t have left me. We all tell ourselves lies and some are more acceptable than others. I relied so heavily on the size of my body for a steady state—my mind too volatile, my soul pulled like waves by the sun and moon, and now I feel cheated by my own body. I cannot trust anyone, anything, I cannot trust that I won’t fail. And I cannot trust that I will stop seeing this as failure. I will not sum it all up and give a false conclusion but sometimes trust must turn into faith–a belief in something I can’t see, a belief that I will be okay. A belief that I am okay. Right now. Right here.
*Disclaimer: laxatives are extremely dangerous and this blogger did not use this addictive measure and is currently in therapy for eating disorders and body image…please see this as a plea for us all to get the help we deserve