You’re ecstatic, you constantly touching your collar bone and you constantly feeling your ribs and wrapping your fingers around your tiny wrists. Ironically you the same size you were three days ago – but now you have the high.
You have the high from not eating too much (what your eating disorder thinks of as eating the right amount, not like you have a say in the matter).
You are in control again.
You’ve managed to tame the evil bitch, Bulimia, and you in control again. If you can keep her at bay then you can take on the world. When your food intake is in control, you are strong, powerful and capable. You smell the flowers again, you smile again and you have a skip in your step.
Doesn’t matter what you doing or thinking or how well you doing. Something happens, you don’t even know what anymore because everything seems to trigger you. You made a mistake, you feel a little sad, you think you not good enough, you touch your thighs, anything, almost any feeling that seems bad or painful. Bulimia will comfort you, she misses you, she wants to hang out. Shame washes over you and anxiety hits you like Miley Cyrus leaping into a wrecking ball.
And Bulimia is so seductive, wrapped in sugar and mint ice cream and next thing you know pancakes and syrup are dancing on your tongue and you in euphoria. And from that moment it isn’t even you anymore.
You’re sitting on the other side of the fence. You trying to help yourself, you shouting no and you pleading. But Your eating disorder doesn’t care, it’s her time now. She has inhabited your mind and soul and body and she doesn’t give a fuck about what you want.
She is in control now. And all the way through this heavenly experience that she is having. Chocolate, peanut butter, pancakes, oh anything she can get her hands on. Run to the bathroom, back to the kitchen, eat some more. Eventually it doesn’t matter. Eat while walking to the bathroom, eat in the bathroom. It’s all going to land up there anyway.
And there you sit on the other side of the fence, watching this shell, because that isn’t you with her fingers down her throat and the blood shot eyes. It’s not your heart pounding and your shaky hands. They belong to the eating disorder now.
And there she sits. Bulimia, staring at you in all her sugary sweets and she is chuckling to herself. Mocking you, because you thought, for a brief moment that you were in control. But she has you and she loves you and she controls you and she isn’t going to let you go.
‘Tomorrow will be betrer, you tell yourself’ and it will. But she’ll be back. She always comes back.
You might not see her for years, but she is always there, always following you around. Just waiting until you’re weak enough to fall back into her filthy hands.