Cooking, running, and blogging my ass off. Literally.
This story begins at 12 years old.
My first memory of my eating disorders takes place in a middle school bathroom. It was the day after I saw the movie Clueless and realized that all girls are not created equal. Through the years, the school bathrooms changed– from middle, to high, to college, to graduate school– but the problems stayed the same. Periods of binging and purging. Periods of just purging it all. Periods of nothing at all. I was vigilant. Not one day got past me for 9 years.
And then one day, I fell in love. I met Tyler my first year in graduate school, and
he worshiped me. And after that, I truly was fine for a while. I put on extra weight, but it was a small price to pay for not being sick. We lived in a great condo by the beach, got a dog, lived a good life.
3 years later, that love started sleeping with a bartender at our favorite pub. She wears neon scrunchies and corsets, has a snaggletooth on the left side, claims to be a bisexual. The nature of their relationship was, of course, unbeknownst to me at the time. He just packed up one day, called me slut, took my dog and walked out. It wasn’t until two weeks later that I realized I was literally the last person to know, which I hear is often the case in these situations. I should have expected this anyway, what with his coming home at 8:30 AM on weekdays and his inferiority complex regarding my attendance at a Top 10 university while he barely made it through technical school. Needless to say, I sank down a rabbit hole. Cried a lot. Drank a lot. Made bad decisions a lot. One night I actually ran into the troll couple. Pushed the obtrusive woman into the black abyss of a parking lot. I’m only sorry it wasn’t into oncoming traffic.
With the crazy behavior returned the illnesses. In 1 month I lost 16 pounds, then put on 25 again over the next 3 months. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a stranger. I hated her. I filled to the brim with hatred; hatred for the ex, for the food, for myself. The only thing I could do to keep myself alive was to stay distracted. I went out every night. Started chasing after any man I could find. I got a new roommate and a nice cigarette habit.
A year later, life eventually came back together again and sickness subsided. I found a new apartment, a new job, and a new love. But old habits die hard, and when my new love goes to sea for months at a time, I give myself over to my evil twin.
Yesterday, I had the worst day of all. Peter left to go to sea, and my reaction was to I eat anything I could find in the house and immediately dispose of it. I threw up so many times yesterday that when I got in the shower this morning, I felt nauseous. I needed to throw up again… this time not on purpose. I had made myself so sick that my body became sick on its own. As I stood there holding myself up against the shower wall, hot water running in my eyes, bile dripping into the drain… I knew that this was rock bottom. I am 26 years old. 14 years is long enough.
My body has never been thin and my mind has never been healthy. But I can feel that person screaming inside. I can feel her shaking the cage of my ribs with her fists. And so I did what any woman naturally would do when they decide it is time to change: I bust out my wallet.
$576 later, I have a year-long subscription to a gym and two days a week with a beau hunk of a male trainer. I have given up on chasing men, chasing shots, and chasing temporary answers with mouthwash. Someone once told me that if you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always gotten. What I need is for someone to kick the shit out of me. Rather than letting the bisexual do it, as she most likely will next time she drags her knuckles my way, I’ll opt for a trainer. I am ready to be happy. I am ready to be well.
This blog is the story of how I saved my life.