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I remember writing my older sister a note saying, “Dear Sissy, icing doesn’t taste that well coming back up then it does going down.”
I remember scaring my parents to the point they continuously asked me if I was going to need professional help.
I remember having my distant family members so worried that they began to call in and check to see if everything was alright almost weekly. When before the incident, they’d barely do it yearly.
I had a problem. And this problem probably started all the way back in 5th grade. Then I wanted to be skinny. And what I didn’t know was I already was skinny. Then I wanted to be pretty. And when I’d look at pictures of myself or take a glance in the mirror, pretty was the last thing I saw.
I think it was in 8th grade when I got my first boyfriend that my confidence and self esteem sky rocketed, and my metabolism was at it’s peak. But then we broke up and even knowing it wasn’t my fault I found Snicker bars to be my coping method. By the time I got with my next boyfriend, I had gained nearly ten pounds because I began eating one to two Snicker bars everyday for heaven knows how many weeks.
Before I transferred from 8th grade to high school I was warned about the ten pound weight gain that almost everyone got when they became freshman. It would never happen to me I swore. But once I actually got into high school I started eating all the wrong foods and became less and less active. I had a mom though, that was different then all others. She had been this way since my pre-teen years. She told me straight up that I was getting fat. And her and my sister used to tease me all the time, non-stop. And after a while enough was enough.
My self-image was effaced. I didn’t care about my self anymore. So I started doing whatever it took to get the weight off. I went on the 3-day fad diet and lost 10 pounds. Quickly though, I put them back on. But then in health class I learned of a new way to loose weight. An easier way. It was called “ practicing bulimia“.
At first I was scared. I heard all those stories about how you could die from it. And how it could seriously effect you later in life, but my mom and sister continued to tease, so I lost that fear. The first time I tried sticking my finger down my throat, my gag reflexes went mad before I could even touch it. After a while though it became easy to just make it’s way down there. Although after a while I had to hold my finger down there longer and longer to get all the food up.
I had only one friend that I consulted with at that time. And she was honestly fearing for my life. But I wasn’t. I could still care less. I look back now and I think it’s because I wanted to die, because I was suicidal that I even tried it in the first place. But she could plead all she wanted, she had moved to California and I lived in Arizona. She had no way of contacting my parents or telling on me. So what stopped me?
You’d think it’d be how teary eyed I become after doing it. Or how I could literally feel my stomach squeezing and throwing stuff up. Perhaps even the terrible way the food tasted when leaving my mouth. But it wasn’t. After all those dreadful times I spent gagging myself over a toilet, my mom still told me that it wouldn’t kill me to lose a few more pounds. She didn’t know anything about me practicing bulimia but somewhere, something inside of me tore and I felt like I had wasted my life away.
And to be honest I wasn’t far off. I had wasted tons of my life trying to satisfy her when really the only person I should’ve been worried about satisfying was myself. If I were to love myself with all sincerity, then nothing her and my sister could say could make me feel so terrible about myself.
The good news: I quit. And even better news was I went to my parents. I couldn’t tell them face to face, that’d be too hard but I did write them a letter that explained it all. Somehow everyone in the family found out, and even some family friends found out. With all those people concerned about me they not only insured I quit, but they insured I never started again. I couldn’t count on all my fingers and toes the times I was asked after a meal if I was alright. You wouldn’t believe how afraid my parents were to let me puke after I felt a little nauseous from some food I ate earlier. And whenever I happened to be on a sad tune, they were there asking me if I wanted to go to a clinic. But I was too afraid to go. And even now I don’t regret not going because in all honesty I can receive the best advice without going to a clinic. I have the support and comfort of someone who I know won’t just look at me as a patient. I have a friend named Deja. And I hope that anyone struggling with any problems has someone like her to go to.