Holding on Air

         I remember the first time I threw up. I was nine, I had just finished eating at Bob Evans. I had ordered a hamburger and fries. Before my meal came however, I reached for a roll. My mom stopped me she said "what do you think you're doing? Your meal already comes with a roll, don't eat a second one you'll get fatter". She just left it at that simple word of 'fat' and I did not reach for seconds of anything for a very long time. Seconds of any food after that left a bitter taste of bile in my mouth. So there is it, I became bulimic at age nine. The idea of throwing food up made a lot of sense, even to the little me at the time. What goes in must come out. To the people who have never made themselves throw up, it seems like the most grotesque act a single human being can attempt. To the bulimic, it makes absolute sense. What goes in must come out.

         I also learned at a very young age what exactly fat is. My mother after having my younger brother decided she was going to lose the baby weight. She did. However, she also saw what changes the rest of us needed to go through to join her on the voyage of 'fit and beautiful'. I learned that I was cursed with her side of the family's 'fat arm syndrome' and my huge legs and middle were just a pity. Because of the fat arm syndrome that I have been condemned to, I judge (even to this day) whether a women is beautiful or thin based on this. I envy those who have the long lean beautiful arms that I wish I could just wake up with one day. I would give any part of my being to have those perfect arms that just slip so gently into the sleeves of shirts with just that perfect amount of extra room.

         I may have began throwing up at nine years old, but I had control over it hundred and and ten percent. It was not until I was about fifteen that I began to get crazy.

         By the time I turned fifteen I had friends all over the world that I talked to everyday about how to lose weight and supported me through any extremes I went through to lose the weight. I only had support in losing weight, not in being healthy. I had no idea that I was being unhealthy. To me, losing weight was a normal thing to talk about over dinner as you discussed why you weren't going to eat this or that. In six months I was sixteen, I had went from a 120 pound bulimic to a 100 pound person.

         I had gotten there from eating a minimum of 800 calories, binging on water pills, and throwing up when I ate too much or not what I had planned on. I guzzled down apple cider vinegar before every meal thinking it was going to make me eat less, but in actuality, it only made me sick to my stomach. I would not be still, being told that if you did not you would be burning about two hundred more calories everyday. I started believing that if I did not take my water pills that I would gain weight. So I took up to six a day, making my pee light up in electric orange for five years. I looked skeletal, but I looked excellent. I distinctly remember going to a formal dinner with my family and a family friend approached me.          

         She said, "oh my gosh! You look so good, have you been eating?"

         My mom responded saying, "yes she has been working really hard to lose the weight".

         My mother looked at me and smiles. I smiled back, because I had reassurance that my mother believed I was good at something, doing something right. My role in the family was to stay skinny, and this memory solidified that idea. 

         All my body wants is to disappear. It speaks to me "why? Why are you putting this in me? You do not need this to survive. You are full damn it. Why are you putting this in me?" It hates the idea of taking up space. It wishes it was so light it could float on clouds, dance between raindrops, and never sink in snow. My first thought in the morning is how will I avoid eating today? The idea of eating makes me cringe. Even as I write this, I'm regretting eating the pasta salad and the slice of cake I ate earlier today.

         Food seemed to be the enemy in all eating situations, however, it may just be the distraction for deeper issues.

         The last time I counted my calories was a month and a half ago. The last time I threw up was eleven days ago. I consider myself better. I don't have the impending need for control like I used to. Control was my security blanket. I may still be 'sick' but I am 'better'. Even though I have never received formal treatment for this disorder, I can tell you, I believe this will follow me throughout my life. So far it has for eleven years.