Stubborn — The first friends that confronted me about my eating disorder

Content warning — talking about bulimic behaviors

I am fiercely stubborn.

This is a blessing and a curse.

It was once suggested that I use Tenacious instead as it has a “softer” edge than Stubborn. I told them, thank you for your input, but my word is Stubborn! A few weeks later it dawned on me that the interaction was illustrative of my point. And his.

Do not tell me how I feel, do not tell me what to think, do not tell me how to react, do not tell me what to do, and do not tell me what I cannot do because OMFG that dare is thrown and you know I’m ALL over it now! This is how I ended up doing things like mud run obstacle races, public speaking and cooking dinner (although that one isn’t effective any longer, I order out)

My last year of college I shared a two-bedroom apartment with three other women. Two bedrooms, living room, dining space and kitchen is not a large home for four girls. I do not remember this being a problem since it was more late night TV, sleeping and hangover quarters than anything else.

Of course there was dinner and late night snacking.

Of course none of them knew I was bulimic.

(BTW — I really did buy that. Fool.)

By the time we all moved in before school I was in full blown bulimia and over-exercising. I knew ice cream was the ultimate purge food, easy down and easy up. I knew the minimal amount of food I could eat at the campus café to quell an angry stomach. I knew how far I could push my body before collapse. I knew I could do two step-aerobic videos back-to-back followed by a cigarette and black coffee (or was it diet Coke?). I knew nothing kills an appetite after exercise like a few cigarettes. I had it all nearly mastered.

The local grocery store bakery made these amazing peanut butter cookies with peanut butter chips that were the perfect balance of crispy and soft-baked and came in a pack of two very large cookies. I ached to include these in all my binges. I also knew these were very hard to bring back up. It didn’t matter. Sometimes I would even buy two packs of them.

One night I came out of the bathroom after getting rid of the ice cream and the best cookies ever. Make-up washed off (flimsy cover of being in the bathroom), in my PJs and ready to settle in to late night TV. All three of my housemates were sitting quietly in the living room. No one was talking or making any eye contact.

Jen, we need to talk to you about something…

The rest of the conversation is a blur in my head. I remember each of them saying they knew I was bulimic. They each were concerned about me. They each wanted me to get help.

I denied it. I felt sick and angry and how-the-fuck-do-you-dare-say-this?! I was adamant, you don’t know what you are talking about. I’ll fucking show you!

Inside I was disintegrating.

Whatever flame of life was still in me nearly extinguished from shame. I cannot even begin to describe the weight of that shame.

I wanted to disappear.

So I went to bed.

For the next two weeks I did not purge any food, everything I ate stayed down. I still exercised like a fiend and sucked down cigarettes (after all, exercise isn’t an eating disorder, it’s exercise).

Willpower can only go so far.

Eventually I caved and the food purging came back with a force.

I still lived with these women until school was out. Every damn-fucking-day I looked at them with shame in my eyes. If I could even make eye contact. I was too sick to see that they cared for me. All of this happened after I told Rob I was bulimic. I believed they hated me. If he didn’t actually care, why would they? I never asked them that, I just knew.

Sometimes I think this was the catalyst to moving across the country. If people in my life continued to see through my weak lies — let alone watching the actual behavior — how could I keep up the game?

I never went back to any of them to share this story. To be honest and acknowledge they were right. To give credit that in some small way they influenced my steps toward recovery. I still feel immense shame about the entire interaction. I am feeling shame right now as I write this.

Stubborn.

It gave me the power to say Fuck You to people that were trying to help me.

It also gives me the power to make up my mind that leaving the East Coast was my path to wellness.

The curse.

And the blessing.