Day in a life of a bulimic

Wiktoria Maria Niedbala
Nov 8 · 3 min read

I wake up filled to the brim with frustration. Yesterday I promised myself that I wasn’t going to binge anymore, I will be good from now on. However, in the morning I feel demotivated, fat, worthless and hopeless. I stare at the wall then at the cat, I open my phone and compare myself to others before going back to sleep. I try to convince myself to do a workout but it’s futile. I only get up once I allow myself to give into my bulimic desires. I go down to the corner shop to get my favorite and normally forbidden snacks. There’s a moment of excitement and relief. I finally let go of all my rules, the constant “I have to” and “I can’t”. When I carry my treasures, back to my flat I actually feel victorious and free.

The first bite is ecstatic. There’s no way I could ever give this shit up. This is pure joy. I’m alone with this perfect oral and visual stimulation, making me feel complete. I stop being, lonely, lost and depressed. The high expectations I have towards myself vanish.

As the food disappears from its packaging my levels of anxiety increase. I don’t savour it anymore, it becomes a punishment. It screams eat me eat me in a torturous chores. I’m not enjoying it but at the same time I don’t want it to finish because I don’t want to face reality.

It’s time for another form of relief. I walk to my bathroom, with a large bottle of water. I stick my fingers down my throat as deep as I can and wiggle them around to stimulate my gag reflex. It takes a long time until I am satisfied with the amount of food that has left my body. I look at the content in the toilet and I don’t see puke, I see the money and time I will flush down the drain.

Now I have to find myself a distraction. I must occupy my brain with something before I allow myself another round of binging and purging. I obviously won’t do anything productive, so I reach for my book, another form of escape from my obsessive thoughts, one I wish was enough. As I read my hand reaches for the bag of chips I didn’t finish during my previous binge.

I’m walking down another isle. My body crying for help. It’s so full, there’s a sickly feeling in my stomach and my heart is racing uncomfortably fast. A brief thought comes to my mind. What if I get a heart attack? My body is working against me. I need more food and yet my organs are telling me no. I hate myself, I hate myself so much. I feel helpless against the cycle.

I want to wash away the shame and sweat from my body, make myself look presentable. I open the tap and fill the bath with warm water and lots of foam to hide my body. I run the sharp razor against my skin in the opposite direction the hair grows. I love the sound it makes, a sort of rattle and a crunch at the same time. I suddenly feel a stinging sensation followed by a ribbon of crimson. I glare at it, mesmerized by the pattern it forms oozing down my leg. I cut into a mole. I look at the metal blade. It’s dirty with soap and short hairs. I remember the days I used to press this tool against my flesh, moving it horizontally across my skin. It used to serve another purpose. I miss that power and punishment.

I light a cigarette and sit in front of the open window. My wet hair is soaking my shirt and the cold air creates goose bumps on my skin. I don’t feel like taking care of myself so I let my body temperature drop. I cough from the smoke, having had a long break from cigarettes. I start to fantasize about my new diet plan and how it will finally help me achieve my perfect body.

Written by

Writing addict. Also ex food addict, recovering from ED and battling BPD. Totally up for being hired to write ;P

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