Day in a life of a bulimic

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.
