I began restricting, and occasionally purging, when I was 14 and a freshman in high school. Late my sophomore year or early my junior year, I met the full diagnostic criteria for Bulimia Nervosa and continued to until I was treated my senior year. Since treatment, I’ve slipped many times. But I’ve never fallen back into the truly bulimic cycle. Sometimes six months will pass without a purge. But I still live in fear of “true bulimia.” More so now than ever before.
At my dad’s, I lived with four or five other people, so that was a deterrent.
I’ve lived on campus for almost two years. My floor’s communal bathrooms are a more effective deterrent.
Next year, I’ll have my own bathroom for the first time in my life. And I have to admit that’s really scary.
I’ve fought bulimic urges for a couple of months now. And the major way I kept myself from purging was telling myself I had to keep my voice healthy for my singing recital. That was last weekend.
I hadn’t experienced any strong urges. Until today. I treated myself to a rare frappe, then walked across the sunny court-yard to go to dinner. And it occurred to me, I can purge this. And I can purge dinner.
(The choice to purge was made long before I even made it to the table. But a friend of mine commenting that she wished she liked celery because “it’s a negative calorie food” caused me to feel justified.)
My grades are the worst they have ever been in college. I’m scared that a drop in GPA will prevent me from getting into graduate schools. I’m scared I’ll have to retake one of the classes I’m struggling in, and have to delay my graduation six months, and borrow more money from my dad. The new medication I was prescribed has intensified the anxiety and caused insane mood swings. I’m slowly tapering off it, but I can’t get that stuff out of my system fast enough.
I had a paper due an hour, and a class with a condescending and intimidating instructor.
I felt like I couldn’t handle it, so I purged, cried, didn’t finish the paper, and slept through class.
I talked to three of my close, supportive, non-judgmental friends. Talking to them keeps me accountable for my actions and responsible for my recovery. One of them has been especially concerned lately. He wanted me to check into an inpatient care facility. He’s wonderful, but that’s silly. I’m not suicidal or injuring myself, and I’m not underweight, severely dehydrated, or having heaving heart problems. But I promised him I’ll find a counselor or therapist.
Major props if you get this movie reference.