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My Struggle with Bulimia This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

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Being supervised by my 13-year-old sister is weird. It’s even weirder that she’s watching me go to the bathroom. Well, okay, she’s actually just waiting outside the stall. But I knew she would follow me, I knew she would wash her hands, and I knew she would linger. When I open the door, she’s just standing there casually. “What are you doing?” I ask, even though I know.

“Just waiting for you.”

“Oh, okay.” And I’m not supposed to be mad, even though the situation is awkward and I can’t get any privacy when I’m using the bathroom. Of course, this only happens when I go after lunch.

Rewind to late May: I’m so near death that I can brush it with my eyelashes. My boyfriend, Jon, and I are competing to lose weight and I can’t shake off his saying, “It’s okay if you don’t lose as much weight as me, Lindsay. After all, I’m a guy.” I don’t like losing anything except weight, 20 pounds of which disappears in a month and a half. But 10 pounds is all it took for me to forget about beating Jon and winning the $200 bet.

Hey, I look good; I look damn good. I should keep this up. I’m convinced, though, that it isn’t enough to just keep exercising and scraping by on water, hard-boiled egg whites, and salad (which is actually just lettuce and tomatoes – no dressing, croutons, or even corn because of the carbs). If I want to be tinier with every glance in the mirror, I’ll need a better strategy. So I become a double-barreled bulimic; I’m the purging type and the non-purging type. Purging is just a nicer way of saying “self-induced vomiting.” It isn’t pleasant but people are convinced that I eat. Non-purging, also called exercise bulimia, is when I sweat off what little I’ve eaten and more. One website calls it “secretly vomiting,” but I think of it as added insurance.

I recommend bulimia for anyone self-deluded enough to ignore feeling terrible all the time: “This bottle of aspirin must be full of placebos because my headaches won’t go away. The doctor is insane; I’m not running too much, and my knee and hip pains can’t be early signs of arthritis. My esophagus isn’t corroded. My voice isn’t raspy. I can keep getting away with this. It’ll be worth it. I feel fine. I’m not bulimic.”

Then I’m wailing my confession to Jon about having bulimia and how much work it is to hide and how scared I am about not getting my period this month, and I hate myself for developing bulimia in the first place, and I’m sorry but I need to back out of our competition. He says that’s fine. We’ll fix it together. Plus, he misses pizza.

For the next month, I eat only with Jon so he can be sure I relearn to eat healthfully. At first I feel like a criminal exercising only once a day and eating food I can taste, but my complaints are short-lived.

It’s the end of July and I’m driving with my friend Kelli. She knows I helped stuff that guy’s mailbox with defective donuts from the Krispy Kreme dumpster. I’m the only person she told when she backed into a car. Secrets are only fun if you have a best friend to share them with.

There’s a lull in the conversation before she says, “You never told me who won that thing between you and Jon.”

The saltiness of my fingertips floods my tongue and tickles my throat. “I called it off.”

“Really? Why?”

Lie, don’t lie, lie, don’t lie, lie, don’t lie, lie, don’t lie, don’t lie. Why would you lie to your best friend? “Because I became bulimic.”

“Oh, Lindsay.” She turns her head from the road and looks at me. I’ve never heard Kelli say my name in that disappointed tone before.

“I’m okay now. Really. Jon and I worked through it and I’m fine.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I believe you.” Good. There are times when you should be honest. This wasn’t one of them.

Kelli comes by the next afternoon. She starts sobbing when she sees me. She says that she cried all day yesterday while researching bulimia and calling eating disorder hotlines. She doesn’t understand why I have a negative body image. She insists that I don’t need to lose weight. She is scared for me.

Didn’t I tell her that I was fine? Why didn’t she believe me?

“Lindsay, you have to tell your parents.”

WHAT? “What? Why?! It isn’t a problem anymore. I don’t want them to worry over something that’s in the past.”

“I know, but they need to know.”

“No. No, they don’t, actually.”

“Lindsay, if you don’t tell them, I will. If something happens to you and they find out I knew, I won’t be able to live with that.” Since when is this about you, Kelli? “I’ll give you time to tell them. If you don’t do it within that time frame, I’ll tell them. But, I’ll warn you before I do it.”

You’ll warn me? Are you trying to strike a deal with me? I knew I should have lied.

“I’m doing this for your own good, Lindsay. You’re my best friend and I care about you.” I don’t feel myself hug her back. If you really cared, you’d let it go.

Kelli never brings up the subject again. I forget about this incident and figure she has too. The “your time is up so I’m telling on you” ultimatum disintegrates into an empty threat. I go back to school in September and don’t come home until October ends. I lost a few pounds by eating healthier and my family is happy for me. On the way to the airport, my dad says, “You look great, honey, really, you do. This probably isn’t the best time to bring it up … but you didn’t lose weight by being bulimic, did you?”

Oh my God. “She TOLD you?!”

“Lindsay, don’t be mad. She was really scared to tell.”

I’m not mad at Kelli, I’m furious. “When?”

“Right before you guys left for school. She called and said she had something important to tell us. Your mom and I went to her house. She was sitting in the living room with her parents and crying because she wasn’t sure if she was doing the right thing. She didn’t want to lose your friendship.”

I’m thankful when they let me walk through security with sunglasses on. I’m not looking forward to Thanksgiving anymore.

*
*
*


My parents have argued in the garage for years because they don’t think my sister and I can hear them in there. They forget that my bedroom is directly above the garage.

“It’s your fault Lindsay turned bulimic! You always pushed her too hard! It didn’t matter if she was valedictorian or tennis team captain or a concert pianist, she was never good enough for you.” “At least I wasn’t babying her all the time! I just wanted my daughter to grow up strong. It was your coddling that made her cave in like that!”

*
*
*


Even though I’m finished with bulimia, it isn’t finished with me. A common side effect is gastroesophageal reflux, where my gag reflex fires involuntarily and my stomach contents come up. This looks incredibly suspicious to people who know I have a history with bulimia.

I’m looking at Christmas ornaments with my dad and sister a few days later. I can’t decide if this one is a gingerbread man or a really tan starfish when my stomach tightens. This is the worst, because my stomach is empty of anything except acid. I imagine this is what it would be like to iron the inside of my throat with a pair of flaming soccer cleats.

I’m bent over like I’m trying to cough my throat out onto the floor (which I wouldn’t have minded) as the scorching gets worse. I’m pretty sure everyone in the store is staring so I scramble outside. I’m trying to calm down by taking deep breaths but the frozen air ironically makes the burning worse, so I attempt to casually stroll into a nearby restaurant and ask in a horribly raw voice for a glass of water. The girl smiles because she thinks I’m a chain smoker and fills a cup and I thank her while trying to control myself because I’d gladly drink all 32 ounces in one gulp. My throat cools but is still itchy.

My dad and sister are asking what happened and I say I coughed up acid, so we get ice cream to neutralize it. I claw maniacally at a frozen cylinder of Phish Food with a flimsy plastic spork the whole way home, where I finally microwave the block into submission. I’m halfway done when my stomach protests the unexpected influx of food by sending the ice cream back up (at least it doesn’t burn) and I’m running again, this time to the nearest toilet.

Winter break becomes a laborious game of avoiding anything that could make me look like I’m still bulimic. I don’t eat too much because I’ll vomit. I don’t eat too little because I’ll seem anorexic. I’m afraid of soda because burping can trigger refluxes. I snack on Tums between meals. My workouts are light so I won’t lose weight. You’d think even if my parents didn’t know I used to be bulimic, they would still be suspicious.

Kelli and I exchange Christmas gifts one night. I haven’t told her I know she snitched on me, but she probably has figured it out since I’ve barely spoken to her for the past two months. As she turns to leave, she asks, “Are we okay?”

No. “Yeah.” I want to tell her I’ve lost my parents’ trust, that she’s lost mine. That I will never believe anything she says again.

*
*
*


I’m more frustrated than grateful that everyone is too concerned to trust me. I ask my dad why no one believes me when I say I’m not bulimic. He says they do – they’re just making sure I’m okay. So no one believes me.

This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.




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This article has 183 comments. Post your own!

NYCprincess said...
Dec. 16, 2009 at 9:16 pm:
omg, ur a really great writer...
 
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icingcake15 said...
Dec. 11, 2009 at 8:22 pm:
omg, when i read the title i was like i have to read the article because i thought i was a great thing that you brought such an amazing and real, inspiring story that can and will change the lives of many young adults. btw your an amazing writer
 
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--Morganne[: said...
Dec. 11, 2009 at 1:56 pm:
I went through this too. It is really hard to recover from and I can feel your pain. Your writing is really good too
 
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Darling,:* said...
Dec. 8, 2009 at 10:29 pm:
Not only is the story itself touching and so true, you're also a great writer. I'm still recovering from bulimia and everybody talks about how it's bad for your esophogus and how it could lead to anorexia or death, but finally I feel like somebody else gets what it's like to have to hide bulimia, and that hiding it is more than just hiding the fact that you're vomiting.
I also really like your writing style and how you made the ending honest and you didn't tr... (more »)
 
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Zephyrine said...
Dec. 5, 2009 at 2:29 pm:
I was goin to start becoming bulimic n then I read ur story n I want to thank you for postin this b/c this has made me aware of wat could of happend if I became bulimic. I am srry that u had to go through it though, but u jus possibly helpd save a life by postin this.
 
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PoetUnknown said...
Dec. 5, 2009 at 12:45 pm:
dag...this is friggin amazing. even though its painfully true...its like something you'd want to show your little sister to scare her out of turning that way when you know she's thinking about it. Thanks.
 
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CuteCourt101 This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Nov. 19, 2009 at 6:46 pm:
This is such a great story! My sister was anorexic, so I know just how awkward it is looking out for your older sister. She is better now, but still has issues with her weight. So, believe me when I say, I believe you! My sister and I share the same room, and we are like best friends. I am so glad that you are better and that you are working to manage this. Kepp up the writing, and your hard work!
 
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CaseyLeigh This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Nov. 8, 2009 at 1:54 pm:
This piece is amazing and inspiring. Good job!
 
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KiraKira said...
Oct. 28, 2009 at 8:49 pm:
I'm so sorry Lindsay. Man, I believe you. You're not bulimic, you're just suffering from side effects. I'll never really relate to this because I'm not bulimic or anorexic, but I am eating less because I'm really worried about my weight. But you're an amazing writer, and I feel like I'm in your shoes as I read this. I'm so sorry for what you had gone through and what you are? going through. I hope you pull through.
 
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harvardsp2013 said...
Oct. 28, 2009 at 7:52 pm:
Wow Lindsay, your story reminded me so much of my own life. Except a bit of a variation. I'm going to post my story up and so people can take a look at it. I hope people can learn from my mistake. And by the way, I've learned that you always look better to other people than you do to yourself in the mirror. =]
ps. I believe you.
 
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EmilyMarie said...
Oct. 28, 2009 at 7:11 pm:
this article really hit me and i think its wonderful.. your an amazing writer
 
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headinclouds said...
Oct. 6, 2009 at 5:57 pm:
i hope that you and your friend are ok now... whether you choose to believe it or not, she did the right thing... ur a great writer and i believe in you
 
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freewriter22 said...
Oct. 6, 2009 at 3:20 pm:
Wow...the honesty in your writing is outstanding, it is as if you spilled your heart out to us...I know your struggling but if it helps just know that somebody believes in you!
 
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kasey.camille said...
Oct. 6, 2009 at 10:18 am:
I am in a very similar situation that your friend was in, and it was reassuring to read this article. I love your writing style; it seemed very casual, and I don't see that often. Thanks for the story!
 
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pixiegirl999 said...
Oct. 6, 2009 at 9:31 am:
This is really good writing>>> I like it a lot!
Be well...
 
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writer24/7/365 said...
Sept. 14, 2009 at 7:22 pm:
ur really good at writing about real life but still making it interesting.
 
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Cassandra Isabella. said...
Sept. 14, 2009 at 7:22 pm:
I Can Relate. Alot. Hey, This Is A Great Article. What Happen in the past will slowly fade away, you'll have a better future i know ive have.
 
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writer24/7/365 said...
Sept. 14, 2009 at 7:21 pm:
u should do a follow up sequel. like where u r now.
 
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Cassandra Isabella. said...
Sept. 14, 2009 at 7:18 pm:
this is a really good website for teens
 
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Annabelle7614 said...
Sept. 14, 2009 at 3:54 pm:
I like how this article is written because it isn't the classic "I was bulimic then I wasn't and now all is good". It is very truthful and inspiring, and I hope you feel better soon, but I'm sure you hear that enough from your parents, so let me make it special. In all my years, I have never heard a more personal and detailed essay and I think you should send it in to chicken soup for the soul. I feel like I know you personally now and I really hope this horrid condition... (more »)
 
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