Author's Note: This story contains mature subject matter (anorexia & bulimia). Reader discretion is advised. This is Part 3 of "Mock Morals: Starving for Skinny" (article id: 8914). The article id of "Mock Morals: Starving for Skinny, Part 2" is 9009.
Saturday June 14, 2008 - My aunt's family came over for dinner and decided to stay for Father's Day. Aunt Marie is an amazing cook and as always, she brought over her prize winning apple pie. I could smell it from my room when she was reheating it in the oven. The sweet aroma of the crispy dough and cinnamon stained apples made my stomach churn. I wanted to grab the pie when she walked in the door. But I knew I would have to dodge concerned remarks and ongoing questions about my slim figure, so I just hid in my room. For the past few weeks, my mother was constantly asking me about my weight. Why are you so skinny now? Aren't you eating? Did you have breakfast? When was the last time you ate? Why don't you call Holly anymore? Who is Nicole? Why did you dye your hair? Bridget, why are you walking away from me?
She had cornered me and began bombarding me with questions. It was as if she was whipping darts at me and I was her target. "Mom, LEAVE ME ALONE" I yelled, "Please just GO AWAY." I ran upstairs to my room and shut the door. These days, my room had become my sanctuary. I was at peace here, though not with myself. I was safe from my annoying parents and rude sister. All I needed was a pile of laxatives, my little cup of grapes, a mirror, a scale, a pencil and my beloved diary. For days it seemed that I was camping out in my room. I think the biggest mistake my parents ever made about me was allowing me to have the bedroom with the bathroom. I used to take a pillow and blanket to the bathroom and sleep on the floor, clutching my stomach in pain. Sometimes I would glare at the clock and watch the time pass by. It felt like I was watching my own death. I was slowly rotting away to shreds, losing touch of reality every second. I think that more than ever I began realizing just how painful my mission was. Though I avoided my family, inside I was questioning myself. Had I made the right decision? Should I stop destroying myself? I was at a crossroads in my life and there were two paths before me. Should I continue on with my journey or should I take the road to recovery?
Then came the dreaded day that I took the wrong path. Sunday June 15, 2008 marked the day I became bulimic. Happy Father's Day.
"Here" said Uncle Rob, shoving a juicy hot dog in my face. "Take a bite. You love hotdogs, Bridget."
"Um" I turned my face away from this poison, "No thanks."
When I turned my face the opposite way, I found myself face to face with the hotdog once again. My parents must have put him up to this. They told him I wasn't eating.
"You can't turn away from your big ol' Uncle Rob! Have a bite, darlin'. Your mom says you haven't been eatin' much now, eh Bridget?" he chuckled, "Can't see why though, you need some hotdog meat on those little bones!"
That's right Uncle Rob, you are old and very, very big. I never want to be as bulky as you. I've got enough hotdog meat on my bones. But you? You've got sausage meat. Also, how dare you! What nerve do you have to tell me I need HOTDOG meat on my bones? Do I look like a chubby wiener to you? Is my skin THAT baggy that it's hanging off my bones? I couldn't believe my ears. My own family was trying to kill me. They were all in this together, it was them against me. When I felt that I couldn't hurt anymore, my own family had betrayed me. Why did they hate me? Why were they against me? To calm myself down, I told myself that my family was just jealous of me. They envied my slim figure. They all wanted to be like me and since they couldn't, they were attacking me. Well, their insults could hurt me no longer. My family had become my enemy. But in reality, I had become my own enemy.
I tried to resist Uncle Rob. Nonetheless, he would not stop trying to force feed me. I knew that to get rid of him, I had to eat this hotdog. So I held my breath, prayed to God not to get fat and took a small bite. Mmm, it was delicious. I viciously ate more and more of the hotdog. I stopped briefly to garnish it, pouring a mixture of ketchup and relish on it. Then I continued indulging it. The hotdog felt so good as it went down my throat. I can't remember the last time I ate like this. Oh . . . it was last night when I had half a grape. For days, I yearned for food. I ate nothing but sliced grapes and this hotdog was a reward for my miseries. Compared to the grapes, this hotdog was a feast.
"That's right, Bridget. That wasn't so hard. You ate the entire thing, see how hungry you were? This hotdog is going to plump you right up!!" he said, smiling.
WHAT? THIS HOT DOG WAS GOING TO GET ME FAT? HOW DARE HE FEED ME THIS VENOM? I immediately ran inside the house in tears. I couldn't let my family see me like this. I began panicking. I did not want to gain weight. I couldn't gain weight. After all of my triumphs and tribulations, how could I have given up so fast? I felt pathetic! I was the most unintelligent, worthless person. I had failed myself and surrendered to the enemy. It was only a few weeks ago that I accidentally ate a cookie. This week I let myself down completely. Had I not learned anything from my punishment? Ugh, how could I have been so stupid? My quest was so meaningful to me but I had thrown it away so fast. I had to get the food out of my system IMMEDIATELY. But how? I couldn't want for my body to digest it, that would take too long. No, I had to do something fast before I gained any weight. I dashed into the nearest bathroom and locked the door. Then I turned the sink on, full speed. Water was violently pouring through the faucet, imitating my tears.
I glanced at myself in the mirror, ignoring my hollowed eyes and bony face. All I could think of was how I was going to get fat. When I looked at my reflection, I could only see was what I hated about myself. I don't know what I was striving for those days. At first, I wanted perfection. However, I was past perfection when I began taking extreme measures. I was starving myself of EVERYTHING, taking several laxatives every day, lying to my family, avoiding my friends, ignoring school and my health. I was a human toothpick and I still felt chubby. My goal was to be as slim as a string. That's what caused me to throw up that hot dog, I wanted to achieve something that was unattainable. I shoved my finger down my throat without even stopping to thoroughly think about what I was doing. Was this going to affect my health? Would I feel sick? I ignored these inquiries. They were buried in the back of my mind, past my mission to lose weight.
I vomited many times until I was fully satisfied that I had thrown up all the contents of the hotdog. Then I washed my mouth to rid myself of the stench. The proof of my disorder. I smelled my breath. Ugh, too obvious. I grabbed the mouthwash and cleaned my mouth again. Much better now. I looked at myself in the mirror. During the last few weeks, I was losing ammo. That day in the bathroom, I geared up. I put myself back on track. I knew what I wanted and what I didn't want. Moreover, I was aware of what I was doing to myself. I wiped away my tears and toughened up. I was never going to doubt myself again.
When I walked out of the bathroom, I was more determined than ever to fit into my prom dress.
For the first time in several months, I ate dinner that night. It was more fulfilling than the hotdog. Then I quickly ran up to my room and vomited it. The smell of puke was so strong that I vomited once more. Quickly I scribbled something in my diary:
holiday50
