No Problem At All.

Pain. That describable feeling of being lost, hurt, angry, sad, mad and distressed.

You can’t explain it, no matter how hard you try and believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried putting to words the emotional, physical, mental pain that stabbed through the core of my being, but I just couldn’t pick out the words for it. No matter how carefully I chose the words, how meticulous I tried to let the words radiate the fact.

I rolled over onto my stomach, groaning, keeping my eyes shut.

I was afraid. Terrified. Terrified to open my eyes. Terrified to have to face another day. I wasn’t ready for another day. Another day of what I call my own personal hell.

But I did anyhow. Miserably so, but I did, and I was hit every pain imaginable all at the same time working in its sick, cruel harmony trying to rip me apart from the inside out, stationed deep in the back of my mind. That gut wrenching, heart string tugging pain that hung over my head like a dark cloud that refused to disappear.

Groaning, I looked towards the harsh white light radiating from the window as it burned my eyes as they painfully tried to adjust to this newfound glaring glow of the day. The light of a new day. How ironic.

My head was pounding, the lights burned and the slightest sounds like the ruffling of the curtain was painfully amplified making my head hurt more if it was even possible.

Heaving a sigh, I made my way to the bathroom and upon striping down, I turned the heater up to high and let the hot water scald my body until it almost felt cold. As my body became adjusted to the heat, I tried combing out the bird’s nest that seemed to have been permanently imbedded on my head that seemed to openly mock me, attempting to smoothen it out under the water.

I gritted my teeth, feeling a sharp jab in my stomach. It was probably a mixture of self- pity and anger. I tried convincing myself that it was all in the mind… Because that was all it was. Mind over matter, mind over matter, I kept repeating to myself. I willed the water to wash away the conflicting emotions and thoughts I had.

It didn’t work.

The voice still rang out in my head, clear as a bell,

“You have a problem,”

I closed my eyes, shutting out everything else, concentrating on the sound of the water spurting out of the showerhead and the beads falling onto my skin.

Again, the voice sliced through my thoughts,

“You have a problem and you need to deal with it,”

I gave up and climbed out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my body.

Maybe you do have a problem, I thought, as I stared into the fogged up mirror. Maybe there was something wrong with me. I allowed myself to look at the distorted reflection of myself. But not for long.

I mentally slapped myself and pushed the voice to the back of my head, this time succeeding. I couldn’t let myself wallow in the murky waters like that, I reminded myself, I was making progress. I couldn’t discourage myself and go back to self loathing again. I can’t, I won’t.

Once I was dry, decently clad and ready, I headed downstairs, looking out the window to the empty driveway.

That was good, I thought, at least I didn’t have to sit through another one of the awkward family breakfasts with my dad. For just the briefest moment, I was distracted by my growling stomach as I went into the kitchen for a glass of water.

Eying the fridge in the kitchen, the pang of hunger hit me hard and wave of lightheadedness sauntered into my head, making its presence known. My stomach growled loudly and I ignored it, gripping onto the counter, as if my dear life depended on it, I waited for the wave to pass. It always did. But then before the traces of the dizziness disappeared, the cereal on the counter called out to me. Without any second thoughts, I grabbed a bowl and pulled out the carton of milk and orange juice from the fridge.

I sat down and ate in silence, or more like devoured at the speed I was going, refilling the bowl twice, after which seeing as I still felt hungry, I made myself a pop tart for the road before grabbing my keys from the hook at the door and walked out of the house.

As I reached for the car keys in my pocket, however, poised in front of my car and ready to leave, my stomach lurched. It was happening again. The uncontrollable urge to throw up everything I’d just eaten.

Thoughts of the bowls of cereal I’d just downed sauntered into my head. And the milk that went with it. And the glasses of orange juice.

Something warm rose up in my throat as I thought of it.

My stomach gave another lurch and the guilt sank in.

I let the pop tart fall and swung the door back open, running to the bathroom.

Without fail, I’d mentally beat myself up after each one of these episodes.

Everything tempted me. And I usually gave in. And then feel guilty about it later.

It takes discipline to be thin. I knew that. It was the practice of it that was easier said than done.

Hastily I grabbed a toothbrush off the counter and pushed it down my throat as deep as it would go before feeling the familiar acidic explosion in my mouth as the retching then began once more, throwing up everything I had just consumed.

It had all started with pouring a cup of coke down the drain one day.

I’d just learned that soda and all carbonated drinks were empty calories. Which basically meant that the more you drank, the hungrier you’d feel and the more you’d eat though you were already consuming massive amounts of calories from the soda itself.

It was a cup of coke from a McDonald’s meal one day. No biggie right? I just wanted to know that when it came down to it, I could do it. I could say no. And I found out I could. And it felt so good. And then it happened again. And again. And again. And over time, instead of sifting out the calorific foods, or just throwing out the coke, I started skipping meals. I started preparing meals only to throw them away five seconds later when no one was looking.

It felt good at first. But then the initial weight drop just wasn’t good enough. And I took on a more aggressive approach to the situation. The situation that had not even existed prior to my successful attempts of dropping the pounds.

I knew something was amiss of course, that I was in trouble somehow. The warning bells were sounding in my head. But I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t. I’d go for days without eating, leaving empty food wrappers around me, hanging round in the kitchen, bringing dishes to the sink, covering up my footsteps as I went, feeling a growing sense of accomplishment the longer I went without food.

But then the hunger would get to me. It was a lot harder than it looked turning away from food, especially when you’ve been enjoying eating for 18 years of your life. So in a moment’s weakness which was often, I’d find myself raiding the fridge at night, or stuffing myself with anything I could find out of hunger before coming to my senses and forcing them all back out again.

And I was having another one such moment.

I was holding my hair as the last of my breakfast came back out, mentally beating myself up for eating and having to make myself throw up. I had broken a 2 day streak and was making myself throw up. Again.

This was bad. How much more of a failure can you be, I asked myself.

I was making myself sick on purpose. And somehow that didn’t seem quiet right. But it wasn’t like it was something I had intentionally set out to do. It was something that just happened. A back up plan that I put to motion when everything else wasn’t working.

The voice in my head sounded again, but this time I was too busy regurgitating to pay any attention to it.

Finally, as the last of my breakfast came back out, I wiped my mouth and flushed the toilet before standing up and going over to the sink. Turning on the tap, I splashed some water on my face and ran the toothbrush all over my teeth before my eyes connected with the image in the mirror. Taking a step back, I cringed at what I saw.

I smoothened the front of the shirt I had on, hands stopping and pushing in the significant bulge on my stomach further down before studying my reflection in the mirror with my ashen complexion staring back. I was at least 2 sizes bigger than most girls and 3 inches shorter, so what if I was making myself sick on purpose. It’s not like I’m one of those eighty pounds and an inch from death girls on those tv shows.

You don’t have a problem, I reasoned, trying to convince myself more than anything. You’re just controlling your weight, that’s all. Everything’s fine. No problem.

No problem at all…


One Response

  1. jeng jeng JENG

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