On Thursday, it will be 11 months since I last threw up.

In one month and 5 days, it will be a whole year since I last threw up.

At first, I counted the hours. Then hours became days and weeks and then months. After trying and failing for so long, these things are important.

Stopping throwing up was possibly the hardest thing I have done. It was certainly the most frightening.

For over 16 years, I had thrown up every day, excepting the instances when I was physically restrained or the periods where I fell under the CCTV eye of 1:1 medical supervision.

I had structured my day around throwing up, arranged my comings and goings in line with throwing up, even chosen my outfits to meet the requirements of a full time bulimic.

I had thrown up when I had eaten and when I hadn’t.

I had thrown up when I was angry and when I was lonely and when I was happy. When I wanted a release, and when I wanted comfort, and when I wanted to feel something different.

At the end, I was throwing up because it was 7:00 and that was what I did at 7:00.

It sounds like madness.

It’s hard to get your head around bulimia, possibly because it’s hard to talk about bulimia. Anorexia is slightly more socially acceptable. It seems cleaner, somehow. A little more serious; slightly (and sinisterly) in vogue. Bulimia, on the other hand, is a bit of a joke.

Unless, of course, you’ve experienced it.



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