Secrecy is key to bulimia. It’s what the condition demands. It’s what it depends on. And it’s not difficult to go along with when you consider the amount of shame that the whole process involves.
I’m about to break the rules.
Given the depths that bulimia has taken me to and the price that I have paid, I feel that a little frankness is in order.
Even if it’s not pretty.
Even if it’s incredibly scary.
My bulimia grew out of my anorexia. It came along when I had been ground down by the starvation bit. It came along when people began to get a bit worried and began to make the anorexia a little scared.
During my first in patient admission, it really took hold.
Contrary to popular belief, the whole messy process didn’t feel like a conscious decision. I wasn’t inducted, high school (apparently) style, and the experience certainly wasn’t as funny as the flippant jokes made today are. It just felt like the only option.
And it was a slippery slope from then on.
Bulimia is insidious. It is a lethal combination of the physical (concentration camp starvation mixed with a heady dose of sugar highs) and the emotional (desire-disgust-greed-punishment) that rapidly spirals into full blown addiction.
It starts out small and gets bigger and bigger.
It seems a good idea until you realise what a bad idea it really is. And by then, it feels like it’s too late.