I am torn between two impossible choices. I’m torn between the presence of bones and the absence. I’m torn between starvation and binge eating. I’m torn between a complete emotional breakdown or numbing out with self harm. I’m torn between plain rice cakes and fruit and vegetables or bread and cake and peanut butter. I’m stuck between two impossibilities, and the further I stretch towards one, the further it leaps out of reach. The further safety leaps away, along with my sanity.
I am torn between anorexia and bulimia.
There are memories in the blank abscess of my brain, not many but a few. Starvation fucks with your mind. I can remember the book that started it all. I can remember the nose dive into excessive exercise, and orthorexic habits, and obsessions, and weight loss. I can remember the fear, taste its coating on my tongue: I was afraid of fat, and carbs, and sugar, and gaining weight, and people, and my parents, and failure. I was terrified of failure. I can remember the sit ups and push ups secretly on my bedroom floor, the inescapable urge to repeat exercises because I hadn’t done them right. I can remember the weight going down, and every drop brought with it only more elation. Every increase, however minor, brought with it self-deprecation, and punishment. I can remember the day I realised I had an eating disorder, and how it shattered me. I remember the day I called her Ana. I remember the text I sent to someone, the first person I ever opened up to about her. Have you met Ana, I asked? Ana who, she replied. Ana-rexia?
I remember doctor after doctor after doctor because my mum just wouldn’t fucking admit to herself that I was the failure. That her perfect golden child was seeking perfection, and it was killing her.
I remember the anxiety. And tears, and the suicidal thoughts to come. I remember the utter intensity of pain and anguish that I felt. I remember being threatened with hospitalisation. I remember it was only 500 grams away, but it was 500 kilometres away too.
I remember that nobody noticed. Nobody dared to ask lest they face the wrath of my bitter sarcasm.
Bulimia is not like anorexia.
They are both eating disorders, but that is all. Bulimia is grounded in shame and desperation and hatred, but anorexia is placed on some sort of pedestal, even in our own minds. Even in my head, I value the bones I’ve lost during weight restoration, I envy the people I see and I think to myself, they know Ana too. Bulimia is misunderstood, more so than anorexia. As soon as I confess that I don’t purge by vomiting, because I physically cannot (I wish, believe me), my concerns are pushed away, as if there’s not more than one way to purge, and not more than one way to have an eating disorder.
The two battle against each other. I eat to combat Ana, but I exercise to fight eating. I binge to cope with emotions, but starvation suppresses them too. I’m no longer underweight, but I can’t help thinking that I was better off dead, when I had the chance, when I had the opportunity, and I was oh so close to heart failure, even if nobody knew it at the time. I can’t help thinking that this shift from anorexia to bulimia shouldn’t even be important, but it is. It is.
There is nothing worse than your own head, nothing worse than memories which plague you. There is nothing worse than swapping one disorder for another, instead of recovering properly, like I was supposed to, like I should have, like I wasn’t good enough for. There is nothing worse than praying for a relapse, because I know, deep down, that this time, a relapse would kill me.
And that, after all, is the final goal.