Labels&Fables: Diary Of A Bulimic

I close the door behind me. Shut the night away in my precious little box, my asylum sleeping still as I tie the bow on the handle and convince myself afresh that today will be different. I slink to the bathroom and scrub the remnants of last nights binge from the porclain, the carpet, the wall… Disgusted, yet proud as I hold my hands around my waist and run my tongue across my powdered teeth. 8st 11. A disgusting whale. My hands shake as I rinse them in the boiling water. My arms weaken as I scrape my mouth with the toothbrush and obsess over the blood that runs from my raw gums. I stare intently at the tiny hole on my bottom front tooth, my punishment for the never ending abuse it’s forced to endure, and then close my mouth with the beautiful lips my mum and dad gave me. I slowly walk downstairs, running my palm against the length of the wall, the plaster rough as my knees click, and grow weaker with every next step. The smoky lounge fills my lungs as I hear beats and clinks from the night before, I open the heavy window and sit on the floor to rest. I like it when there’s no one in the house. I like to be on my own in the quiet – except, it’s never quiet. A drink, to take the edge off I think, and lift myself from the hard carpet.

My kitchen. My temple. Already my stomach rumbles as I covet the peanuts on the fridge, I open the door and undress the salami, the chicken, the chocolate… all these treats put there just for me, and the dirty secret that could be. I reach for the wine and drink it from the bottle. Todays goal is hopeful for tomorrows side effect, but remains this day the ultimate destination. I am fickle today, I sit and smoke… pondering my next move. I’m not hungry… but unsure as to when my housemates will unlock the door and infect my perfect sanctuary again…my decadent womb with no sound and no taste, but pure comfort as I shovel dirty food into my mouth. It’s decided. I am weak and I am excited. I am disgusted and I am alive. I am beaten.

I start with two slices, butter, jam, peanut butter, I eat 3 crackers with pate as I wait for the kettle to boil and the bread to grow golden. I plough peanuts into my delicate fists and almost choke as I pour them down my throat. Coffee, sugar, whole milk, lubrication for the torture to come. I squeeze my stomach and pinch at my thighs. I pour the coffee down my pipe, I eat 2 bananas without tasting them and 5 slices of salami, I guzzle down orange juice from the carton and chew on a half of chicken while I break some chocolate away from the bar and force it between my lips… I chew and chew and I can taste the vomit already, spicy, creamy, sticky, sweet and sour all at once.

The worst is done. The best to come. With care and precision now, with control and patience, I gently place the perfect doughy rounds onto a saucer. I take these into the lounge, to savour them. Every bite is a tiny piece of heaven, I steal a can of cider, the more fluid the better to fill me, to empty me and rid my body of this horrid gorgeous memory. I eat and eat and eat until my teeth ache and my jaw grows tired and then I eat and eat some more. My stomach hurts, bruised and swollen. Now is the time… I squeeze a packet of cheddars into my already bursting gut and before I’ve even swallowed the last mouthful I begin to hide the evidence…a bag wrapped in a bag, under a box in the bin…enough to satisfy my craving, but little enough to go unnoticed by the masses. I walk slowly, yet purposefully upstairs, without a thought in my mind I lift the toilet seat and force my scrawny fingers to the very back of my raw throat, I cant wait…and almost orgasm at the sight of the toxic filth spewing out of my body. Cleansing my soul, snapping my chains and lifting my spirits to dizzy heights… until there’s nothing left. Hollow, pure... I reach for the last of my cider and feel the acid bubbles eat my teeth as I gulp it down and let it run down my cheeks. I vomit again, and again, and again and again and again until I’m exhausted.

I pull the chain and collapse. I can’t breath. I can’t focus. It's green. It's blurry. It's hot. It's cold. I rest. I recouperate. I reflect. I judge. I regret. I hate. I abuse. I pinch. I scream. I hit. I scratch. I fail. I fail. I fail. I come down from the ceiling with a heavy blow to the head.

I pull myself up to the sink. I wash away my sins in the basin. Lastly, I rinse my mouth with Listerine.

(I know you shouldn’t brush your teeth, the bristles scratch the surface of your enamel with the acids, and you really should look after yourself).