Heading into the seventh-floor washroom at school, I hear a muted crossbreed of a retch and a whimper. Startled by the perturbing though hardly discernible sound, I momentarily doubt having heard anything at all. The first five stalls are vacant, as evidenced by the open doors. The sixth black paint-tattered door, furthest from the entrance, however, is shut. Two feet donning fluorescent coral sandals shuffle around. The unusual position of this dainty pair of feet indicates that the girl inside is standing facing the toilet bowl. Strange.
She flushes. Wanting to go unnoticed, I scurry into the nearest stall as she bolts out. I hear her turn on the faucet and rinse her mouth before spitting into the sink. She leaves. I wait a minute—my unsteady hand set on the lock—before pushing forward and peering out. Treading hesitantly to the last stall, I struggle with the desire to deceive myself from what I strongly suspect I am about to discover. Reaching the final stall, I slowly swing the door open.
A repulsive acidity lingers in the air, thickening each molecule with its suffocating stench. The familiar stink of bile assaults my nostrils. Pieces of semi-digested food float around in the yellow-discoloured toilet water. Vomit stains splattered across the rim of the bowl paint the porcelain with a kaleidoscope of grimy colours. Stricken with dread, I feel ill.
Before my dismayed eyes is not merely a medley of mushy green peas and shredded iceberg salad, clumps of apple and chicken, it is a mishmash of self-repulsion and self-loathing. I am disturbed by this insanely bizarre full-circle moment: Being exposed to the wretched truth dissolved in this poisonous atmosphere. Self-denigration as loud as a yell and as quiet as a whisper. Beholding this foul exhibition of surreptitious, destructive madness incites my memory to relapse to an abysmally disparaging time. A time of such self-inflicted terror that, were it not for timeworn journals fraught with brutal details, I would scarcely believe the magnitude of its horror.
The violent hurricane of my past eating disorder’s tyranny.
The ambience that settles around me is tense, overwrought. Shame swallows me up. Suddenly I am 16 again—wildly bingeing on everything my hands can grab and guzzling a litre of Diet Coke to emulsify the revolting upward mudslide, until my stomach bulges and hardens, begging for release. Dragging my pained, hefty body to the washroom, I clutch my aching belly, reassuring it that deliverance will soon come. I shut and lock the door behind me and turn on the faucet, letting both hot and cold water run full force to mask any damning sounds. Lifting the toilet seat, I lay a few squares of toilet paper into the water to prevent the gruesome splashes—but not too many, or else they will clog and send my disgraces back up.
The setting is prepared, and I am ready. As my throbbing stomach wails, terrible zeal emerges from within. There is no way to thwart this compulsion now. I bend over halfway; tilting my torso forward, my firm belly divides into sickening rolls of fat. I stick an index finger into my throat, but due to my habitual practice, it is ineffective. My middle finger slips in. Better, but still . . . I make a fist with my other hand and roughly knead it into my abdomen, forcing my sins back up. Synched in this devilish motion, my two fingers dive deeper, massaging the back of my sore throat. Gag reflex kicks in like an old friend, and I greet it by pressing on. Just knead a bit harder, slide back a bit farther. Ah, there it is—all the putrid contents spewing out. The diet soda went in last, so the beginnings are mostly dark-brown carbonated liquid. Then the real exhilaration comes—morsels of food. More. I heave and smile a little. I feel sick. I feel pleased. I run my two slimy, saliva-drenched fingers under the faucet before they diligently persevere and wriggle away in their cleansing duties. Fingers travel deeper. Fist kneads into something resembling a punch. Teeth grind against my already bruised knuckles as spit runs down my hand. Eyes closed, but I feel tears welling—strictly a physical response to self-induced resentment. More thick globs of undigested food amalgamated in rancid bile gush out. Proud and excited, I spew and smile.
This is power. This is self-control.
To believe that I can eat my cake and puke it out too—how pathetically self-indulgent. The flagrant stupidity, the cruel irony, I simply choose to ignore it and revel in this labour of physical enhancement executed through psychosis. To be both perpetrator and victim, it is a slow and deliberate death. I flush my depravities, watching them swirl down and disappear. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand before vigorously washing with soap and brushing my teeth. Catching my reflection in the mirror, though I notice the perturbing symptoms of my bulimia—bloodshot eyes, acned skin, bloated cheeks, cracked lips, yellowing teeth—I’ve never felt as empowered and pure as I do when my body is light and emptied, as vacuous as my self-worth.
At this acute stage of obsession, the concern is no longer solely a skewed body image. It is the deadly reliance of self-esteem on pounds and fat; and there is no end to these unhealthy means. Living in this purgatory causes serial self-loathing. An inexorable fixation that provokes the total demolishment of one’s worth. Hoarding all these secrets, trying to regurgitate the indomitable demons after every bite and rid oneself of their wrath and authority. A warped, irremediable mentality that craves to be rail thin—a gaunt face, razor-sharp collarbone, boney arms, pointy shoulder blades that cut through shirts, visible breastbones, protruding ribcage, tiny waist, jutting hipbones, inexistent love handles and slender thighs that never grotesquely chafe for there is a gaping space between. Skeletal, really.
Coveting emaciation. Bones, bones, bones. Lovely, clean, weightless bones. To be plucked away by the wind—that unreal, absurd threat—what a lethal fantasy it can become for some.
Finally, I leave the incriminating bathroom stall and go wash my hands. This traumatic reminiscing has left me feeling sullied.
Some things never return to normal, and some people never fully recover. It is difficult to rediscover a healthy relationship with food when you starve to thrive then voraciously binge before purging to cleanse. The lure of the purge. Killing the inside to beautify the outside. When what nourishes you also destroys you, everything becomes distorted. Everything is a trigger on the relentless pursuit of bones.
Some aversions endure forever. Cheerios used to be my favourite, but they taste like stale cardboard coming back up. I can never unlearn that vile flavour.
- by Brittany Alexandra Silveira
