Not being me.

The me who has a problem with food is fragile.
She longs to be protected.
She does not speak.
She hides away and has been invisible for years.

The me that others know.
The me that acts and covers her trembles. She is strong.
She has survived. She can conquer the world.
She speaks in harsh tones and scares people.
She takes the stage and performs with her hands in her pockets.

I block the fragile me.
I see her as weak.
I am embarrassed of her voice and her teeth-dented fingers.
I fear the me that speaks in harsh tones. I do not like her voice.

I am crumbling inside.

I feel that I have to act.
I can not show my weakness.
I can not be me.
To let the me who has problems with food speak.
To hear my voice.
Is to be less perfect.
Is to show weakness.

I strive to be good at everything that I do.
I strive to cover the huge crack that splits me in two.

I need to admit that I have a problem.
But.
If I do.
Then who will run the fastest.
People only know me.
They don't know me.

I fear the gossip and the judgement.
But.
Not being me is exhausting.

I don't want people to know.
Not even you.

Diary 1993. Extract 4.

20 January 1993.

Dear D,
Mum tells dad and dad shouts. To him I am stupid and what I am doing to myself is one big game. I am playing the game to get attention.

I don’t want this attention. I don’t like the situation. I don’t like the questions. I don’t like being watched.

I hate being here, but I hate being outside too. Every conversation in this house is about food and when I am outside I worry about food.

Mum said that it used to be other parents with ‘problem’ children, but now it is her and I am a ‘problem' child.

I wish that they didn’t know.
X

Diary 1993. Extract 3.

19 January 1993.

Dear D,
Dad picked Joe and me up from Manchester airport at midnight and we got home at 4am. I am shattered.

Mum has told dad about my eating and dad handled it in his usual clumsy way. He asked me what about what I was doing to my mum!

Mum had booked an appointment with the doctor. She was crying in the doctors. The doctor has said that I have to see a psychiatrist. I don’t really know how I feel about this. I have to go back to the doctors every week to be weighed.

Joe is telling his mum about my eating now and I am sure she’ll turn him against me.

I hate that everyone is talking about me.

I came back to four unconditional university places and I have to make a decision. I don’t even think that I want to go.

I can’t cope.
X

I can not cope with:

all you can eat restaurants.

Miscarriage.

This is out of order. It shouldn’t come just yet.
But it’s in my mind.
Today.
I am there again.
Today.
I am seeing the wet red on the tips of my fingers.

I was pregnant. I was bulimic.
I was having therapy. It was not helping.

I had a miscarriage at my ninth week of pregnancy.

That was two years and five months ago.

I was selfish.
I am selfish.
I should have stopped making myself sick. I was not an adult.
I didn’t put that growing baby first.

I have been punished.

Diary 1993. Extract 2.

January 2 1993.

Dear D,
Thought I’d better write something before I pack you! I can’t wait to go to Tunisia tomorrow. It'll be just Joe and me for two weeks.

Mum’s talking about my eating ALL the time. It’s like, just because she knows about it, she wants it all to be ok straight away. She thinks I can just be better NOW because she wants me to be. She’s watching me ALL the time.

Mum says that I should just eat.
Like it’s that simple.
I’ve told her that I’ll get better in Tunisia.
Like it’s that simple.

X

Diary 1993. Extract 1.

January 1 1993.

Dear D,
Mum knows.
Mum confronted me about my eating. She asked me if I was bulimic. I said yes.
I said that I’d give up.

Mum said that it was as bad as me having cancer. She said that my hair would fall out and that I would get pregnant. She said that I should have more sense.

She’s right. I should have more sense. But the thing is that I really don’t want to stop.
I’m not thin yet. I actually think that I might be doing it wrong.

Happy New Year.
Mum tried to make herself sick using her fingers.
X

Am I bulimic?

I don’t think that I binge.
How can I be bulimic if I don’t binge?
I am ill, but the labels don’t quite fit as nicely as they used to.

I eat breakfast.
I am not sick.

I eat lunch.
I am sick.

I eat dinner.
I am sick.

I allow myself a supper of sorts.
I know my limits.

My portion size for lunch and dinner is large. I drink a pint of water alongside my meal.
Then I go to the bathroom.
I lock the door.
I turn on the tap.
I put my fingers into my mouth and I make myself sick.

I have a routine.
But this routine has to be followed. Has to be.

I can not eat out.
I can not eat with others.

I am trapping myself and my family.
I am tired again today.

Today I have been sick twice.
I must be a bulimic who does not binge.

I kind of think that the sicking is an expression.
I am hiding behind being sick.

I have to figure out what I am hiding from.

Diary 1992. Extract 3.

December 24 1992.

Dear D,
Twas the night before Christmas. What a total disaster!

I feel bad for mum. I stayed in to help make the Eve special, but it has all kind of backfired. Dad’s in a total strop and J was being an idiot. I think that he’d been drinking. He came in and ate half the turkey. Mun cooks it really early and J was hungry. The atmosphere is awful.

J told me that I am fat. He always does and he laughs when he says it. Mum doesn’t say anything.

I’ve been really down about my eating and mum thought that I was jealous of J. I’m not. But she always thinks that I am. I was going to tell her about my eating but I couldn’t find the right time or the words. I have all these thoughts and stuff going around and around inside my head and I don’t know what to do.

I wish I had someone to talk to.
X

Recognising Limits.

Yesterday I returned from a family holiday. A week in the sunshine with my husband and children.

Before going I was in a panic. Food.
How would I manage a lunchtime meal when we were out for the day? How would I find a toilet? How would I find energy?

Panic.Panic.

I stamped my feet. I began to worry. My sleep was anxious.
But it was ok. I survived.
The heat warmed me. The sun on my body. My skin changed colour. My confidence grew.
I was able to nibble for lunch.
I knew my limits. I managed my limits.
I didn't need to find a toilet.
I had energy.

I went a week being sick once a day. Once after my evening meal.
I came home. I have lost weight.

I thought that I’d be able to continue the routine here. But I was naïve.

Today was my first attempt.
I couldn’t.
I couldn’t measure my limit.

Today I have been sick twice.
I feel that I have failed.

I really don’t know how to manage my eating. Here. Now. I have a routine.

I need to look at how and why I eat.
It is so hard.

I feel tired.

Diary 1992. Extract 2.

November 18 1992.

Dear D,

I think that I feel sad. I’m not sure. I think it’s sadness, but I am feeling panicky too. I have a dilemma. I don’t know whether or not to have plastic surgery. Mum says that I can. I wish that I had someone to talk this through with.

If I go ahead then my individuality will be destroyed. I guess that I’ll stop being me. I’ll be a totally different person. That’s what mum says.

But the bullying will end and my self confidence will increase and so will my general happiness. Part of me says that I am me. I am [insert name] and I should be happy that I am alive. But that’s a bit shit, because I feel so sad. I look at myself in the mirror and I hate what I see. I AM FAT AND UGLY.

I hate meeting people. I hate leaving a room in case people start talking about how ugly I am. I hate going out. Plastic surgery is a solution. I hate myself!

The other solution would be to cut and cut until my ugly face was one big scab.
I AM FAT AND UGLY.

Why would anyone every love me?
I'm glad that mum doesn't know about my eating.
x

The Answers

How far back do I go?

Where are the answers?

Buried.

Without a voice.

The real world.

- So what do you do in the real world?

I do lots of things.

- That's not really an answer.

I know.

- Do you do anything?

Yes. I'm a writer.

- A published writer?

Yes.

- So why you bulimic then?

Because I don't know how not to be.

- Why not say who you are? I'll buy your book.

No. This blog is about me. I don't want to be watched. I don't want my identity to become the 'writer with bulimia.' Not until I have figured this all out. If I ever do. This blog may be deleted in a few days.

-Why are you hiding?

I don't know what else to do. I am scared of myself.

In the now.

Today.
I read the diary words from my past and I understand them all.
I recognise myself.

Older. More experienced. Still alive. But again Bulimic.

I see the spiralling. I see that the purging brought out words that had no voice.
I had so many words within me that I could not speak.

I still have those same words.
But now I can write them. I work with words. I understand the power behind words.

People talk of triggers.
My bulimia was triggered by a film, but the reasoning behind it was buried deep within me.

Abuse. Bullying. Self harm. Promiscuity.
I spiralled. I let things happen to me. I did things to myself.
I wanted the pain to go away. I wanted to be numb.

Bulimia made me numb. It was a distraction of sorts.
But I became ill. Too ill.

And now.
Well now my bulimia is covering me again.

I have been bulimic again for 4 years.

I am ill.

Diary 1992

October 22nd 1992.

Dear D,
I am still being sick, but it’s no good. I don’t think that it’s helping me. Mum spoke of a girl at the gym who is bulimic and how it can kill you. She doesn’t know what I do in the bathroom. I can’t let her know. All that’ll happen is that I’ll be made to eat and I couldn’t bear it. I can’t tell her that I’m being sick. She’ll think that I’m being childish. I am being childish. I’ve been being sick for 10 weeks now, but I’m still fat.
What am I doing wrong?

Am I going to die? I don't even think that I care.
x

In August 1992 I had escaped to France.
Escaped is the right word.

I was 18 years old.

I watched a film. It was dubbed in French and my French was at A-level standard.
The language was lost, but the images spoke the words.

The main character was making herself sick to control her weight.
I thought that the idea was a perfect one.

In the summer of 1992, I stuck two fingers into my mouth and made myself sick.

It was easy.

Where to begin?

I am in my 30s.
I am ill.
I make myself sick after I eat.
I struggle with my energy levels.
I struggle with life.

I look in the mirror and a fat woman frowns back at me.
I hate my naked self.
I hate my clothed self.

My husband knows.
He is the only person to know.
He cooks me food and waits as I go to the toilet to purge the food from me.
He hears the running water.
He does not question my actions.
He doesn’t know how to question them.

Our life is governed by my eating habits.

I look normal.
I must appear confident in some of what I do.
But I am not.
I am dying inside,

I feel my body dying.
But I have children to protect,
They need me.

I am lost.