The truth is that I wish I had anorexia, not bulimia. I'm pining for anorexia. I've grown humiliated by bulimia, which I used to think of as the best of both worlds—eat what you want, throw it all up, stay thin. But now it doesn't feel like the best of both worlds. It feels terrible.
I'm filled with so much shame and anxiety every time after I eat, I literally don't know what to do to make myself feel better except throw up. And after I'm done, I half do. Half of me feels depleted, exhausted, like there's nothing left, which is helpful. The other half of me now has a splitting headache, a sore throat, vomit sliding down my arm and tangled in my hair, and even more shame on top of the initial shame since now I've not only eaten but thrown up, too. Bulimia is not the answer.
Anorexia is.
Anorexia is regal, in control, all-powerful. Bulimia is out of control, chaotic, pathetic. Poor man's anorexia. I have friends with anorexia, and I can tell they pity me. I know they know because anyone with an eating disorder can tell when anyone else has an eating disorder. It's like a secret code you can't help but pick up on.