Who Am I?

Looking at a keyboard right now, and remembering the past, leaves tears of hurt cursed in my eyes. Who am I now? I asked myself this question the first day I forced myself to throw up, and to this day, the question haunts me.

All I know is, I'm a girl who's lost. Why do I throw up? Is it because I can't control or remember just how many chocolates I have forced myself to swallow? The life of a bulimic is nothing to be proud of, yet, I live the life I regret to call my own.

It started in grade 9, with a friend showing me how it was done. After losing 7kg from my already thin frame through a virus, the urge to stay thin was wrought into my life.

I'm 17 now, and I have been bulimic, or struggling with my weight for 3 years. With each year feeling as if I'm the passenger on a solo flight, watching my life get destroyed.

Throughout the last 3 years, bulimia narrowed my health, and my weight changed dramatically. With a few extra healthy kgs, and the well practiced secrety. My burden remained quiet, until I broke down in front of my friends. Promising that I would stop, it continued and nothing was said.

Once again, my soul was torn, and my body was weak, from constant pain. I feel weak, vomiting from one time a day to four.

I knew I had a problem, but being a popular, sporty, well known communial member, with an addiction like this, would have disgraced me and my name in the small town I call home.

At first, I thought it was great to be able to taste the food twice. Eating whatever I liked and not getting fat. I started vomitting bad junk foods up. Lollies, chocolates, cake, biscuits, milo and then the habit mastered me. I don't know if there's a moment food hasn't mastered my thoughts and dictated how I think about myself.

I've stopped on and off. Thinking I've recovered, I've done it again and it seems so normal. My friends think I've stopped. Although I dream of a future, I can see some hope. The thought of stopping my slow suicide anticipates a hazed feeling of lack of control.

The mirror is my truth, but it's truth is a lie. I see right through my angered and weaping soul.

As I write my story for the first time to whomever may read it, my teeth ache from the poison of this disease and I can almost see my health decaying right in front of my eyes, but I refuse to see this as my life.

I don't know if I can admit to the imperfection I breath everyday, or the chains it has locked around our freedom, but if there's one thing bulimia can not steal from me, is the love and peace I save for my family, so that they don't ever have to know my struggle. I hope together, in this life, or the eternal, we will be free at last. What a dream.

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