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Questions I ask myself

I have been a bulimic since I was 15. That's 12 years of secretly purging any meal or meals that I felt guilty about.

There's a hot fire that encompass my esophagus and intestines on a frequent basis. My knuckles are raw and bleed all the time. I tell my friends that I do it, just so they're not surprised when I excuse myself right after we have dinner together.

But thinking about it, what do I get? I get that feeling of guilt and pain of insecurity disappear...for a little while. I get the satisfaction of knowing that I can wretch until I taste the bitter bile, meaning there's nothing substantial left. And then? And then I say to myself, "do you feel better?(yes, much) but are you happier? (no)" I'm never happier because I know that it's sick to feed my face only because I know I can throw it up later.

I'm sick, I found a way out of loving to eat without becoming obese. If my family knew, if my doctor-brother knew, (not that they'd ever understand) I would be hospitalized and ostracized and misunderstood. This doesn't happen in my family. This doesn't happen to "normal" people who can control themselves in front of a plate of food. But I can't, because I know that 20 minutes later it's gone anyway. I just pray my heart doesn't give way before I'm able to get over this, because I know I can. I swear. I can.

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