By Jessica Cobb of Domestic Pirate
There is a poison in my consciousness.
This poison has seeped so deep into my mind that it feels like an intrinsic part of the woman I have become.
“You look good; you’ve lost weight,” as if the disease in my brain is acceptable as long as my body keeps getting smaller.
It is the gag reflex triggered by one too many bites. It is eating half portions of everything when you eat where someone else can see you and binging on whatever you can get your hands on the moment you are left alone because you are just. so. hungry.
It is not trusting your own judgement. It is being a burden on your spouse by handing them the reigns because you cannot trust yourself to make the right decisions for your body. It is guilt when they take a piece of candy out of your hands and replace it with an apple.
It is burst capillaries in your eyes from the strain of retching. It is acne from the disruption of chemicals in your body. It is your body refusing to work for you. It is your body breaking down from the abuse your brain makes your body heap upon itself.
It is a cycle of self loathing that, if left to run in perpetuity, will keep you on the path to slowly killing yourself. And you will never once feel like you don’t deserve it.
It is snot and bile. Shame and fear.
It is size 2, size 12, size 28.
It is unrelenting fear that the daughter who looks just like you will fall prey to the same sickness because she inherited your body type.
It is the hesitant admittance to friends. It is their silence that follows.
It is the loneliness of a cold bathroom floor. It is the smell of stale urine on the toilet rim.
It is the bowel movements that refuse to budge. It is the body odor that permeates every deodorant.
It is hair loss. It is tremors. It is insomnia.
It is bits of carefully chewed food and mucus dripping down your arm.
It is the salt of tears of hate, anger, and desperation.
It is screaming into an abyss that you won’t let the disease, the lies, control you anymore.
It is therapy. It is medication. It is positive affirmations. It is fighting the lie that your body is not worthy.
It is wondering how you ever got through this before. It is relapse. It is denial.
It is not vanity. It is not airbrushed thigh gaps. It is not the collarbone challenge. It is not ‘just 5 more pounds.’ It is not for the enjoyment of going back to eat more. It is not for attention. It is not anyone’s fault. It is not a problem of privilege. It is not class, age, or race.
It is bulimia. It is me.
About Jessica Cobb
Once a Privateer in a Renaissance Festival, Jessica is now a full time mom. When she’s not taking care of the Captain and their 4 Cabin Kids, she is blogging at Domestic Pirate. She is obsessed with pirates and the internet, and is convinced that the dough is always better than the cookie.