TW: numbers and talk about vomiting/bulimia and the tragedy in Nice. Please click away if you are triggered. Many thanks and stay safe.
You sent me a text message this morning.
“How are you?”
Not too bad, thank you for asking. Just picking out chunks of vomit from hair and dragging my two purge-bags into the bedroom so that I can weigh them. X.X kg (XX.X pounds ) of vomit in one, the other I don’t actually care about. So not too bad all in all, except that I’m 66.2 kg today and yesterday I was 65kg. What we can conclude from this is that I am utterly unaccomplished as a purgerer/purge-practitioner/bulimic which I already knew, because in my not-so-distinguished career of 10 years as a bulimic, I have yet to achieve my goal weight.
Maybe you would also like to hear about my night, which I spent in a state of lidless restlessness, a mild insomnia that was brought on by the litres of diet soda I drank during the binge. I lay in my bed in between purges and watched the colours bleed from the summer sky, gentle golden and cottoncandy pink into mellow grey and then the dark blue gauze of night. I listened to the restless city, the thrum of cars and lights and happiness and desperation, all receding into a distant drum beat, like the slow heartbeat of a sleeping beast.
I got up to eat and vomit, eat and vomit, eat and vomit. More times than I care to count. And then I caught glimpse of the news and it stopped me in my tracks. Somewhere amid happiness and celebration, there is now death and despair and bodies covered with hastily snatched table cloths from nearby restaurants.
I feel disgusted with myself. The scale of my problems is minuscule compared with what is happening. I go back to bed, but I don’t sleep. I watch a Victoria’s Secret fashion show, because, I like all other misguided and lost girls on this planet, think that all of my problems will magically melt away when I start looking like a runway model. They won’t, but it’s the hope that sells.
“All ok. Just sleeping and enjoying my day off.” I answer.