It’s Monday morning and the hallway outside my apartment smells like vomit.
This is what happens when you spend Friday night to Sunday night bingeing and purging and then
bin the excrements dicreetly early in the morning while the neighbours are still asleep.
Welcome to the life of an adult bulimic. Whatever anyone says about bulimia, whatever you think
it might be, it sure as hell is not glamorous.
I don’t go out, or meet friends. I don’t have any, because I can’t stand the idea of going to eat
in public and not being able to purge.
I have never been in a relationship. The thought of a man running his hands up and down my body
makes me cringe. I can only imagine what he would be thinking about the layers of fat you can feel
when you touch my stomach, my hips, my thighs. In fact, I try not to think about sex or love or relationships.
I try to think that I don’t need any of that. After all, I have my bulimia.
In addition to bulimia, I have a job. I spend around 15 hours at work every day, mostly trying to
drown myself in work problems so that I can forget the problems in my life. When you have someone else’s problems
and goals to worry about, you can forget about the shitshow you’ve created in your own life.
So this is it. This is how you transition from being a teen bulimic, to being a college bulimic
to being an adult bulimic. And boy is it fun.
The Cage of Hunger 