I remember the first time I made myself throw up. I was fourteen. His tongue had been forced down my throat. These were things that you couldn’t talk to your parents about. Things that teenagers accepted and bragged on yet I was dying within. I was the good girl. The one that everyone made fun of because I was going to wait until marriage.
But this guy, he knew my weak areas. He was a pastors kid–just–like–me.
I remember the pain that was in the pit of my stomach. A pain that wouldn’t go away. Journaling about the abuse usually relieved it but this time, this time it was greater. I needed someone. My friends didn’t understand why I wouldn’t just “do it” and get it over with. His face taunted me. I became claustrophobic after realizing he was stronger than me.
I drew blood once.
Being pinned against a bus window, I pushed him away yet he didn’t release. It was that night. The night he began spreading the rumors, the night he got fed up hearing the word no…that I purged. I purged until all the insides were empty.
I felt relief. I didn’t realize at that moment how addicting such things could be. If I didn’t know how to speak, if I didn’t know who to talk to, the cold tile of the bathroom floor became my confessional.
My heart hurts now. Now that I’m talking about that moment. The moment that if only I had had a voice. A voice comfortable and unafraid to speak. If only I had been brave. I hear some people talk about eating disorders and the control with wanting to look a certain way, be a certain size.
For me–I too met an eating disorder.
Instead of food as the enemy it was authenticity. I binged on the shadows and purged reality.
(thank you for being so transparent, dear heather… bless you.)