Moonlight

we took shots beneath the moonlight.
all quiet breathing, hushed voices
tugging on the stems of candles
and spreading wax – hot, melted –
across the tips of our fingers
until it was thin and hard.

he said i like the pain;
i said i like the expression
on your face – all strained.
he said you’re always stoic;
tell me, how does it feel?
and i said i feel nothing.

– unless you count apathy;
no, to be honest, it’s shame.
i can never get it smooth
and it always cracks.

Homecoming

“We’ll have to get you an air mattress,” my mother had told me on the phone. “There’s no bed for you. We set up the TV and furniture in your old room.” Why? I wanted to ask, but I didn’t need to question her when I already knew her answer. You don’t live here anymore. You’re not eighteen anymore. Fend for yourself. Instead, I should have turned my thoughts to the truth: my mother and step-father Mike had let the house become such a mess that the first floor was virtually unusable.

We had a shit room – it was literally filled with dog shit – and the hardwood floors were soaked in urine. In the afternoon, the sun would hit the the entrance to our deck, warming the surface and releasing the smell of dog piss. There were less heinous and more common problems, such as the filthy kitchen, but they had essentially lost the first level of the house to animal neglect.

There’s still time to turn back, I told myself, looking down towards the train tracks. Empty cups and cigarettes occasionally appeared between the rails, carelessly thrown by passengers who didn’t bother to walk to one of the several trash cans on the platform. What exactly did I expect from this trip? Part of me wanted to see my family before I left for India with my boyfriend, as I’d be gone for several months. At the same time, I had such a poor relationship with my two younger sisters that we said nothing more than “hello” when I was home. (Unless, of course, we started to fight about something completely absurd.) I was also becoming increasingly aware that both my mother and Mike had very little interest in my life. Philadelphia wasn’t extremely far from Rhode Island, but in all my years at Temple University, my parents visited me twice: they moved me into my dorm room my first year of college, and they came to my graduation ceremony.

“I’m getting an award,” I recalled telling my mother months before. “The ceremony’s the day before graduation. Maybe you guys can stay in one of the hotels nearby—”

“I don’t want to stay overnight.” My mother was both brief and honest. She offered no congratulations or explanation.

 

Many of the soon-to-be passengers on the platform were clearly college students, or at least young women and men who appeared to be traveling home for a visit with their loved ones. There were many families as well, children and parents alike with backpacks and luggage, huddled together. I wondered what kinds of situations they were destined for. Did the college girls return to doting parents who asked about their studies? Who were proud to have daughters who won awards, or made the Dean’s List? Did the mothers and fathers feel a sense of joy in showing their children Philadelphia (or, alternatively, New York)?

I wondered how it felt to have a mother that cared about you, or a reliable father who didn’t so easily become enraged that he was terrifying to be around. College, in a way, had been a double-edged sword. I was able to get away from the neglect and abuse, but there was a separate and extremely sharp pain in realizing how abnormal my upbringing had been. Often, I found myself extremely jealous of others, their parents coming from the far end of Pennsylvania to visit them in the city. I also experienced amazement in the number of people who had college educated mothers and fathers. How foreign a concept that was, when my parents didn’t even graduate high school.

Don’t go was an intrusive thought; it followed me into the train and accompanied me on the trip to Rhode Island.

 

This was the second day I spent on a beige couch that smelled faintly of urine, watching my mom view episodes of Maury and Jerry Springer. (Attempts at conversations were met with, “Jesus, you always interrupt me at the end of my shows.”) I briefly turned my attention to the repetitive narratives of cheating and paternity tests, and wondered what compelled people to seek something outside of their self-described committed relationships. Why bother? Sex is sex, right? Mom focused intently on the television screen, her cigarette dangling in her right hand, absorbed by the drama.

The day I arrived, my mother took me to Benny’s to purchase the air mattress. She knew I was coming, but claimed I hadn’t given her enough notice. There were no air mattresses to buy, so she resigned herself to letting me share her bed. Mike’s sleeping in your old room, she said, he can’t sleep on his back after his gastric bypass, and he needs the recliner.

This was the homecoming I expected, but not the one I wanted. Neglect didn’t harden me – it made me even more desperate for love and acceptance.

The Girl, A Fish

i dreamed his smile, lips curled –
teeth edged like the coastline,
the rotted driftwood stain.

i know now what the beast looks for.
we broken girls, with homes that
gut us like fish.

Recovery?

I’m in recovery. What a nebulous sentence. I’m not even sure what it means when I admit to people that I’m bulimic, but am “in recovery.” Am I working on the behaviors? Am I successful when I don’t purge, or when I can sit uncomfortably after compulsively over stuffing myself? Am I still symptomatic if I’m binging? And what about these thoughts I have, related to my body and food and self-worth? When I can say, I’m recovered, does that mean I can’t feel guilty about missing the gym because I’m worn down?

The closer I come to having a life that allows me to live, the more I focus on the details, the semantics.

I realized yesterday that I don’t want to be bulimic anymore. I don’t want this disorder to be such a large part of my identity. But even as I trace its origins, even as I begin to understand how this happened, I’m not any nearer to defining what life without bulimia is like. Worst of all, this disease is like an invasive species; it doesn’t belong here.

I’m surprised that it happened so recently. Scott’s mom was candid about her feelings, perhaps because I was being open about my own. Not that I had much choice. Scott had told his family – without my consent – that I was bulimic. She was dismayed to hear that the disorder began in the midst of living with her. The answer she wanted was different – maybe some story about how I spent my time bent over a toilet in college and recently relapsed. She didn’t want to consider that the disorder began as part of my relationship with her son and his family.

In fact, when I told her I was going to residential treatment at Renfrew, she repeatedly stated, “I hope they don’t tell you we’re not good for you.” I was about to uproot my life the day after finishing my fall semester of nursing school to spend an indefinite amount of time at a residential facility in Philadelphia, and her main concern was that the therapist(s) would tell me to get the hell out of Dodge.

My therapist, of course, did question my ability to be successful with a partner like Scott. I never told her about Scott’s sexual abuse. I didn’t mention that his mother was an alcoholic, and that I spent almost a year being told by him and his twin brother that I was just imagining it or being dramatic. She didn’t know the details of Scott’s cheating, or the way he’d compare compulsive acts of sexual abuse to my bulimia. I never told my therapist that Scott explicitly said he didn’t forgive me for being emotionally unstable when my bulimia was at its worst (“you were still you then,” he told me more than once when I came back from Renfrew, even as he continued to cause me emotional and physical harm in bed), and considered the behavior of a genuinely ill person comparable to his cheating, his lying, his abuse.

I think my therapist simply saw what I see now: I’m a resilient person, but resilience is a finite resource. And I was wasting that resource on Scott, on his family, on people who never asked me what I wanted or if I was happy. I wasted my resilience on trying to live with people who slept with their secrets. Who didn’t, or couldn’t, communicate honestly, but acted passive-aggressively, displayed random bouts of anger, manipulated one another. I purchased their story of this being normal, and judged myself instead of identifying their problems sooner.

I wouldn’t have developed bulimia if I had never met Scott. I’m so certain of this that I want to laugh hysterically until I cry; I want to embrace the absurdity of my situation. These thoughts also make me want a life without bulimia more than ever. I want to be able to know what it’s like to not fear a bathroom after a large meal. To not miss the gym because I spent the day before, or even morning of, purging. My life is worth more than the DSM diagnosis they brought into it.

I don’t know what being “in recovery” actually means. I never will. But I am in a state of regaining my resilience. I can recognize that I’m not a bad person for wanting a life defined by my desires and needs. For accepting that it’s not healthy to keep secrets, or to let anxieties create a momentum that’s chaotic and harsh.

I’m happy to wake up. I haven’t been able to say that in years.

The Bulimic and the Sex Addict

“I’m afraid, knowing you’re going home,” Natalie said, her crossed legs long enough that they made the shape of an X. “I don’t think you’re in an environment that supports your recovery. Your relationship — I can’t tell you what to do, but I’m disappointed. He didn’t visit you at Christmas. He didn’t come to the family session. The phone conference we did instead — he rescheduled us instead of telling the parent that there was a time conflict.”

And this one met Sean, too, Sammie thought, considering her therapist’s words. Prior to entering residential treatment for bulimia, she had seen another therapist for a year who had encouraged her to reconsider her tendency to settle with “nice,” specifically in the context of Sean. When Sammie had told him that her therapist wondered if she was getting what she needed out of their relationship, Sean seemed frustrated and only said that she had never met him. His “side” went unheard. He didn’t realize that therapists usually kept their opinions out of the question of whether or not a relationship is worthwhile – that was for the patient to decide, and both Natalie and her former therapist went as far as to suggest that leaving him would only be beneficial. With many caveats about how it was Sammie’s choice to stay or leave, of course.

Natalie had included Sean in a few of the therapy sessions. One “teleconference” that mostly consisted of telling him he had a bad connection, and two times in person, when she was admitted and during his Christmas break, the first and only time he came as a visitor. “I’m glad my mom is driving,” she remembered him saying on the phone, “I don’t want to put so many miles on my car going from New Jersey to Philly.” Natalie’s impression of Sean was that he was a teapot on the verge of boiling over. His obsessive need to talk, she told Sammie, made it difficult for him to listen. He was always thinking about what to say next, when it was far more important to bring his attention to what was being said. Sammie found it hard to disagree with the therapist’s assessment.

“What can I really do?” Sammie asked. “I quit my animal clinic job. Being in the nursing program – I couldn’t do that and work at the same time. I went to nursing school full time for him, because he wanted to be with someone like that, a nurse. At this point, I don’t have the savings I used to. I don’t have my job.”

“If you have to go into debt, then you go into debt,” Natalie said. “Your recovery is more valuable.”

 

Sammie wants to tell him to leave. This is the fifth time he’s fallen asleep on her couch, and the third that he’s refused to see her on a Saturday, when he would actually have a chance of staying awake. He’s nice and cute, Sammie thinks, running her chubby fingers through his hair. I think he likes me. But Sammie can’t be positive. No, they barely speak. He comes over, fucks her multiple times, and falls asleep on the couch. Sometimes he stays awake long enough to beg for a back rub.

Sean is never cruel or particularly rude, just a little unintentionally insensitive. Sammie’s working full time, 2nd shift most days, while also taking classes full time at the local community college. She wonders if he realizes the stress she’s under, or how little time she has to herself. He often texts her when they’re apart, but the messages are things about his day that never respond in kind to what she has to say. Or they’re requests for validation. What do you like about me? Sammie would say a lot of things: I like that you’re cute, when you’re goofy it really makes me smile, I love the way you touch me, you’re really talkative in bed (although he says some very strange things), and you’re so dedicated to your job. When she made the mistake to ask him the same question, he wrote, You relax me. She wanted to demand some kind of answer that related to her personality, not the benefit of having sex and sleeping on her couch. Of course, she didn’t follow through.

The worst bits are the ones Sammie tries to ignore, but they continue to creep up into her thoughts. He’s sexually impulsive. It makes her uncomfortable. Determining her own rights is hard, for some reason. Is she just being sex negative? Is she a prude? She wants someone who is kinky and interesting. Her last relationship was a snore, at least sexually. But she wasn’t expecting to hear about how she should get implants, or try to get money from guys who want to fuck her. Isn’t that prostitution? He wants me to be a prostitute? Was he serious? Did it just turn him on to say these things? She did ask, at one point, but he refused to provide a clear answer.

She’s desperate for someone to care about her. So she doesn’t push, and she doesn’t judge. She doesn’t demand he see her on Saturdays. When he doesn’t get to her apartment until after 9pm on Fridays, when she told him she was making them dinner, she doesn’t get angry. Not even when he tells her he’s not hungry at all, because he ate pizza with his family before coming over.

 

Tomorrow, Sammie would be going home. She wasn’t ready.

As soon as Sammie was admitted to residential, she wanted to leave. She didn’t feel like she belonged. Sure, she binged and purged multiple times a day. And yes, she wanted to kill herself because she was tired of living her life that way. But she wasn’t thin. In fact, she almost cried when she was weighed by the nurse practitioner, distraught that she was now technically overweight. A fat girl didn’t belong in treatment, especially when her bloodwork was just fine. True, she did pass out the second day she was there; a blood draw at 4am would do anyone in. And she was naturally orthostatic. The dizziness she experienced had nothing to do with her behaviors. Right?

Whatever the answers were, Sammie did improve by being in Residential. She connected with other girls, and was able to complete her meals without engaging in the symptoms of her eating disorder. She hadn’t gone a week without binging and purging since her bulimia first began. Yes, the setting made it difficult to puke into a toilet after a meal, but it was a huge accomplishment nonetheless.

Moreover, after Sean had cheated on her, she needed space and time to regroup and validate herself, to reestablish her worth as a person again. He had told her that she hadn’t met his emotional needs for a long time. During their in-person session with Natalie, he had referred to the fact that he had cheated in vague terms, citing feeling neglected as the cause. Natalie explained that Sammie was an empty cup; she had nothing to pour into his glass. If she couldn’t take care of herself, expecting her to take care of him crazy. That was a lesson quickly unlearned, of course. Even while still in res, their conversations would include how she never said anything nice to him, that she was cold and not affectionate. Sammie wanted to scream at him. Instead, she usually just said, “what about the sex? What about taking care of the house? I do a lot. I do.”

He would answer, “I know. But I need more.”

He had nodded sagely during the session, but over the phone maintained that the cheating happened due to Sammie. He was dealing with so much. A bulimic girlfriend that acted like she hated him most of the time. Who wanted to kill herself. (And you ignored that, Sammie often thought and, at times, voiced.) As she became more comfortable in res, she stopped calling him all the time, taking to her books or conversations with other residents instead. She needed to use the time she had away from him to see herself through her own eyes. To not feel the weight of his expectations, his wants, his desires. To not feel like a failure.

So the news that her insurance was cutting her off before two complete weeks of treatment was upsetting. She was, in all honesty, afraid to go back to the life she had with Sean. In fact, she was already expecting to be disappointed tomorrow.

Initially, Sammie imagined that Sean would pick her up from Philadelphia before lunch, and that they would eat at a Panera or some other restaurant that met the criteria of her meal plan while driving home. Instead, because he didn’t want to put the miles on his car, he was having his mom and dad drive. They would all pick her up. Sammie had been with his family long enough to know that they would not stop for food, and that they’d have an assortment of snacks in the car to cover lunch. Her first meal outside of treatment would already be a failure.

Aside from that, Sammie also didn’t want his family’s continued involvement in her life. In her life together with Sean, sure. But when it came to her individual problems, she wanted Sean’s support. To feel like she could confide in him. (He already made it obvious she couldn’t, after telling all his friends she was going to treatment for bulimia, but she wanted to start over.) Instead, his family was being brought along for the ride – literally. She wanted Sean as a partner, not as their son. For him to love her, and take care of her without his parents’ help, and to drive as many miles as she needed him to in his own car.

Was that so unfair?

 

“It’s funny,” Sammie says. “I came here to talk about my family. How I grew up. Instead all I talk about is how unhappy I am right now. Not because of them, my parents. Because of Sean.”

Christine has a habit of tucking her blond hair behind her ear. She’s attractive in an unconventional way, Sammie notes, with her predictable habits and her widely set eyes. And she shops at Target. Sammie knows this, since she has some of the same sweaters, just in different colors. It makes her feel more comfortable, like her therapist is Any Woman.

“Right,” Christine says, after the silence extends beyond a certain point. I wonder if she counts and starts talking when she hits ten? “You’re not happy in the situation you’re in.”

“No,” Sammie says. “It’s hard. I feel like an outsider. I’m living this life where I’m struggling to keep up with everyone else. I’m in school. I’m working. It doesn’t seem like enough for anyone. Not for Sean, not for his family. I’m not a teacher. I don’t have a career yet. I’m doing well for me, but no one looks at my life within the context of how I grew up. The accomplishment of not having a kid at my age. Or at 18, for that matter. Of graduating high school. Of having a college degree. I still feel like I’m not good enough.”

“Is it possible that you’re projecting these feelings onto others?”

Sammie pauses, then shrugs. “Maybe. Not with Sean, though. Sean… that’s so difficult. He’s difficult. I got my job with the vet at the same time – the same time I was accepted into the nursing program as a second degree student. And I told him, ‘You know, if things work out with the vet, I think I might not go into the program. I’ll see how things go from March until September.’ And he said, ‘That’s not a career.’ He didn’t feel comfortable moving out with me from his parents’, even if I was working as a vet assistant. He has a certain standard.”

“Yes, we’ve talked a lot about Sean. I agree that you’re not projecting in his case. But let me clarify. He doesn’t want to move out with you, even if you’re contributing?”

“He doesn’t want to move out until I’m an RN.”

“Is his mom still drinking at night? Have you let him know that it’s affecting you negatively?”

“Yes. To both. She’s been so bad lately, drinking and making a ruckus almost every single day. I can’t focus on my work. And I just feel scared to go home. He says he’ll work on talking to his mom, but I’m so upset and angry lately, and he’s not doing anything.”

“Sammie,” she says, her usually passive face taking on a frown and furrowed brows. “I don’t say this lightly. It’s not within my rights to tell you to leave anyone. But I have a difficult time seeing Sean as a positive figure in your life. I’m not telling you what to do, but I strongly recommend that you consider taking a break from school, working, and getting out of there.”

Suddenly, Sammie’s at a loss for words. I’m part-time at my job now. I don’t know. I love Sean. I do.

“I know you care for him, but I’m worried about you. You’re so resilient, but right now you can’t be where you need emotionally while you’re in the middle of his mother’s alcoholism. And you’ve told me before that you’re not receiving the support you need. From what you tell me, I can only validate those feelings. He sounds very much like he can’t see things from your perspective. A good partner accepts you for you, and tries to understand what you want. What if he lost his job? What if you had a career as an RN, but had to take time off because of an injury? That happens frequently to nurses.”

“I know,” Sammie says. “I’ve tried to explain that to him. But I don’t know.”

“He doesn’t see you two as being in a partnership,” Christine says. “I haven’t met him, obviously, but I doubt my opinion would change if I did. It sounds like he wants to always be in a situation where someone else is taking care of him. He’s not interested in taking the lead on that. Moving out is not a huge request, not at your age, and not when you’re exposed to an alcoholic in your current setting. But that means taking care of you as much as you take care of him.”

“And he doesn’t want to,” Sammie says. “I think I’ve always known that, in a way.”

 

Is this really a surprise, Sammie thought, looking towards Sean. He sat on the couch opposite from her, slumped in his usual position. “I thought you were going there to get better,” he said.

“I was getting better. I told you that I wasn’t ready to come home,” she responded, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. She was only trying to be honest, that she had trouble eating pizza with his family. That sitting with the cheese and dough in her stomach made her feel a flood of emotion: she was guilty, anxious, and wanted to bend over the toilet and puke. “Please, you’re not supposed to be so critical of me. Read about this. Come on. I gave you the pamphlet they sent home with me.”

Sean’s thin lips bent into a frown. She expected them to form the words “sorry, I will,” but that expectation was apparently too much. Why won’t he read about bulimia? Or about how to support a partner with an eating disorder? Why can’t I come to him when I’m struggling?

She gave him what she thought he wanted over the course of their relationship. A crazy sex life, completely dictated by what he wanted from her. She accepted his family, as much as she wanted her space. The house they lived in was his mother’s doing – she held the mortgage and enabled him to afford the property by providing a ridiculously low interest rate. Sammie wanted a partnership. To move out together into a shitty apartment, and buy a house when they could do so together. Instead he followed his mom’s wishes – to live a block away in the house that originally belonged to his sister.

Even fresh out of residential treatment, she was attending family pizza night, eating dinner with his mother (who was drinking, again) almost every night, going grocery shopping by herself, making meal plans alone. She was trying. Things could get better, right? Their relationship could become something great. Like it was before? No, that was awful too. It just didn’t involve Sammie stuffing herself to the point of needing to puke in a toilet.

Why can’t he meet me halfway? Well, Natalie and Christine both warned her of the same thing. He just didn’t want to.

 

Sammie is on the portable yellow phone with Sean, pacing near the nurse’s station, trying not to talk in front of other residents’ closed doors.

“Did you tell Natalie about the sex stuff?”

This is all he seems to care about lately. “No, Sean, I didn’t,” Sammie says. “I didn’t tell Natalie, just like I never told Christine.”

“Okay,” is all he says, leaving Sammie to count up the ways he’s hurt her sexually. The talks about changing her body – she wishes she could discuss them with someone, figure out whether or not that’s a part of the bulimia. She thinks about having sex with other men at his behest, after he’s begged for her to do so for years. How sometimes he loves it, and other times makes her feel so ashamed. How in either scenario, he’s obsessed with these fetishes – the cuckolding, the bimbofication of his girlfriend, the idea that he’s coming home to a slut. We’re so fucked up. We need to stop, he’d say, almost immediately after getting off, sometimes in reference to a recent hook-up, and sometimes in reference to his unique form of dirty talk. I’m going to take you to a glory hole, and you’re going to suck every guy’s cock there. Aren’t you, you whore? And you’re going to get fake tits, yeah. Next time we fuck you’re not going to complain about me wanting to make you a bimbo, right? You’re going to be a good little slut?

She thinks about being friendly with some of these men she’s slept with — making them genuine friends who she texted regularly after meeting them, and being told that he’s uncomfortable with that. I like the idea of you being a slut, not this. I don’t want you to see anyone consistently. I just don’t like it. How she’s given him so much, endured sex talk and activities she didn’t enjoy out of love, privileged his orgasm over her pleasure even after he’s brought her to tears with his continued requests to behave like a whore, or go to a glory hole, or change her appearance, or dress sluttier than she does.

The worst part is that she doesn’t even expect that he stop completely. She accepts his desires. She just wants him to change it up, acknowledge her own wants and needs, and provide some form of care afterward. For three years, he’s held her for no more than a minute before deciding that he’s too hot, too uncomfortable, to stand holding her anymore. That is, if he’s not in the mood to flagellate them both over his kinks. Or just tired. Then he rolls over to the far end of the bed, and promptly falls asleep.

So, disturbed by her thoughts, Sammie hangs up without a word. She resists the urge to throw the yellow phone down against the facility’s ugly carpeting. She’s going to do exactly what treatment doesn’t want her to do: she will avoid her feelings. Reading is her only strategy for that here – there are no cell phones and no Internet, and the television belongs to Dance Moms tonight.

Her distress must be visible, though. As she returns the phone to the nursing station, one of the counselors speaks to her.

“Sammie, right?”

She nods.

“How are you doing, Sammie?”

“Fine,” she says. “I’m fine.” She smiles broadly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“If you need anything, please find me. Okay, Sammie?”

She wants to say, Please tell me I’m going to be alright. Please help me.

Instead, she nods and turns her back to the counselor. I can’t let her see me cry.

The Bulimic Powerlifter – Part 1

I felt almost like a batter in the MLB. I imagined a player preparing to step up to the plate, performing a needless ritual that included the kicking of feet, wringing of hands, spitting, adjusting wrist wraps, and more, as if luck was brought on by movements unrelated to the current objective. At least I’m not as bad as Nomar, I thought, and I’m certainly not going to spit in the gym. I clasped my hands together briefly, took a deep breath, and then ducked under the bar, positioning a load of 210lbs across my pinched shoulder blades.

Up, off, take a step back. I found a spot on the wall for my eyes, and descended – hopefully to parallel – with the heaviest weight I had ever squatted.

Don’t pause don’t pause don’t pause, my mind screamed, remembering how often I failed by simply not going straight back up. The reminder worked: I pushed through my heels as if I were trying to move the ground itself, and managed to bring the weight back up. I stepped forward and racked the bar.

My feeling of triumph was soon overcome by the feeling of nausea. My peripheral vision went fuzzy and dark. I knew this sensation, as it had become more frequent during my lifting sessions. Fortunately, the squat rack was in the corner of the gym, and I was able to put myself against the wall and slide down into a sitting position. I bent my knees, attempting to get blood flowing back to my brain. I would’ve liked it if the feeling that I was about to faint came from lifting heavy weight, but the reality was that bulimia and training as a powerlifter weren’t especially compatible. It was a truth I often denied outside of the gym, the eating disorder telling me, Hey! You’re still making progress, right?

Sometimes, the thoughts were darker in nature: You want to die anyway, don’t you? Why care? Why try?

 

My passion for lifting weights was the culmination of many factors. Growing up extremely obese and uncomfortable with my body, lifting gave me the ability to transform myself into a healthier person. For a time, I thought it had even helped me escape my disordered eating patterns of the past, where I went through alternating periods of restriction and binge eating. Another benefit of my newfound hobby was the strength that came with training, both literally and figuratively. Exercise for the purpose of getting stronger was so much more motivational than endless cardio and watching the scale. In the figurative sense, it was a way of opening myself up, being vulnerable in a manner that contained more bravery than I thought I was capable of: I let myself be the fat girl in the weight room.

Most important of all, lifting represented a way for me to truly remove myself from my past. Not just the disordered eating I battled with, but the general baggage of my childhood too. For one, my mother and step-father didn’t care about health – the fact that I was obese and that my sisters were both overweight didn’t inspire them to make any dietary changes. Very rarely, my step-father “made” dinner, often ribs or hamburgers with no sides. It was much more common to see fast food on the table. We lived on a constant rotation of pizza, KFC, Chinese, Boston Market, Taco Bell, and some local wing joint. Our fridge contained no fruit or vegetables, or even fresh meat, and the cupboards were filled with boxes of macaroni and cheese and Hamburger Helper. Our freezer was stuffed to capacity with frozen chicken fingers and gallons of ice cream.

Mega Camera 1300
Me before high school.
Mega Camera 1300
Imagine being 13 and unable to walk up a flight of stairs.

Meanwhile, when I tried to talk to my mother about my weight, she would tell me to go outside and play more often. If I were more active, she said, I could eat whatever I wanted. It wasn’t her problem that I was so lazy.

Seeing my father was often worse, especially when I made him angry. I could still remember being in the bathroom of his apartment with him, his hand wrapped around my arm, shaking it so that my upper arm painfully jiggled. “Disgusting,” he had said, his face contorted in a fury I didn’t understand. “If you keep this up, only black men are going to want to fuck you.”

I was twelve years old.

My particular upbringing provided many reasons for me to hate myself. For a time, lifting weights made me forget that I spent most of my life thinking that my body was an object of contempt.

And then bulimia entered my life, pushing its way to the forefront of my day-to-day in an amazingly short period of time.

 

My struggle with bulimia started around the same time that I began training as a powerlifter. Previously, I only lifted dumbbells, but had made good progress aesthetically. It was time for me to move on to a gym with barbells, I realized at a certain point, because I wanted to be genuinely strong.

It was around this time that I began going to William Paterson for nursing, while also struggling with a living situation that was less than ideal for me. School work was hard to complete at home for a number of reasons, most of them related to living with Scott and his parents. My boyfriend didn’t have a good sense of when I needed time to do my work. His mother watched a child that was under one for most of the day, and then fed the entirety of her large family (including her adult children) at dinner time, meaning it was fairly boisterous in the house until close to 7pm. Scott didn’t believe me when I said that his mom was drinking and constantly made excuses for her erratic behaviors, which at times involved interrupting us constantly while trying to complete our respective work. I also rejoined the clinic I worked for previously, adding over twenty-five hours of work to my week. Under these circumstances, I experienced intense stress.

Meanwhile, it was incredibly important to me to keep myself hitting the weight room. In a way, my bulimia became tangled with my use of the gym as a way to avoid my feelings about the current state of my life. I coped by switching to a program that had me lifting six times a week. I began to add cardio to the end of my already long sessions. If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my anxiety at the time, I would’ve realized that this was the source of my very sudden experience of binging. Exercise became a necessity — I was determined to burn off the 5,000+ calories I consumed once or twice a week. I was falling down the rabbit hole of exercise bulimia, but was not mentally able to comprehend what I was doing to myself.

When I had to exercise less due to work, I began vomiting to purge calories while sporadically hitting the gym. I was getting heavier as my binges became more frequent, even despite bringing the food back up.

Embarrassingly, I tried to maintain the image of someone who was healthy and strong. My instagram was filled with pictures of me at the gym, and plenty of before and after shots that demonstrated my progress from obese or overweight to a “fit” girl. At times, I felt guilty. In a way, I was a fraud, sick on both the left and right – bulimic in one, a young binge eater in the other. Yet the validation was important to me, and in all honestly, important to my eating disorder as well. If people thought I looked good and strong, how bad could I really be?

Sitting against the wall in the gym, people looking over briefly with quizzical expressions as I hung my head between my knees, made me realize that I didn’t need to feel this way. I didn’t want to. I loved powerlifting. And it was only getting harder and more dangerous for me as I fucked with my electrolytes or made myself overly dehydrated, the consequences of my numerous daily purges.