Okay, so here's my deal: a close friend of mine has been in and out of in-patient and out-patient facilities at various rehabilitation centers over the years for bulimia with a side of cutting.
With her help, this story has become possible.
THIS IS THE REAL DEAL. This is her story, for the most part. I've been talking to her. From what she has said, this story emerged. She reads the chapters, and then comments on what I fudged up in the reality-aspect.
This is important to her and to me that her story gets out. Yes, it's been changed. But it is completely one hundred percent accurate.
It's My Turn
Dancergirl51
They're together again, Sam and Emily. It kills me slowly every time I see them. The pain just slices over the barely-scabbed heart of mine.
I eat much less then the guys, but it's still quite a bit of food. I measure it, you see. Counting the fat, the sugar, the calories.
I then go home immediately, before even my werewolf digestion can commence. I go to my bathroom and put toilet paper into the toilet before I lift the seat up.
I snake my pointer finger around the back of my throat, well past my "flappy-thingy". (Even though I have taken biology, and know that it's called an "epiglottis," I still prefer "flappy-thingy.")
I feel a grotesque satisfaction as I repeatedly puke my stomach's contents into the toilet. My eyes tear up, but I am smiling. Saliva trails down my fingers and I've got chunks of food remnants all over them.
Quickly, I flush, wash my hands, wipe my eyes, and check for eye-puffiness. There's a reason for waterproof mascara. There's a reason for my lack of eyeliner. There's a reason for chewing gum.
There's a reason I am always drinking ice water. Bulimics often get caught at hospitals for dehydration. Plus, cold water lowers your body temperature, and helps you burn more calories. All bulimics know that.
Not to say that I am. Bulimic. I mean, I only do it once a day… it's not my fault nobody ever notices I skip the other two meals…
Seth never notices. I always return his razor to the exact position. You see, sometimes my stomach is too small to get rid of all the anger.
Just one cut—deep enough to kill any human, but only just deep enough for me to feel. Just enough to cause pain.
But it is always enough to cause pain.
I bleed for thirty seconds.
The shampoo label "Rinse, repeat." replays in my head as I slice again. And again.
Until I can't think about them anymore.
If you or anyone you know are/is suffering from an ED, seek help. I know it's not hard. My friend got caught in the school bathroom after spending two YEARS doing it every time she ate lunch. She wanted help, but didn't want to be "outed". Or to get a bad reputation.
This was going to be a one-shot, but my friends said that it should keep going. I'll put it up to a vote. Tell me what you think.
And, please, don't say anything stupid, like people with EDs are just looking for attention. It's not true, and I will not tolerate that.
Karina