Purging Addiction
Regurgitate. Vomit. Purge. Cleanse. In my home we were not allowed to use the word “fat,” as if not saying it would erase the fact that I had a clinically obese sister and a mother who was always fifteen pounds away from happiness (and that smaller-sized dress on the back of her closet door). I got the message: fat is bad. So from a young age I began trying to find ways to control that. As a six-year-old, I could only see that mine were the chubbiest cheeks out of a dozen ballerinas twirling in the wall of mirrors at Clytie Adams School of Ballet. Using the same keen logic that anciently inspired the foot binding of Chinese women, one first grade schoolmate told me that tightening my belt would give me a womanly silhouette. I often had deep, red grooves in my waist from that time forward until the oversized slouch style of the 1980s saved me. By then it was sixth grade, and Mrs. Forrester taught me that Romans employed a binge and purge cycle as a sign of wealth. Have your cake. Eat it. Purge it. Then eat some more. That just sounded terrific to me and when the pressures of teenage life turned on full blast, I turned to bulimia.
I had the bulging schedule common among LDS teens, from early-morning seminary to late-night homework. In between came school, work, extra-curricular activities, puberty in general, and the all-important social life. Mixing it up a little more, our family moved. It was only a ten-mile difference, but my new school was infamous in the county for all kinds of crime. On the upside, it was more diverse; but for all practical purposes I was cut off from my friends at the age of sixteen. Surly as I tried to be, I was compelled into a new life and I was . . . nervous. Despite being a very active Latter-day Saint and a habitual scripture reader, it was in that transition time between high schools that I first turned to bulimia.
The first time I purged it was Mom’s famous lasagna. I actually made it for a date. This cute guy from my former life came to take me on an honest-to-goodness, sixteen-year-old, dinner-and-a-movie date! I spent hours and hours anticipating and preparing for the event. I wanted to make everything perfect. During the moonlit stroll at the end of our evening together, he held my hand and told me that I looked “great.” Then he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me. Wow! Wow! I was on cloud nine all the way to the bathroom where I promptly expelled that fabulous lasagna of which I had consumed way too much. Nobody can possibly eat that much lasagna and continue to look “great.” By purging I could have all the fun and none of the side effects. Or should I say side rolls?
I don’t mean to make purging sound easy. I’m sure God gave us a gag reflex for a reason. Certain things are not supposed to go down and certain things are not supposed to come up. And although with practice I found I had quite a talent for it—sometimes purging upwards of ten times a day—there were downsides. For starters, bile tastes nasty and retching is uncomfortable. So much pressure would build up in my face that blood vessels would burst all around my eyes. There is also the threat of acid eating away tooth enamel and discoloring the fingers and hands. That aside, I felt I had found a simple solution to control body image anxiety. And as I did it, I became addicted. This quick fix rapidly morphed into an all-purpose “chill pill.” I thought of purging as a session. Looking back, obsession would be more accurate.
Within a few months I had filled every spare thought (and some that I should have been using on school, church, or work) on food. I thought about what flavors and textures would purge best. I mentally sifted through my day to find times and locations to purge. A good purge would really settle my nerves and make me feel empowered, in control. I also transformed one previously useless portion of my brain into a calorie-tracking machine. I was like a walking index for food calories and I also knew how many stairs I would have to climb to burn them off again. But most of the time I just thought, “Why stress about that when I can quickly purge everything and relax?” Bulimia even made me feel special—special because I could force myself to throw up, special because I had a problem. Poor special me! One night I felt so guilty for berating my sister that I sought out something to eat solely to purge it. I wanted to cleanse my character and make it better by forcing my body through a punishment before I went to apologize.
Despite my struggles I think even my siblings would agree that I actually matured over the ensuing years. I continued to grow spiritually and socially. Sometimes, I was actively bulimic and other times I was simply too balanced and positively engaged to bother with it. The last two months of my first semester at BYU were one of those grace periods. That extended respite from bulimia gave me the contrast necessary for me to see it as the ungodly addiction that it was. After Christmas break, I returned to the dorms slightly homesick and moderately intimidated by the cold semester ahead. I brought magazines to catch up on the world between semesters. Comparing myself with the beautiful, accomplished women on those pages sent me into a bulimic tailspin. I was alone. Most students were still traveling back to school. I tried to sit on my hands. I thought about my fall semester weight gain. I prayed for courage not to purge. Repeatedly, I walked up the empty hall towards the bathroom, stopping short and returning to my lonely room. I cried. I called a friend. She advised me to ask for a priesthood blessing. I was ashamed, but desperate. I confessed my struggle and received the calming consolation that my Heavenly Father knew me and He still loved me. I wanted to change.
Admitting my destructive addiction to Heavenly Father was the beginning of my repentance and turning away from ungodly behavior. I watered that seed with specific scripture study, precise prayers, and focused fasting. I gave my weakness to the Lord and He truly made it a strength, answering my hopeful efforts with specific, personal revelations. He told me I had fallen for one of Satan’s most common perversions because I had loathed and abused the very body that I fought to obtain in premortality. That summer He blessed me with a savvy therapist who, in just a few sessions, helped me identify and avoid my binge/purge tripwires.
I will always seek balance, but I’ve relinquished control. There are no scales or magazines in the tiny yellow bathroom I now share with my husband, our three daughters, and one toddling son. We fill 900 square feet of a typical New York apartment with singing, acrobatics, and constant conversation. There is absolutely no privacy but that’s okay. I’m not hiding anything.
Emily is a freelance writer living with her husband and their four children in New York City. She always thought it would be cool to call herself a freelance writer and now she can. Thanks Segullah!
