What She Doesn't Know

My mom calls my 17-year-old sister Ivy my supervisor; my keeper, my shadow. Being supervised by her is weird. What's really weird is that she watches me go to the bathroom. Well, okay, she actually just waits outside the bathroom door. But I'm not surprised that Ivy follows me. I knew she would casually stand in front of the mirror pretending to touch up her mascara, wash her hands, and clean the counter. I knew she would linger. And I knew that when I open the door, Ivy would be standing there nonchalantly, a blank look on her round, sun burnt face.

“What are you doing?” I ask, even though I know.

“Just waiting for you, Jessica.” She replies, giving me her usual disappointed stare.

“Oh, okay.” It's not like I have a reason to be mad. She's only acting upon the orders of my mom who's concerned about my health and well-being. But the situation is awkward and I get frustrated when I cannot get any privacy while using the bathroom. Of course, this only happens when ever I eat.

She knows what's going on. And she knows instinctively what I'm up to. Most of the time I can sneak my way around her prying little eyes, but all-too-often she knows exactly what my motives are even before I perform them. Ivy knows I have a love-hate relationship with food. The past is no mystery to her. She knows what I've been though. She's watched me struggle for the past seven years with food that would send my stomach into horrendous spasms that felt like the stabbing of sharp razor blades.

I'm bulimic; that's why Ivy waits for me outside the bathroom door, because she knows that after I eat I go there to my porcelain sanctuary to puke.  I never wanted to be like one of those eating-disorder-stereotype-girls. It seemed impossible for someone like me"the All-Star Softball athlete, the girl who has a full ride to Belmont University based off of her stellar awards, team leadership and all around talent"would become one of those girls who had turned to food for comfort-hiding and disguising the pain I've let fester inside over the years.

Ivy may think she knows all about being Bulimic based on the research she’s done to understand the physical implications of this eating disorder. However, no amount of surfing the web can give you a detailed personal account of the emotional division that takes place. Doctors can give you numbers and data telling you how many girls and guys suffer from Bulimia on a yearly basis. They may even be able to show you what food deprivation does to a person physically and emotionally, but what they can’t show you is the physiological strife from a bulimic’s point of view. The story from a survivor or one that’s fighting to survive holds more transparency than the statistics provided by doctors.

My battle has become a battle of mind over impulse, which is now a war over my emotions. For me, bulimia has evolved into more than just an illness. It’s became my identity; my life; my friend. Bulimia from the view point of one who’s been there isn’t highly recommended.

“No one wants to stare into the bowl of a porcelain potty" fingers sliding lightly down their throat"as they prepare to regurgitate the latest meal,” I would argue with Ivy on occasion when she had caught me red-handed after purging.

“Then don’t do it.” She would say.

“I wish I could, Ivy. But this has all become routine to me.”

Usually, when I am acting on my urges to purge, the bathroom door is locked so no one can catch this shameful display. This purging is sickening, but it has become, in a sense, that last act of redemption. Ivy thinks that I do it because I am bored or because it’s some popular, cool game. What she doesn’t know"and what I never want her to know"is that this eating disorder is sustained by malevolent aversion.

As I walk past Ivy"who’s still watching me intently"out of the bathroom, I can still feel the acid burn my throat. It’s almost disturbing, the kind of twisted pleasure I get from the thrill of purging. Even though there is a good chance that any time during my next purge I might suddenly die of an aneurism, heart attack, or a ruptured stomach, I       believe this lie that Bulimia is the delight that keeps my life from spiraling out of control.

I can still taste the Mexican food and cookie dough vomit mix as it lingers on my tongue. It’s a distasteful reminder of the guilt and shame I feel in the pit of my chest; a feeling of remorse and disgrace. As I exit the bathroom, I am instantly struck with a dizzy spell. I struggle to my room, breathing shallowly, feeling lethargic. Paying not heed to Ivy’s scrutinizing eyes, I allow myself to collapse on the bed. My heart beats superficially in my chest, as I think of the dishonor I have done to myself.

But the harm that I am causing myself doesn’t register with me, because I have become immune to this feeling. I don’t feel the guilt like I used to. Yet the disappointment still finds a way to forge a new pain inside my heart, a deep, gnawing pain for the shameful destruction I have pursued. I’d hate to admit it to Ivy"or even the rest of my family"but I delight in destroying myself. However, somewhere deep down in my soul, I know Bulimia is tearing my life apart.