The Peak, Simon Fraser University's Student Newspaper since 1965, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, British Columbia, Canada V5A 1S6, e-mail: epeak@mail.peak.sfu.ca, phone: (604) 291-3597 fax: (604) 291-3786
Volume 92, Issue 5 February 5, 1996 Features 

Bulimia: my addiction to self-inflicted pain

by maria mathis

Some people-outsiders mostly, those who do not know the harsh realities of the disease-say bulimia is simply fashion gone out of control. They say it's the female response to Calvin Klein and Cindy Crawford. That it's superskinny superstars and undeniable flaunting of tight asses and taut torsos that drives women to such self-destruction.

As an insider, a reluctant yet accountable member of this bizarre, secret society, I disagree. one does not wake up at 6:00 a.m. to devour half a pizza, a gallon of ice cream, and a dozen chocolate bars and then proceed to heave and vomit so that it will be possible to walk without discomfort because of some deeply-rooted need to look sexy. Girls do not rot their teeth out, risk heart attacks, and sabotage relationships because of Melrose Place or the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Give me a fucking break. To be classified as someone who's obsessed with her image, to say that vanity has driven me to this degrading, destructive habit, is angering and trivialising. Quite frankly, my weight is average, and aside from the bruises rimming my knuckles and a torn-up throat, there has been little change in my appearance.

There also seems to be a misunderstanding about how bulimics live. It is not a simple weight-control measure. I do not live normally aside from a quick puke after meals. No, it is not part of my life, it is my life. I have declined invitations to go out with friends over a night of bingeing; I have chosen chocolate cake over parties, pizza over dates, and ice cream over studying. I do not daydream in class; I think about how long it will be until my next binge, what I will eat, how I will hide it.

I often feel like a member of a different species, in which, to the onlooker, rules are altered, habits deformed, and values bizarre. I do not know how or why I was initiated. The first time I made myself throw up I had eaten a plate of nachos after a long period of fasting, and wanted desperately to relieve my guilt. I hastily shoved my finger down my throat and held it there, hovering over the restaurant toilet until a few broken chips surfaced. How long was this supposed to take? It was a painful and confusing experience, but I persevered and learned the rules of the secret ritual. Peanut butter and potatoes are hard to bring up. Ice cream and cookies are the easiest, the most fulfilling, and don't return as pungent as regular food. Milk will prevent the food from balling in the stomach. Juice burns the throat. Alcohol is magic: cravings are more fulfilling, and the food practically jumps back up on its own.

I began using the sink rather than the toilet because the food didn't splash up, and the running water somehow made the whole ordeal more hygienic. When food started to jam the drain, I took to puking in the bathtub, or while showering.

I read about one woman who called it "oral masturbation." And perhaps it is a sexual act: the hand sliding deeper, urging the gunk and the slime out. And the heightened calm that follows, the rush of pain and relief and completion. though I think it is more like rape. Because a hand is not meant to be stuffed down a throat like a thick scarf. Nor is it meant to pierce the soft wet pink over and over like a pistol until it bleeds and scars the flesh. Blood blisters are not a sign of affection. The throat does fight back, though. Deep red bruises swell the hand. Teeth marks sear the knuckles. But these threaten only a temporary pain, like being attacked by black flies while shooting a bear. not enough too slow the hunter down.

it's the shame and the secrecy, however, that cut the deepest. Running water and cranking the music to muffle the gagging and choking, and the splattering of acid and food and blood. Making excuses about why I seem to be losing weight, why I spend so much time in the bathroom, and why the groceries disappear so quickly. mouthwash to mask the taste, and perfume on the hands to hide the stench. I am sure the girls in the rooms beside mine suspect me. I am sure they can hear the heaving and gasping over the water. I am sure they can detect it in my eyes.

I've heard of women who do it three or four times a day. Knowing this is comforting to me because it means I am not a severe case... yet. But it is also frightening because of the swiftness of my progression form a plate of nachos, to a bucket of ice cream, a package of donuts, half a pizza and a bag of chocolate chip cookies in one sitting. From one finger pressed tentatively against my tongue, to three fingers pounding at the back of my throat. From throwing up only when I had over-eaten, to allowing the need to permanently enter my psyche. So yes, I think in terms of yet. If. When.

I do not pretend to understand what this is, or how it has manifested itself within me. I do know that it has become a channeling of pain, an outlet for intense emotions. And, although it sounds flighty, it has also become a sort of addiction. I cannot control it at this stage; it is a wild beast raging out of control.

But an addiction to what? To self-inflicted pain? :To confusion? To the numbness that rushes in when all the gunk is pushed out and I flip my head up and there is dizziness and relief and comfort?

I am perpetually trying to quit, to banish this beast form my body, usually by avoiding food altogether. That lasts for several days, or even a week before the cravings resurface. The cravings not only for food, but for control and numbness. And perhaps, in all its unexplained chaos, there remains a craving for the painful, predictable intimacy of hand raping throat.


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