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A form of the eating disorder, bulimia nervosa.

Bulimia is characterised by a regular, frequent pattern of binge eating followed by an attempt to prevent weight gain.

In its purging form, the bulimic individual attempts to prevent weight gain by inducing vomiting, or via laxative or diuretic abuse; the emphasis is on purging the food, rather than on compensating for the binge.

If you suspect purging bulimia, telltale signs include lengthy visits to the bathroom after meals (particularly if the taps are running), and diuretic, laxative or emetic wrappers in the dustbin.

I think purging bulimics are actually a strange breed of sexaholics.

Fucking, for example, is ugly – the act, the word, its usage. Fucking is rough, careless, blind, and selfish (as opposed to making love which is just the opposite; it is selfless, giving, and genuine). Fucking is an angry word. Something angry like fucking often goes hand in hand with the beauty of love-making. Is it so far off, then, to believe that purging is so far from fucking?

Consider the motion: finger(s) repeatedly thrusting deep within the moist cavern of the throat in attempt to find that spot, the “gag spot.” Hurling, spewing, “ejecting” messy insides from the body. A feeling of release and content after said vomiting occurs. And, like sexaholics, we just can’t get enough.

There is nothing more satisfying to me than kneeling in a praying position before my porcelain god and expelling all of my insides like some sort of sick sacrifice. I’m happy – proud, even – to do it. For some reason or another, I am worth more when I weigh less. I feel the most attractive and beautiful and sexy when I’m clinging onto the toilet bowl with vomit in my hair and on my arm; with pieces of regurgitated food stuck in my teeth; mucus from my stomach dripping from my lips, my right (gagging) hand gloved in it; mucus from my nose running down to my lips; my tears, mixed with my black mascara, running down my cheeks into my mouth. I retch and retch and gag until my stomach and diaphragm are hurting and I’m coughing out air. I close my eyes, bloodshot from the force and length of my heaves, and rest on the cool bathroom floor. My face matches the paleness of the tissue paper I use to dab my mouth clean. I feel worthy.

Yes, bulimia is easy. It’s a cop out. It’s selfish. It’s extreme satisfaction, on the verge of sexual satisfaction, in terms of how much I enjoy it. I don’t starve or fast like some Marathon Monk and I don’t exercise excessively like Lance Armstrong or whoever else you want to use as an example. Part of it is that I’m lazy, or I just can’t seem to find the time to exercise any more than I already do. Another part is that I am bulimic. I am addicted. People tell me these things, but I don’t believe it. It’s great, this whole denial thing.

I don’t want to talk about bulimia’s causes or consequences; that has been covered and it is nearly common knowledge. I’m hoping to capture my horribly twisted way of thinking at this point in my life. I wonder, can anyone relate? I put my addiction on the backside of my brain. I don’t think about it. But then, I’m always thinking about it. I’m always conscious of my body: I know exactly how to stand and sit as to appear thinner, I check out every girl to see if I look skinnier or fatter (always the case) than her, I rehearse safety responses in my head just in case I’m caught throwing up, I know the foods that I can purge on and throw up most quickly (pizza, macaroni and cheese, anything hot usually feels heavier on my stomach), and I know to breathe in such a way that the air rushes around my fingers at the back of my throat and tickles my tongue and I throw up in larger amounts. My body and my mind share a very complex relationship. The former usually takes backseat to the weird obsessions of the latter.

I like to purge in private, just like I enjoy my sexual tendencies in private. I usually don’t throw up in public restrooms or restaurants and the like. I would much rather take an extra half hour out of my day to drive home and vomit in peace. I usually play music (techno or trance and occasionally classical) in the background when I’m at home, just in case anyone unexpected heads towards my end of the hall. It’s such an ugly activity. Like I said, it’s like fucking yourself- literally and metaphorically. I’m screwing up my body and my self-image and giving myself nearly the most severe pleasure I’ve ever known. Sure, it’s painful at times, but I make it my motto to take the good with the bad. I almost pity myself because I’ve twisted myself into believing everything I just said.

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