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An inside look at a journal entry written by someone who was suffering from Bulimia at the time. Trigger warning: very sensitive, intense language is used. If you are suffering or recovering from an eating disorder please read with caution

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Her name was Mia

Sometimes I feel as though there are three versions of the person I once was. One of them being Mia: fairly attractive but always angry and always yelling. She is always pessimistic and constantly streaming with constant self-deprecating, self-destructive thoughts as if it was pumping through her veins. However on the outside, she looks fairly normal: wears jeans, regular blouses and black patent leather flats. But she constantly looks me and points to her mouth with a look of disappointment. On some days she hands me the pills. “Get it out” I hear her say. She is talking about the food. She appears when I feel like I have failed, which is most of all day every day. But who am I to disregard her advice? I know she spends most of her private time gorging on immense amounts of foods and popping laxatives to get it all out of her body. I know she kneels on the cold tiles in her bathroom floor with her hair tied up in a messy bun with her fingers down her throat raping her mouth until the chunks and fluids of what she just digested comes out of her. I know she lays down at night in her bed, on her side with one knee arched up, sticking a piece of plastic up her body until she squeezes the fluid inside of her, waiting for the urge for her body to “naturally” purge what she had eaten that day. I know while she is doing all of this she cries- not necessarily because of the pain of the purge but because of how disappointed she is in herself for eating just a few too many calories or eating liters upon liters of food without even tasting, smelling or enjoying any of it. But on the outside she looks put together. Her outfit is pretty, and sure her skin is a bit discolored and she has black circles under her eyes (probably because of the electrolytes she is losing each time she purges and the countless hours she lies awake calculating her calories or sitting over the toilet making sure every morsel of food has come out) but she makes it seem like it’s all worth it. She looks like she feels accomplished because she did what she needed to do. She tells me bulimia is just a certain way of life for those who are strong enough to endure it, and still identify as a bulimic and be proud of that. She spends her time on researching the best way to purge. For example, most people would think kneeling down over the toilet is the way to do it. Wrong. Standing up straight and bending down will get the food out smoother. She learns that foods such as bread, pretzels and oatmeal are the hardest to purge but ones such as ice cream and yogurt are much easier to get back up. Yes, even with binging and purging there needs to be some sort of restriction in order to successfully get it out. She learns that it’s important to eat or drink something of a bright color to use as a marker at the beginning of your day or your binge: this way you know you can stop vomiting when you see that certain color appear, because then it’s all out.

She spends her free time trying to come up with the order of the purge. Vomit first. Laxatives next (so you don’t vomit up the pills) and enema last. She gets high off of the intestine and stomach pain her over-the-counter laxatives create in her body because if she feels the pain, that means they working. That means she will soon be empty. Being empty to her isn’t a bad thing; in fact it’s what she thrives off of. She has stripped her body of vitamins, nutrients, fluids, electrolytes- she has even stripped her body of her own menstrual cycle- so being empty comes natural to her. Her heart, her body, her mind, her soul, and her being are a mix of guilt, shame, and emptiness. But she tells herself she deserves it. She deserves it because she isn’t as strong as her good friend Ana.

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