Sugar

People seem to be under the deluded impression that there are no fat bulimics. My BMI is 26.7, and it's definitely fat and not muscle. So, there you go. We're out there. Don't get me wrong, bulimia works. It's the crippling alcohol problem that pushes me up into the lofty heights of borderline obesity.


You want to know the best thing about bulimia?




Nothing.


I have eaten an entire jar of peanut butter in one sitting.


I have eaten a whole large pizza.


I have eaten my entire birthday cake, when no one turned up.


I have eaten way too many trays of Chinese food.


And several share bags of cookies.


I have eaten family sized buckets of ice cream in the dark.


I have eaten a whole chicken.


I have washed it down with coffee. With warm water. Cold water. Soda. Tea. Beer. Wine. Guilt. Shame. So much guilt and shame.


I've done it in the dark, in the park, on my own and with my friends. I've done it in fast food slums and fancy restaurants. I've even done it in someone's back garden, and in an airplane.  


I have thrown up things that taste foul. I have thrown up a firestorm of spicy curries that burn and sting. I have thrown up sour, acidic, vile, watery, lumpy ... matter. I have almost suffocated throwing up a thick lump of condensed bread. I have thrown up curdled milk. I have thrown up rice so hard that it gets stuck in my nasal passages. Which fucking sucks. I've thrown up hot sauce, mustard, horseradish and wasabi. 


My teeth are eroded. My hair falls out. My face is dry from having to wash sick off it ten times a day. I've got cuts in the back off my throat from accidentally clawing at it as I shove my fingers too far down. My nails are chipped. My knuckles are always scarred from digging in teeth. Bite down.

Be angry. Punish. Destroy. Purge. Panic. Is everything out? It can't be. Dry heaving. Downing three pints of water to try and wash out every last little crumb and grain.More pain, more guilt, more shame. A filthy little secret that you hide away from everyone forever as you attempt to grapple control.


Not me. I'm sick of pretending every meal is fine. It's a race to see who gets to the bathroom first. Rational Khloe, or panic stricken anxious fearful nauseous Khloe, the fat little girl who feels dirty and ashamed and needs to be back in the driving seat.


And then blood sugar drops and the cravings return with gusto. Scroll back up. Repeat ad nauseum.