Angela's Creative Nonfiction Blog

The house was packed; the entrees were set buffet style on our dining room table. It was a family gathering, the type of gathering that my mother waited years for. It was the type of gathering that required my uncles and aunts to fly across the world just to attend. It was the type of gathering that we had to spend three days cleaning our house for. It was the type of gathering that my grandmother cooked thirteen straight hours for. It was these types of family gatherings that I dreaded.


I stood in line with a plate in my hand. I was standing right next to my cousin Mar. She and I were about the same age. At the time, we were about twelve years old. Anyways, I was scooping up my second serving of chicken and my uncle turned to me with a disgusted look on his face. He joked loudly, “You’re going to eat again? You should save some food for your cousin”. I looked at him with shame and stared at my thin cousin and then stared again at my plate. I put the plate down and ran to my room. I was used to this feeling, the feeling of self hatred. I was never good enough, compared to my cousins. They were honor students, they were pianist, they were amazing, and they were thin. My weight was somehow always a topic of conversation at one point of each family gathering.


My parents didn’t hear my uncle. My father would have yelled at him. Never in my life did my parents make me feel as if I was never good enough. I’m blessed to have parents that encouraged me to pursue my goals in life. They always told me I was beautiful and when I cried, they listened, they reached out for me and they prayed. Yet they didn’t know how bad it was. They didn’t know how self conscious, how self loathing, how self destructive I was -until my mother accidentally walked in on it first hand.


One evening during my freshman year of high school, I made the mistake of leaving the bathroom door unlocked while I was hunched over with my head facing the toilet. I left the hot water running so that the sounds of my gagging would be muffled. My mother opened the door and saw me throwing up.
I can’t remember much of that night. I just know how embarrassed and furious I was. She must have known that I was doing it for a while. I was throwing up every meal, running to the bathroom after I ate. It didn’t take my much for them to realize that something was wrong. It was and is and shall always be a constant struggle.


Nobody, unless they have been through it can really understand how difficult it is. As strange as it may seem, I’m constantly thinking of food. I weigh myself every single day, if not three times a day. I could tell you exactly how much weight I gain throughout the day, and what my average weight is every single morning.
It was my junior year of high school, where things were at it’s worst. I was still mourning the death of one of my aunts and at the same time crying over the boy who I thought was my true love. I cared for him for about about for three years (how naive of me). He left me for a younger Filipino girl that was of course smart, talented, undeniably thin. I felt like I had no control over anything in my life (how stupid of me).


I willingly chose to give into my feelings of heart ache and depression. I took my anger out on food. I refused to eat anything but boiled chicken and lettuce. If at all, I only ate once a day. It got to a point where I would wake up in the middle each night to eat in secret. I would tip toe across the hallway and make my way to the refrigerator. Again, I must stress that eating was an act of shame. People knew I starved myself all day, if they knew I woke up in the middle of the night just to eat, it would upset me beyond words.


One night, my father did walk in on me eating. I must have been half awake because I don’t remember yelling at him. The next morning he told me that there was vomit in the toilet and that I screamed at him when he was trying to talk to me.
I guess it must have been a mixture of depression, anxiety, hunger and tiredness that made me act that way. I may have been sleep eating when I think about it now. I was truly not in the right state of mind.
My last two years of high school were a blur. I remained withdrawn from all my friends. I remained withdrawn from my family. I spent my days crying in class, and my nights crying in my room.

Tylenol P.M. helped me sleep at nights.It helped me soothe the heaviness in my chest, literally. When I slept, I felt nothing. Until the thoughts invaded my dreams. The only escape I had was when I puked.

The disgust I felt when I looked at my body (after years of hatred), the disgust I felt when I thought of him being with another girl (fueled my addiction), was all flushed down the toilet. It was more than food that I saw going swirling down the toilet. It was my hurt, my hatred,shame, guilt and anger.I flushed it all away.

Throwing up helped me maintain a healthy weight. A healthy weight…in my sick mind was 110 pounds instead of my former 140 pound frame. Sure it doesn’t seem like 110 pounds was ridiculously thin, but take into account fact that I lost all that weight within a month.

I was sick. Physically and mentally. It hurt to think about my aunt's death. It hurt to think that the boy who I loved only used me because I reminded him of a girl he couldn't get over.Three years of my life I've devoted to him. Three years of my life I wasted on him. I look at it now and it seems to be more like an obsession than love.I'm glad I made it out alive. It could have been worse...so much worse.

I don’t know how to go into details about it. I could tell you how the enamel on my teeth started to wear away after years of vomiting. I could tell you how my throat burned after every time I threw up. I could tell you how guilty I felt after eating a meal that consisted of food other than lettuce and boiled chicken. I could tell you how I cried after every time I looked into the mirror after vomiting. I could tell you how much praise I received from my family who thought I lost weight the healthy way. I could tell you how loose my jeans and bra fit. I could tell you how food was constantly on my mind. I could tell you how I broke my parent’s hearts. I could tell you how I may have chased away past boyfriends because they could not handle my pessimistic attitude towards my body. I could tell you all these things but why?

It’s just a part of who I am, all you have to know is that I’m no longer bulimic and have come a long way since my days of crying over little boys.

Posted in: on Sunday, October 5, 2008 at at 6:52 PM