I first learned how to make myself throw up during my junior year of high school. I can’t remember what triggered my curiosity, but while trolling the Internet at home, I somehow landed on a pro–bulimia blog. The site compiled advice on how to achieve the skeletal bodies depicted in its collages of concave chests and sunken eyes. Even three years later, those tips are hard to forget.
Carbs and soft foods are the easiest to throw up, but still take a sip of water every five minutes—it eases the purge.
Never kneel over the toilet—stand up straight and slightly bend your back forward. Gravity is your friend.
Do it under 30 minutes after eating or don’t even bother.
Eat Doritos before you start your meal. That way you’ll know you’ve thrown everything up when you see orange.
And so I tried it. I chugged half a liter of Poland Spring water, walked upstairs to my bathroom, and stuck my finger down my throat, just how I had read it was done. I had eaten dinner over an hour before that, so nothing came up but hot water.
My weight was never the issue. My metabolism works faster than I can consume a wedge of Brie. I’ve played on team sports since I was a child, and the scale has never exceeded 115 pounds.
Stress was the issue. As the pressure to get into a good college rose, so too did my need for a way out.
One winter evening, I quickly ate two spicy tuna rolls. I needed to study for a US history quiz, but the discomfort of my full stomach distracted me. So I grabbed my toothbrush and razor and went to the bathroom. If anyone were to ask why my hair wasn’t wet when I came out, I’d tell them I was just shaving my legs.
I turned the shower on—cold, so I’d waste less energy—and reinforced the lock with the doorstop, just in case. I bent over the toilet with my toothbrush down my throat. Like a teenage girl learning to masturbate, I poked for a while, confused as to why nothing was happening.
And then I burped. The gas smelled like wasabi. I burped again and felt my gut churning. Another one and the food trampolined up my esophagus. Globs of food slowly but painfully plopped into the toilet. It looked like pink attic foam had melted in the basin. I would later perfect my burp–and–body–lurch technique so that it stopped being painful and started being therapeutic.
Vomiting remained my release for three years—not every meal, not every week, not even every month. The urge just came in sporadic bouts depending on my stress. It was my tyrannical way of combatting the anarchy around me. My delight. My dirty little secret.
I’ve never considered myself to have had an eating disorder. It wasn’t that. It was a stress disorder. “Eating disorder” implies that you don’t have control over it. I did. I had complete control. That was the point.
Life became even more uncontrollable when I started my freshman year at Penn. So I became more controlling. I loved every second of my wild social life, but I was drowning in my own freedom. At least three times per week, I woke up to a desk littered with empty vodka bottles and crinkled Wawa wrappers. I went to maybe one–third of my lectures and I had completely forgotten why I was at Penn in the first place.
But then I found the bathroom in the basement of the Quad. Now the drinking and drunk munchies didn’t matter. At the end of the night, I could just step into my time machine, and at the push of a button—that punching bag dangling in my throat—it was as if it never happened. I could wake up with great memories but no hangover or regrets, and still be in Van Pelt by 9 a.m.
I never received professional help for this because I handled it on my own. I never wanted it anyway. Last year, I came home drunk, alone and upset, and stepped into my time machine. As tears and food flooded into the toilet, water splashed back onto my face. I kept gagging myself with my right hand, coated in a thick orange film. I didn’t bother washing it until I saw the blood.
There wasn’t much at all—maybe a drop or two on the surface of the semi–digested food—but enough to realize that I was rupturing my esophagus. Enough to realize I was weakening my heart, damaging my brain, and corroding my gums. I was done cleaning the toilet bowl so my housemates wouldn’t notice. I was done scooping vomit out of the toilet when I clogged it and disposing of it elsewhere. I was done degrading myself. I was done harming myself.
I don’t worry about finding the nearest bathroom after dinner anymore. The thought crosses my mind every once in a while, but only for a moment until I think about my heart. Realizing my solution was actually a problem hurts, but only until I remember that I conquered bulimia. For most, professional help is the most effective and necessary treatment, and I highly endorse that. But for me, alone is how I had to handle it. Control was how I got myself into it, and control was how I had to get out.
The only thing I worry about now is getting food stuck in the spaces where my gums used to be.
