Bulimia – The Beginning

I remember the very first, time. We had just moved out of my home. Not my house, but my home. The only home I had ever known, from the time of my birth. A 3 story, butter yellow Victorian home with 2 sun porches, a never ending wrap around front porch, a black roof and black shutters. The house was surrounded by a garden, full of color and scents that made the day feel like a Van Gogh painting. I loved the way the Poppy’s were caressed by the softest of wind.

The back of the house, hugged by a vegetable garden of sugar snap peas, carrots and maybe even a little rhubarb. Striper the buns cage  was off to the left, shaded, by the large old barn, that was now my fathers workspace. The hayloft above the barn, a play space, an escape  and my haven. A safe place from all the world, aside from the resident skunks that shared their lives and sometimes their bittersweet scent.

This house, was my house, my safety net, my security, my home. A tree lined street, perfectly named Young Street. It sounded like a place for a new beginning, a perfect life, and it was until my parents started to spiral and their bitterness, took away my sweetness.  

I lived on a perfect street, with a perfect family, with other perfect families, until they snatched my youth away from me.  They sold my house, and moved us into a temporary house. The story was that they needed to downsize, because my oldest sister, was in college and we didn’t need such a large home, but I could smell the stench of lies in the air. I didn’t know what the lies were whispering, but it was sticky and messy.

Our temporary house, with the sweltering sun-room, was a glimpse of the inferno in my life, that was about rustle awake. I spent most hours in my over-sized bedroom, with musky smelling carpet with an old hollow core pocket door. It echoed when you closed it, to remind you that you really held no privacy. This house, was an empty space, now holding an empty family, filled with empty hearts. My mother passed my father, my father passed my mother, they both passed by me, all but disconnected, and nobody seemed to care.

I felt lonely, and sad, and unsure of what was going on. I had no-one to turn to, or talk to. My sister was away at college, not that I could have talked to her anyway. I was a nuisance, from the day I was born. She reminded me, as often as possible. She was better off without me, and she stated so, when they brought me home from the hospital. “Take her back”, the photo says, of my welcome home arrival, as she peaks over the chair. My sister, wanted me gone, before I was old enough to love her.

The pain became to much, and I was alone, and I looked at the chocolate chip cookies as they somehow called out to me. They were my healer, but it wasn’t about the cookie, unbeknown to me, it was so much more. I tucked a large plate of cookies into my lap, as if to guard them and as sat in the sun-room, shoving one into my mouth, after another.  I lost track of taste, time, feeling, sensation. Until, my stomach felt like my heart, as if it was going to burst from all the pain, welled up inside of it. I was numb as I wandered to the bathroom, with another hollow core, pocket door, with a pretense of privacy.

I leaned over the toilet, to expel, repel, repent. I knew, if I could remove everything from my heart, my soul, my stomach, it would all be better. I purged, and I purged and I purged. The cookies came screaming out of me, along with my pain, my hurt, my tears, my dyeing inside. And then the pocket door slid open, and my mother stood there, I felt alive, relieved all the while, numb to the look upon her face.

Purging, purging became my escape, as I expelled, I was relieved, as all things dark, flooded out of me in a torrent. I didn’t understand, I had no idea what I had walked into. My savior, would become my prison guard. I have been locked up, and kept in a death cycle for 24 years. What I once thought, was my life saver, I now know, is my life taker, but I can’t seem to take my life back.  I have good days, and I have bad, but still, my release, my refuge, my moment of bliss…are the fleeting seconds…after a purge.

Anorexic Bulimic

Not at all about food

A darkened mood

I binge and purge

Restrain my urge

Ice Cream Cake

A tossed mistake

I hide my pain

To binge again

High I feel

Without a pill

Anorexia Nervousa

Takes me over

Eat no more

Lifeless on the floor

Nobody knows

My pain -froze

Never, to end

Forever, I pretend