National Eating Disorders Awareness Month, Ten
February is National Eating Disorders Awareness Month. Okay; it’s technically a week. But because everyone works on different schedules and one specifically mandated week will inevitably cause conflict for participants, many people dedicate the entire month to raising awareness. This is an astronomically important event for me, as I spent much of my childhood and teenage years ensnared in bitter battle with anorexia and bulimia.
Eating disorders are painful, wretched, frightening diseases that hold victims with an intoxicating power. I hate them with my whole self, with the very Chianti-spiked blood coursing through my veins. I want them eradicated. I want them gone. I will fight them for the sake of every woman and man who doesn’t feel strong enough to face them alone. I will kill them.
(I really hate them.)
What better way to raise awareness than to tell my own story? What better way to tell my story than through my blog? (Because, okay, I don’t have a book deal yet. That would trump the blog.) The way I related to food and eating as a child is – absolutely – the driving force for how I relate to it now. And you know what? It’s a pretty damn good story, if you ask me.
And so, for the remainder of the month, I’ll be telling the story of my journey. I’ll do it in installments. I’ll intersperse the installments with my regularly scheduled programming, because a month chock-full of bulimia is a little too intense – even for me. And I’m hardcore.
Disclaimers? Always: Be aware that some names and identifying details of characters have been changed. I am, of course, leaving a little out. It’s a scary story. It was a scary time. I’m healthy now. I’m happy.
Sexy Girls Eat is, more than anything else, an eating blog. Every day, I thank my lucky olives that I’m able to enjoy food with such purity and wholeness. But it wasn’t always that way …
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten: Sexy Girls Eat
As I saw my new therapist, the binges and purges began to lessen. They didn’t stop, but I was doing it with less frequency, which we all saw as an improvement. I wasn’t really actively pursuing health, for I still didn’t think I could or should give up purging. Not entirely, anyway.
During one particularly emotional session in which we discussed my experience at the
“So?” she asked, somewhat amused.
“I have to,” I repeated.
“No …” she countered, even more amused.
“O … kay,” I answered. “What, do I just stay at home and work?”
She suggested I apply to Le Moyne College.
I pulled my hands out from under my ass and leaned forward onto my knees. “Really?”
I applied later that week and was accepted with scholarships.
The summer ended and school began. I was nervous as all hell the night before campus orientation, so I reached into my cache of coping methods. Take a bath? Too boring. Go for a long walk? Like hell, I will. I did what always worked: I ate. I filled myself to the gills, but when I attempted a purge, nothing came out. This happens every so often to bulimics, and it is more terrifying than anything – including the notion that actually throwing up can kill. My stomach clung onto the food, and I was frantic. I had to get it out of me. I threw on a large sweatshirt to hide my bloated tummy and hopped in my car. I sped to the pharmacy, where I purchased a bottle of Ipecac syrup. I knew bulimic lore well – Ipecac was a dangerous tool, one that could stop your heart in a moment, one that no smart person would willingly use. But I had to empty my stomach.
I drank the entire vial in my car, choking down the thick syrup and chasing it with a chilled bottle of water. I drove home and waited.
About a half an hour later, I ran into the bathroom and clung to the toilet for dear life. I threw up what felt like the inside of my belly. (It probably was, at least in part, some of my stomach lining).
After I was covered in sweat and vomit, I stood under the shower, the hot stream calming me. “It’s okay,” I whispered to myself, snaking my arms around my waist. “This is the last time.”
The next morning, before my first class, I stopped at a grocery store and purchased a bottle of carrot juice. I’d never tasted the stuff before, but I suppose I wanted my future peers to think of me as the type of woman who had. I cracked it open at the beginning of my
I liked my classes, and was happy to be back in the midst of a routine, reading and studying and adhering to a schedule. But as the pressure and stress mounted – job, school, boyfriend, school, school, perfection – I began to slide back into my old routine. I resumed purging twice daily.
One evening in October, on the way home from a class, I stopped at a gas station to fuel up on binge food. I dropped a bag of Cheetos, pre-packaged mini Snickers bars and a box of chocolate chip cookies on the counter. As I paid, my eyes scanned the goods. There was so much plastic. Everything was wrapped in it, and who knows, I thought, how long it’d been sitting on the shelf. It was, if I really considered things, pretty gross. It was, if I was honest, not the type of food I wanted to eat. Still, I ripped into the bag as I started my ignition. “Wrong, this is wrong,” I said out loud, crunching into a bright orange twist.
The next day, I told my therapist that I was ready to make a real commitment to recovery. Together we considered my options. I could enroll in a day program, Centre Syracuse, she said, but I absolutely refused to give up any pretension that I lived a normal, real life.
Instead, I moved in with my boyfriend. Don’t follow? That’s okay; even we were unsure as we signed a lease. The thing was, though, my parents couldn’t watch me all the time. And being a teenage girl, I got so goddamn defensive anytime they tried to intervene. What I needed, I realized, was to have my eating monitored at all times. Since I wasn’t willing to let a professional do it, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to relinquish any independence to my parents, this seemed like the next best option.
And you know what? It was. I have the fondest memories of the few months we lived together. The first night we spent in our new apartment was Halloween, and we celebrated by renting a scary movie with our married friends, who had, it turns out, gone through a similar problem. I munched on candy corn and squealed and snuggled and laughed, and was happy. “This is real life; I have a real life,” I repeated over and over to my boyfriend as we touched feet and fell asleep in our bed.
I loved food in those first few weeks. We’d excitedly set the timer on our new coffee maker, then wake up to the scent of brewing French roast. I’d make us both bagels with gobs of peanut butter, or else granola bars smeared with orange marmalade. I even drank juice, which, considering I used to consume it only as a lubricant for purges, was quite a feat. I ate lunch at school, opting to order a veggie burger, piled high with tomatoes and lettuce. I fell in love with French fries. On days when I wasn’t feeling so strong, I’d order a salad and decorate it with almonds and provolone cheese. For dinner, we’d cook together – well, sort of. Neither of us was very skilled in the kitchen. We’d warm store-bought broccoli nibbles in the oven, then sit down to a dinner of tomato basil soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. We’d watch movies and television together late at night, sharing a bowl of pretzels and fresh, tangy mustard (a weird combination that I still love).
If I was ever tempted to purge in the middle of the night – though I rarely was – the desire was quickly quashed by the realization that he’d certainly hear me hacking.
I continued to see my therapist, along with a nutritionist, who gently urged me not to fear carbohydrates. It was a good time, full of healing and hope.
Ultimately, things didn’t work out with my boyfriend. Breakups are hard – and intensely personal – and because ours wasn’t directly related to this story, I’ll simply say that things ended, and I moved back home with my parents. (Another story, another time.) Luckily, I had collected enough skills and good eating habits to continue thriving.
I floated through the next few semesters at school, making friends and receiving exemplary grades, despite an increasing disinterest in my homework and studies. I was enrolled as a public relations major, though I wasn’t even sure I liked the subject. Truth be told, it was the saucy, sexy character Samantha Jones that inspired me to sign up for the PR tract. I wasn’t thinking about the future. I was just enjoying life without bulimia.
In January of 2008, during a class geared toward learning graphic design, I was fiddling around with a faux-magazine spread. For some unknown reason, I’d taken a photo of my dessert the night prior – brandy glazed pineapple. (It sounds yummy, but it actually kind of sucked. I really was not a good cook.) As I resized my photos, the editor of the school newspaper peered over my shoulder. Hungry for dedicated writers, she pitched an idea.
“You cook?” She asked. “Do you want to write a recipe column for the paper?”
“Okay!” I blurted without thinking. I didn’t cook – not really – but I could certainly write. How hard could it be?
We titled my column “Rochelle’s Recipes,” and for my first piece, I made chocolate truffles in honor of Valentine’s Day. They looked like shit, and the copy of my article was really rather stupid. But it was a start. I began to look forward to my weekly adventure in cooking, when I’d attempt to create a masterpiece worth writing about.
Somewhere in there, I began to explore the fascinating, intricate, beautiful world of food writing. “Goodness!” I thought. “I was born to do this!” I read Gael Greene and Ruth Reichl. I fell in love with them. I became a dedicated follower of Frank Bruni’s column, and I devoured every anthology on the matter I could find.
The next logical step, it seemed, was to create a blog of my own. My good friend took headshots for the occasion, and I signed up for a domain on the only blogging Web site I knew of. I slapped a gratuitiously dirty photo of myself eating a cupcake on the page, titled it and got to work. (As for that title? I don’t know. It just seemed to fit. I don’t really take myself so seriously as to insist I am a Sexy Girl – that’s a matter of personal taste. It’s the feeling like a Sexy Girl that I think should be celebrated.)
Months later? Well, here I am. I’m eating, dining, savoring, learning, writing and thriving. I’m living. And it feels damn good.
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It is difficult to write an ending; more so when it’s about yourself, and most so when your story is really just beginning. And so, let’s not call it that. Let’s call it my beginning. Thank you for being here to share it with me.
National Eating Disorders Association
Rochelle,
I thoroughly enjoyed the the series. Thank you for your bravery….with being open and honest with yourself and with your audience. That takes tremendous courage and I’m sure will inspire others to come forward with their own disorders.
You are a very interesting and amazing girl. I enjoy every part of your writing, photography and blog.
Well done!