My mom beams at me, "Oh, [name omitted], I'm so happy to see you're eating more!"
I smile as I put two more pieces of bacon on my plate.
"And it looks like you've lost weight! It's like I've always said, eat more and it boosts your metabolism!" Dad adds, wearing the look of a mountaintop-dwelling wise man.
I nod in agreement as I take another bite of my sister's homemade, pumpkin-stuffed french toast.
After brunch I excuse myself as quickly as it's polite. "They're making me work this weekend to cover for a sick coworker, argh." I hop in my car, drive the mile to work and head straight for the bathroom. I savor the solitude. I'm the only one in the building.
After I rid myself of that nasty full feeling, I walk to my office on unsteady legs and plop down in my ergonomic chair. My head spins as bend over to push the PC power button. I take a moment to contemplate my situation.
It's amazing how quickly things change. A year ago, hell even six months ago, I felt sad and sorry for bulimics. The way they are wearing down their bodies. The health risks. The awfulness of throwing up constantly. Now I am bulimic. I can't remember the last time I ate without purging. The best (worst?) part is my dedication toward not keeping anything in stomach over the last week has paid off. I'm down either two pounds or six pounds (see my last post on faulty scales).
My glue-eating ED has no problem justifying my actions.
"It's okay, you won't be one of those girls who ends up in the hospital because you don't purge everything. You've never purged to the point of popped capillaries or puking up blood. It's just a casual thing: eat something, excuse yourself to the bathroom, throw up a few times, wash your hands, go about your day. You're okay. You're fine. Everything is fine." Mia purrs in my ear.
I'm okay. I'm fine. Everything is fine.