You guys,
I was a sophomore in college the first time I threw up after eating too much food.
No matter which stupid diet I was on — South Beach, Kellogg’s Special K Red Berries Cereal, Weight Watchers, Starving Myself — I would eventually binge eat. So as I stared at myself in the mirror, hating myself for being so weak and undisciplined, I felt like there was no other option.
The real kicker was that I hated throwing up. While others threw up after drinking too much and then felt immediately better, I’d rather feel sick for the next 24 hours than make myself throw up. It was the worst feeling. So it was extra fucked that I felt like this was my only option.
Bulimia didn’t work out for me (surprise). Most times I couldn’t even bring myself to throw up. I stuck my finger down my throat, felt my eyes bulging out of my head, and retreated. I couldn’t fully commit. I’d walk out of the bathroom stall light-headed, eyes bloodshot, throat burning, and hating myself even more than when I walked in there.
It was a low point in my relationship with food and body image. And it was only the beginning.
When I think back to that girl I used to be, I think of how she was 100% certain that the one thing — the only thing — that would solve everything and make her happy was to be skinny.
I had no idea that trying to achieve that goal from age 17-32 would send me into the depths of depression where my obsession with the number on the scale would take over my life and keep me from living. No one knew what I was going through. I kept everything locked up inside a vault of embarrassment, shame, and secrets.
Now that I’m on the other side, I understand that just knowing someone else is having a similar experience or a similar feeling as you is enough to make whatever it is feel less scary. And talking about it and writing openly about it can help begin to set you free.
Behind The Scenes
This week’s introduction was inspired by the Apple TV series, Physical. The main character, Sheila, played by Rose Byrne, is bulimic. Throughout each episode, her voice-over acts as the voice in her head talking to herself, and the way she hate-talks herself is shockingly accurate and relatable.
It got me thinking about my short stint with bulimia. And so I thought it would be fun (read: easy, cathartic) to write about it.
But what was the point? What was the value I was providing the reader?
I had no idea.
This is typically my writing process. I start writing about a specific moment that I’m drawn to write about. In this case, I placed myself in my dorm room bathroom and imagined myself standing over the toilet. Then the words started flowing.
Most times I don’t know where I’m going or what the point is until I start writing. Sometimes an obvious lesson or conclusion forms, but often, simply being open and honest about my experience is enough to resonate with readers. At the very least, it feels good to share it.
In Other News
Sam and I are taking our first trip without kids this weekend. A 2-night getaway to Miami.
I’m nervous to leave Layla. She’s typically super chill and happy but what I’m learning is that she’s super chill and happy with me. She kinda loses her mind when others try to give her a bottle and I hate to think of her crying and not being there to swoop in and comfort her.
But I’ll get over it, because mostly, I’m desperate for alone time with Sam. We haven’t felt connected or even on the same page recently. I’ve been focused on parenting, trying to get myself back to 100% health (is this long COVID??), and sometimes writing.
It’s easy to put Sam and our relationship on the back burner because I know he’ll always be there.
I realize this isn’t a healthy approach for a long-lasting and loving marriage.
So Miami, here we come!
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Until next week,
Charlie