I Mean, We All Know The Dangers

We Think Of Bulimia And Anorexia As Either A Bizarre Psychosis, Or As A Quirky Little Habit, A Phase, Or As A Thing That Women Just Do. We Forget That It Is A Violent Act, That It Bespeaks A Profound Level Of Anger Toward And Fear Of The Self.

I Threw Up Again That Night, Half-afraid That My Eyeballs Would Explode. But It Was, By Far, More Important That I Get Rid Of Dinner. Of Course, By Then, Throwing Up Was The Only Way I Knew How To Deal With Fear. That Paradox Would Begin To Run My Life: To Know That What You Are Doing Is Hurting You, Maybe Killing You, And To Be Afraid Of That Fact--but To Cling To The Idea That This Will Save You, It Will, In The End, Make Things Okay.

It Is, At The Most Basic Level, A Bundle Of Contradictions: A Desire For Power That Strips You Of All Power. A Gesture Of Strength That Divests You Of All Strength.

And Yet You Are All That You Have, So You Must Be Enough. There Is No Other Way.

You Wake Up One Morning And There It Is, Sitting In An Old Plaid Bathrobe In Your Kitchen, Unpleasant And Unshaved. You Look At It, Heart Sinking. Madness Is A Rotten Guest.