Cookie

It started with a cookie.1

That one stupid cookie wrecked any chance I might have had at avoiding the binge-purge cycle for the night. I had gone thirty-five days without doing either, and each hour had been a struggle. I was proud of myself for making it so far.2

And then my mother had to offer me that goddamn white chocolate macadamia nut cookie.3

One cookie led to another, and another. When I'd had my fill of cookies, I dug into the leftover pizza, then the pasta I'd made earlier. I ate until I felt like I couldn't take another bite, till it hurt to swallow. Then I downed a bottle of Diet Coke and kept stuffing my face. I felt I might burst with the sheer mass of all I'd devoured.4

I didn't want to. All the while I thought, 'this is wrong, I need to stop, I'm already whalish enough as it is.' I ate because I was disgusted with myself, I ate so I'd have something to purge, I ate because I couldn't NOT eat.5

And I ate because I knew that nobody would notice that I was eating.6

"I'm going to take a shower," I announced to my family, though I might have been talking to a wall for all the acknowledgement I received.7

Once I reached the bathroom, I tugged off my baggy clothes and stared hard into the mirror, inspecting my oddly-shaped body from every angle. 'Where did those love handles come from?' I thought in sheer horror. 'Did my stomach get bigger?' As I prepared, I allowed myself to cry in pain, guilt, and frustration at what I was doing. But I didn't stop. No matter how much I hated myself for it, I couldn't just not purge. The fullness in my stomach--even when it had only held the first cookie--made me hate myself. Why couldn't I control what I ate, why couldn't I control how I felt?8

I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and started the shower. Then I kneeled down and slipped two fingers down my throat.9

The first few tries were futile; my chest heaved and caught, I coughed and spluttered, I could hardly breath. Tears streamed down my face with the pain and effort, but I perservered until I was successful.10

Self-hatred was sour and disgusting as I expelled it from my body. Acidic ridicule burned the scratches on my knuckles and the roof of my mouth, painfully reminding me of their presence. If my guilt had been hard to swallow, was even harder to purge, but I eventually clenched my muscles and forced it out. Numbers--weight, height, bra size, pants size--refused to leave my body, but held steadfastly so that the only thing that came out was a bitter fluid.11

And, of course, cookie crumbs.