March 2007, Durham, New Hampshire

By Laura Louise Plummer

I suffered with bulimia for more than seven years before finally beginning to recover in the summer of 2006. Last Monday night, I relapsed for the first time in more than six months.

I relapsed again today.

It started with a handful of candy hearts left over from Valentine’s Day. I didn’t stop to read the messages as I shoved the colorful candies into my expectant mouth. “Call me,” “True love,” “The one,” “For sure.” I recalled the days when I might have had someone in mind with whom to share these tokens of affection. I longed for those days.

At that point, I didn’t know for what I hungered. I just sensed a void deep in my being, a void I was desperate to fill.

I visited the vending machine in my floor lounge. Then again. And again. I created a small banquet for myself on the floor of my darkened room: two packages of cinnamon Pop-Tarts, a bag of Nabisco graham cracker sticks, a Butterfinger, four chocolate-chip cookies, and two mugs of hot chocolate.

I sat in the dark of my room, eating like a priest who steals away into a church closet to commit what he’s always considered a sin. I listened to the sounds of students playing catch just outside my window. It was a spring-like 57 degrees in Durham, New Hampshire. I was cowering on my bedroom floor in my pajamas.

I started with the Pop-Tarts, which I had warmed in the toaster oven. I was sure to drink at least a little hot chocolate after every bite. This would make the breakfast pastries come up easier. I never believed them when they said they were “part of a complete breakfast.” They would always be dessert to me.

The candy bar disappeared in a few large bites. During a binge, manners go out the window. You can gorge yourself and then lick your fingers when you’re done. There is no one around to be offended.

When all was said and done, I had consumed more than 2,000 calories in fewer than 20 minutes. My stomach was swollen and aching. I couldn’t wait to get rid of the mound. I vowed that when I did, I would not eat for the rest of the day. It was 4:30 p.m.

Calmly and ritualistically, I twisted my hair into a bun and pushed my bangs aside with a barrette, filled my water bottle, and entered the girls’ bathroom on my floor. Luckily, it was a gorgeous day, and there was hardly anyone still inside. I had the place all to myself.

I made a little home for myself in the stall against the far wall. I tucked my oversize T-shirt into my pajama bottoms and, curling over the toilet bowl, stuck the first two fingers of my right hand into my mouth. The food came back so easily, in a flood of chocolate and dough.

Twice, I took a break to replenish. I took some healthy swigs of the water I had brought, allowing my traumatized body to rest momentarily on the lowered toilet seat. Then I provoked the flood again. I did this three times. Only once did another girl come in to use the bathroom.

When I was sure that I had purged all I could, I performed my cleaning ritual, washing my right hand as though it had come in contact with toxic waste. It would smell like chocolate for days if I didn’t scrub very hard. Then I washed my face and brushed my teeth, until I looked and smelled like new. I could walk onto the street just moments later, and no one would know the despicable act of self-hatred that had just taken place.

My room reeked of chocolate, a saccharine reminder of the evil I had just committed. There were paper plates, half-filled mugs, and candy wrappers strewn across my floor, which I quickly disposed of. I didn’t want to leave a trace.

I called my boyfriend, who was more sad than disappointed. He asked, “So what was it? What was it?”

It was not having slept the night before. It was the 30-page thesis paper with the deadline fast approaching. It was the fight that I had with my boyfriend that morning. It was the upcoming college graduation and the concern over how I’d ever market my entry-level skills in the “real world.” It was the feeling of being disconnected from my friends. It was the lack of feeling that I measured up to anyone’s expectations of me – especially my own.

I could still hear the kids playing catch outside, basking in the glory of a spring day. I was still indoors with the shades drawn, the lamps off. I clutched my aching belly and slipped into bed, tears starting to form in the corners of my eyes.

The purging had felt so good in the moment. It was such a release! I was pushing out not only the food inside me, but also the conflicts, the turmoil, the indecision, the stress, the expectations. I pushed it out, and I flushed it away. I watched it disappear in a clockwise motion, to be washed out to sea.

But this relief was only temporary. Now curled in the fetal position in my bed, I felt sorry for myself. I felt sorry that I could not be at dinner with my friends. I felt sorry that I could not be outside playing catch with my neighbors. I felt sorry that friends of mine, in planning their Friday night mischief, had forgotten me, curled up into a ball in some darkened dorm room. I felt sorry that I could not be writing my research proposal for a paper due in less than a week. All my tired body would allow me to do was sleep. And sleep I did.

And when I awoke, I thought that I owed it to myself to sit down at my computer and write. I figured that if I could not gather my bearings to write my proposal, I could at least write an account of what had happened to me this afternoon.

Perhaps I don’t even owe it to myself. I know that I’m just one of thousands of women at the University of New Hampshire who use binging and purging as a means of coping with outside stressors.

I know that because I am the founder and president of an organization dedicated to raising awareness of eating disorders on campus. I thought that I was through the worst of my disease, and perhaps I am. But I am still struggling. I am still a statistic. I am one in four.

Laura Louise Plummer recently graduated from the University of New Hampshire in Durham with degrees in Spanish and International Affairs. She has written consistently since the age of 6 and considers writing to be one of her greatest gifts. She has been published in various forms of online media, as well as college publications. Laura is currently investigating career opportunities for the fall and hopes to one day combine a career in journalism with human rights advocacy.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Thursday, June 14th, 2007 | Email This Post

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