There is a certain satisfaction that to be obtained from bulimia, in the petty tradition of the child hurling its toys from the pram; a kind of satisfaction in relinquishing responsibility, prostrating oneself, raising your voice over that of your tormentors and joining with them, louder and more scathing than they could ever be. It’s admitting to helplessness and looking up defiantly and saying “yes, you’re right, and everything I am, you made me.”
However painful it is, however fucked-up it makes me feel, I am following the advice society gives me; however conflicting those messages are, I am obeying them to the letter. It’s not my fault – I’m just doing what you told me.
I value myself on my looks, as women should. I fixate on weight as an aspect of my looks I can control, or should be able to control. It distracts from the emptiness, the unfulfilment left by the consumerism you sell me. I indulge in the excess of delicious food that we are privileged to have at our disposal. Drowning in wealth, we have “sinful” “delicious” “rich” and “creamy” and sometimes it is “virtually fat-free”; surely the epitome of human progress.
You make so many different kinds, and you market them to me, targeting me as vehemently as any general defending the faith, the crown, the system. I can’t resist. But, torn by the contradictions inherent in the message, the ideal, I resort to an act of violence against the body; I cleanse, I purge, forcing food up and out again. Eating in reverse; painful and unnatural.
I realise that I need to remain a sex object in order for any of my other attributes to be recognised or appreciated.
But I’m just doing what I’m told.