Here is the second piece I wrote for the Substance for You website! It's based on living life with 'Mia' (bulimia). Normally I would call her Jenna (which is what I've named my bulimia identity) but for this piece, I wanted it to be easily understood and since bulimia is often refered to as Mia, I figured it'd be more straightforward than calling her Jenna like I usually do. I hope you like it! Let me know.
Spending My Life With Mia
I'd like to
introduce you to my best friend, support, love and life, Mia.
I met her over nine years ago when I was 14 years old. She came to me
in a time of need and scooped me up in her arms, whispering,
“Everything will be okay.” In that moment, I instantly trusted
her with my life, my well-being. For a while, she kept her promise to
me. She told me when to eat, or rather, when not to eat. She told me
how often to exercise to achieve that perfect, skinny body I was
yearning for. And when I slipped up and stuffed my 'fat' face, she
taught me just how to fix it, teaching me to purge. “Twice the
taste, half the calories,” she said. I didn't know then that she
wasn't the friend I thought she was. She was helping me. She was the
one that was responsible for all of the pounds of fat that were
falling off my body. She was my source of strength, control,
will-power, and happiness. She was the only one who understood my
desire for a stick-thin frame.
I adored Mia, I
thought she was this beautiful entity that chose me, seeing something
special in me. I thought she saw my potential, my beauty, hidden
behind those extra 100 pounds. I thought she was the definition of
perfection and when she promised me that I would be just like her, I
was taken. She knew she had me. And for a time, she was everything I
had hoped for. But her kind advice and support quickly turned to
malicious hatred and criticism. Not a day went by where she didn't
have some sort of complaint. Even if I only had one apple for the
whole day, Mia would call me a “fat, careless pig.” She would
insult me until I was metaphorically on the ground begging for help.
And then she would tell me to go to the gym until I burnt the apple
and the some, off. I would always comply. It didn't matter what her
demand was, I would do anything to absolve myself from the food
crimes I had committed. I would do anything to change her hatred back
into praise. I was like a battered woman, making excuses for Mia no
matter how horribly she treated me. She would kick me while I was
down and I would run back to her crying and begging for forgiveness.
Sometimes she'd finally praise me after I had run for hours, purged
all that I ate and restricted all day. She'd promise that she'd stop
being so harsh, but by the next meal, she'd be back to her evil,
hateful self.
On a
particularly bad day, Mia was her usual alluring, charmingly evil
self. As she did most days, she demanded I get on the scale. I
complied, the need to know my weight now imprinted on my mind. I took
a deep breath, preparing myself for the verbal abuse that was about
to come my way. I knew I shouldn't have eaten that cereal last night.
I stepped on, eyes closed. Mia beckoned me to open them, to look at
the number that was taunting me from the scale. I gathered my courage
and finally took a peak. In my mind I was ecstatic. I had lost XX
pounds! “ Mia will be so happy”, I told myself. But I was
wrong. Almost instantly she started in on me with harsh words and
insults. She knew my weak spots, my insecurities and used them to her
advantage. Our argument looked something like this:
“You really
think XX pounds is good enough? Are you kidding me? You're pathetic.”
I'm sorry,
I'll try harder. But at least I lost, right?
“You will try
harder. You think you can just sit on your fat ass? That's not
enough. You can't eat at all today. Not one calorie will enter that
fat, ugly mouth of yours!”
You're
right, I can't afford to eat today.
“You don't
deserve to eat. Not today, or ever. No wonder nobody at school
wants to be your friend. I wouldn't want to be friends with a weak,
humongous worthless person like you!”
I'm sorry, I
should have listened to you.
“If you can't
follow simple instructions or simply control yourself, you don't
deserve to be here. I think maybe you should just kill yourself.
Nobody would even care.”
Maybe I
will. I didn't meant to let you down. I let everyone down.
“No you won't.
We both know you're to weak and pathetic to go through with it.
You're nothing but a fat coward! I think you deserve a slower, more
painful death. Much like the one I have planned for you.”
But I don't
want to die, not really!
“Then why did
you want me to stay? Didn't you know that bulimia is a death
sentence? Idiot.”
At the time, I
truly didn't know that Mia would kill me. She seemed so kind and
caring in the beginning. She seemed like a miracle solution for
perfection. It was that day that I knew she would never, ever be
happy. I had achieved my goal weight, in fact, I had lost more than
my goal weight. I worked out almost constantly and starved myself.
But no matter what I did, Mia wasn't happy. She wanted more and more.
She wanted lower numbers, more workouts, lower measurements, smaller
sizes. She wanted me to waste away to nothing.
And all the
while, she was taking up residence in my head. Slowly pushing my own
identity out so that she could take over my body. The more she beat
me down, the more I felt I needed her, so I let her in more and more.
Each day was a cycle of weighing, starving, exercising, binging,
purging, weighing, binging, purging, weighing, starving. I weighed myself more than 20 times a day. I weighed after every meal, binge,
purge, workout or just when ever I 'felt fat.' My world revolved
around numbers and calories, sizes and measurements. I spent hours
upon hours in front of the mirror examining my body. I would pinch
the fat, suck in my stomach, turn from side to side. I would stare
and pick apart at my flaws. No matter how much I lost, my reflection
always appeared huge. Mia had entered my mind and distorted my eye
sight and self-perceptions. I turned to measuring tapes to try and
figure out what I looked like, but they never seemed to match up. I
literally had no idea what I looked like.
And to this day,
I still can't decipher what I look like. I couldn't tell you if I
weight 300 pounds or 90 pounds. But it really doesn't matter. I was
just as sick at my highest weight as I was at my lowest. Bulimia, and
eating disorders in general, do not discriminate. They will take all
races, ages, genders and most importantly, shapes and sizes as their
victims. Eating disorders will attack their victims slowly, withering
them away to nothing.
Over time Mia
became apart of me. I was no longer Jordyn, the loving daughter,
intelligent student, talented equestrian. I was only on the sidelines
while Mia took over my identity. I became nothing but my eating
disorder. Every lie, manipulation, binge, purge, starvation was Mia's
doing. I no longer knew who I was, what I liked doing, or who I
wanted to become. All I knew was that I needed to be skinny. I only
cared about numbers, food, and weight. Nothing else mattered.
Mia slowly
isolated me from my friends, family, boyfriend and hobbies. School
and horseback riding lost importance for me in comparison to bulimia.
It was all I knew anymore. Thinking about not having Mia anymore sent
me into a complete panic. Without her I literally would be nobody.
At least, I
thought I would be nobody. It took nine years, millions of weigh-ins,
binges, purges and calories burnt, but I have finally realized that
Mia is only out to hurt and kill me. I still fear losing her, but I
no longer want to live my days obsessed with weight and appearance. I
might miss Mia a bit, but I won't miss the endless, exhausting cycle
of starving, binging and purging. I won't miss the sore throats, the
hair loss, the depression or the pain. I know now that I can be more
than my bulimia. I know that I don't need Mia. I just need me.
