I started to become bulimic. The first session (for lack of better word) commenced whilst my younger sibling was in hospital, that summer before the horrible fall-out. I was felt guilty, wishing I could take the pain for her as she was so young. I was surrounded by the girls constantly moaning about their weight and body shapes. She who shan’t be named heavily influenced me. She was tall but skinny- unsurprising as she didn’t eat. When she did she moaned of being fat looking, as we have all done in our life, for empathy and to be reassured. Where we would refer to each other as ‘hun’, ‘babes’ or any other girly name she would insert ‘fatty’. Her jokes were as double-edged as her ‘reassuring’ comments when we had weight complaints.

I seem to be blaming She who shan’t be named for every bad thing I have done or has happened to me during that time period. In truth I started dieting as I hated my womanly bust. It was out of proportion to my flat stomach and petite figure. The whistle calls and obvious looks from the male species was all too much for me to bear as a shy person. I was sick of not feel comfortable enough to wear t-shirts without boleros or spaghetti tops during the day without a cardy even in the sweltering heat of mid summer London. So I dieted but my will wasn’t strong enough. So, I turned to bulimia. Experimented you could say, but you don’t experiment with it, not really.

I had stopped due to vanity and fear of dentists spotting the tell-tale signs on my teeth. The happiness which came from my deep friendship with the girls was enough to sate me. We learnt together to be a bit happier within our bodies and we would go through phases where we refused to watch our weight and gleefully pigged out. We shared our indifference to our weight, and our insecurities too when they predictably resurfaced. That social support was invaluable- but hey we never realise just how much something means until it is gone.

As the girls cast me out and the college students questioned me openly over the goings-on, I was miserable. I was also angry. I wanted to be noticed for something else. I wanted the girls to realise what they had done to me. I thought if I stopped eating I would gain their attention, their time. What a stupid idea. Of course one which didn’t work as I have always loved food and hate the feeling of emptiness. Instead I revisited bulimia- the quitter’s route I believed. I gave up my ingeniously ridiculous plan of losing weight to express my sorrow and inner turmoil. I couldn’t however give up the bulimia.

It went around in cycles. Whilst it didn’t fit the prescribed patterns of a clinically recognised bulimic, it was a form of the… disease? I saw the lithe figure of She who shan’t be named whilst the group converged around her. I wanted to play the game, beat her by being smaller, and thus win. Maybe she had an eating disorder of her own? Who knows, what I do know is that I lost that game.