The Beginning

I wasn't a bad person. I was just trying to get by. Everyone is just trying to get by, right?

I thought about stopping. I even talked to a couple people about it. A friend at work and a friend at school, and then every once and awhile I would talk to my brother-in-law to be on the phone. My sister had asked me to keep an eye on him while she was away, and as I fifteen-year-old girl it was good to have someone to talk to who I felt was so far away that they couldn't tell anyone my secret.

Everyone had about the same reaction. "You know that's bad for you right?" Yep. Of course I did. Everyone told me that they were "there for me," and that I didn't need to do it. Yes. I know. I don't. But. I do. " You know you should call me every time you want to throw up, and I'll help you." Yeah. I know. And I wont. I don't know why, but I wont.

My Brother-in-law was the only one who had a different answer. "Jules, you know you can talk to God about this, right?" I guess the idea had crossed my mind, but I didn't really want to talk to him about it. I wasn't sinning why should I tell Him?

"If you look at the Savior's life, and read about His Atonement, it will help you to use it to overcome this." I heard the words, and I felt like I understood them, but I don't think that I ever really comprehended what they meant. Erik didn't know about the spot. He didn't know why I started in the first place, but for some reason I trusted him.

I trusted him when he said that this didn't just affect me. It affected all my relationships with my family, with my friends, with my teachers. They didn't know about the spot either, and I didn't have to tell them. But... I wasn't being completely honest. I was wearing a mask, and letting my desires to "just not get any fatter," change who I was. I had become quieter. I wasn't happy anymore. I had this need for attention. I just needed it.

But, in talking to Erik, I had learned to trust at least one person with some of this. Some of how I felt. Some of what I was thinking. And if he said that God could help, I believed that He could, even if I didn't understand how.

I had heard that the Savior had suffered for more than just our sins. That he could help us with our heartaches. But, I just didn't know how.

My Little Box

All souls experience pain. Each one has their own experience with anguish. Some souls try to ignore the hurt; they push it away, tie it down, and hide it in corners far away where they feel it can never find them again. Others let it haunt them; let it sit next to them and whisper in their ear, reminding them over and over again that they hurt, they hurt, and there is no end. There are others who put their hurt in a box on the desk and go about their daily lives doing all that is needed to be done in the day although, every once an awhile the box rattles. So, they wait until the night, then take it out again to listen, to look, to relive, and then to put it back in the box again before the day light comes to find out their secret. But, there are very few souls who are strong enough to do something else, something different. 

I wouldn't categorize myself as a particularly picky person. When you ask me about my favorite movies, books, magazines, foods, my answer is never concrete. I will tell you I like "lotsa stuff," and have no real preference. I am not one to tell you to take the onions off the sandwich just for me. Even if I don't really like onions, I can tolerate them, in one sandwich, on one day, if it will cause you less trouble. I don't mind. 

This goes for other things in life besides just, food. I like people to have their way, and their time, and I don't like to cause people extra effort, hurt, or expense. It is just in my nature. 

I like to make people happy. And I like to be happy. 

Which is why I think the idea of telling someone about what's happened to me is so difficult. I don't really want people to think or feel badly for me. And I never wanted anyone to know, because I thought I could deal with it myself, alone. 

Besides, I was normal. Better than normal. I had good friends in High School, I was a senior favorite in fact, voted "friendliest." I gave the closing speech at my graduation, rapped it actually, and I even spent a year in Japan as an exchange student. People liked me and I liked them. I could interact with and work and understand them. I also felt understood, most of the time, except when people tried to get into my box. When some topics were brought up, I would get uncomfortable and back away, I closed my eyes for a second or two and tried to relax and let it go. 

But the feeling never went away. 

This spot. The black one inside of me. The one marked "unclean." It just stayed there sometimes in my stomach other times on my heart, all the time whispering, "unworthy, unworthy, unworthy, dirty." I would keep myself busy all the time just to make it be quiet. When I found myself alone, I talked to myself so I didn't have to hear its constant taunting. But, no matter what I did, it stayed all the same. 

After awhile I decided that I had to get rid of it somehow, not just cover it up. I tried to scrub it out in the shower, but no matter how hard I scrubbed at my skin, I still felt dirty. Finally, I decided if I couldn't get to it externally, I had to get it from the inside. 

I can't remember exactly when the first time I decided to throw up was. 

I think I'd come home from a party where I'd eaten too much. Blotted, I just wanted the feeling to go away. So, I took a spoon from the kitchen drawer, locked the door behind me, and knelt down in front of the toilet. The first time is always the hardest. It took more than a few attempts. But, as the days passed it got easier and easier. It started to happen on its own. That's when I knew I had gone too far. 

In my head, I made up this story, that it wasn't about losing weight really, it was just about not gaining any. Control. Balance. And I felt so relieved every time. My body so exhausted, I couldn't feel the spot. I thought it was gone. I was clean for a moment or two. But, I lived for those moments.