The secret's out

So, after hiding it for what seems like a lifetime, my dirty little secret has finally been discovered.
Its kind of my fault, maybe I shouldn't have given up the game so easy when I collapsed and was taken to hospital but according to the doctors, the fact that I did means I 'finally wanted help', whatever 'help' actually is. He shouldn't have even told my dad, I'm an adult- what ever happened to doctor/patient confidentiality?

So here is my blog- the life of a recovering bulimic. If that's what they want to call me.

I've always had an issue with the way I look and with food, I even have a memory of when I was 7 years old and I tried making myself sick for the first time. I wasn't very good at it, but I turned around afterwards to find my mum standing behind me holding my then baby brother and I was terrified. She never said a word and never has, I wonder if she even remembers, but I didn't try it again. Until I was 15 that is.
All I can remember from that time is that my stepdad's business had just crashed, we'd had to up and leave our big, beautiful, dream house with a toy room in the converted loft, huge bedrooms and a conservatory running the entire length of the house, to play families in the less appealing, cramped, mid terrace house in the middle of a less friendly area.
The move didn't bother me at all, but it did my mum.
Her drinking got worse, much worse and her and my stepdads fights progressed with it.
I suppose this is the kind of thing they're going to blame my 'problem' on, but in all honesty I was glad they had their own issues, it meant I could sort out my own- my hideous, disgusting body.
I don't know where the idea to stick my fingers down my throat (or purge, a much nicer word I'm sure the doctors are going to use until they go blue in the face) came from. It just made sense; food goes in, food comes out, no fat gained.
Sadly it doesn't necessarily work like that.
I was binging on biscuits, crisps, sweets, chocolate, anything I could before running upstairs and getting rid of it. Sometimes during the manic eating episodes I would eat something colourful first, say cheesy Doritos, so I'd know when my sick turned orange I was okay to stop, I'd got it all up.
Sooner or later I was making a stop to the bathroom after every meal, every snack, every bite of food. At one point I remember someone was in the bath and I was desperate to get rid of it, so as we had a separate shower, I dived in and did my business there.
After that day I hid a stash of carrier bags down the side of my bed for future crisis times.
It was all a bit sad I guess.
I've never cut myself, I'm not brave enough for that, I'd do it the easy way; burning myself with my hair straighteners. I have multiple scars down my wrists from pressing the hot blades against my skin when I was angry, or upset, or just wanted a reminder of how fat and ugly I was. I moved on to the tops of my thighs, then mum found a page of my diary when I was 18 that mentioned it and it was no more burning and straight onto the citalopram for me, never to be mentioned again (unless mum was drunk and wanted to pick on me for the millionth time- 'oh what you gonna do, burn yourself? I might be a shit mum but at least I don't BURN MYSELF').
Dad never knew anything, until he got the call on Sunday night to tell him an ambulance had been called and he should get there right away. I wish he still had no idea, at least then I could go for a pee without anyone having their ear pressed up against the door or demanding to see my plate before I scraped it in the bin after dinner.

I always hated myself. Still do.
There is not one single thing I like about myself, but according to my doctor there has to be, no-one hates every part of themselves. Maybe I'm an exception.
Maybe this eating disorder clinic will actually make me feel better about myself, or maybe it will be exactly what I expect- a heap of shit.
Guess I just have to wait for the letter with my appointment, until then it's bye bye privacy, hello 21 year old child.