Believers Never Die Pt. 1
Just Until These Tears Have Dried
Ever since that day, food and I had a love hate relationship. When I purged for the first time, I had no idea I would have to do it again. My compulsive nature practically demanded it. It was a bittersweet addiction. I knew it was wrong, but I needed to do it. It would keep me thin, yet I could eat what I wanted.
It didn't take long for it to escalate. I wasn't just purging once a day. I was doing it after every meal. And I didn't just do it once. I did it until I was positive I had emptied my stomach. I wasn't satisfied until I was puking empty stomach acid into the toilet bowl.
By my ninth birthday, I had learned a nifty trick. At parties, I had to eat normally. People were watching me. They couldn't know I wasn't eating. I just decided I would purge it all after it was over, and to save me the trouble of aimlessly puking, I chose a marker food. It was a trick I would continue to use for years.
A marker food is a food used to tell you when you have successfully emptied your stomach during a purge. An effective marker food should of a recognizable color. It should be bright; it should stand out. For example, I used to choose things like Cheetos or Doritos. I could always tell when I was finished because my vomit would suddenly turn orange.
The problem with my purging plan was that it became part of my routine.I was more than comfortable with it. Every purge brought me satisfaction. It didn't matter how much I ate; I could get rid of it anyway, right?
I started binging on junk food when I was nervous or stressed. The second I felt a pang of anxiety, I rushed for the fridge. It was my dirty little secret. Until my mother caught me.
Annemarie had gone to the market that day. I had the kitchen to myself; it was all I had been thinking about while my English tutor was with me. I was struggling. After years of speaking German (taught to me by Ingrid), I was suddenly expected to speak perfect English. It was frustrating. I knew my English was bad. I knew m English tutor had no idea what to do with me.
The second she had left, I rushed for the kitchen. Almost instinctively, I gripped the handle of the fridge door. When I opened it, I was suddenly in heaven.
I started to eat everything. I grabbed anything I could get my hands on. I ate bread, leftover pizza, mayonnaise, apples, asparagus, chocolate syrup, mustard, lettuce, cheese, leftover turkey, salami, pepperoni, and even raw eggs. It didn't matter. I was suddenly hungry and couldn't fill myself. I couldn't stop eating. I ravaged the cabinets. I scattered everything across the island counter. I had crackers, pretzels, chocolate, peanuts, peanut butter, and literally anything I could get my hands on. It must have been thousands of calories, but--
"Maxim?"
I stopped eating and looked up. I had a mouthful of food and a chocolate bar in my hand. I managed to swallow the massive amount of food in my mouth, but she never gave me a chance to speak.
"Oh my God." She gasped and put her hand over her mouth in shock. "Oh my God, you're an over-eater." She paused. Her face grew more distressed. "My son is fat!" she cried. She grabbed me by the wrist and forced me to sit down in the living room as she grabbed the phone. "Hello? Scott? I need you to book a room at that place, you know, the place I stayed when I had that cocaine problem? Yes, for Maxim..."
Whatever she said after that became background noise.She was sending me to rehab? But I didn't do anything wrong! The next day, I was gone. Nobody at home knew why. My mother had told everyone that I had to go away for awhile. I lost contact with everyone for the next three years, but one thing was clear when I walked through the doors of La Coste rehab in San Diego.
When Max J walked through the bathroom door that night, he never came back. He was flushed down the toilet along with the orange-tinted remains of that night's dinner.
It didn't take long for it to escalate. I wasn't just purging once a day. I was doing it after every meal. And I didn't just do it once. I did it until I was positive I had emptied my stomach. I wasn't satisfied until I was puking empty stomach acid into the toilet bowl.
By my ninth birthday, I had learned a nifty trick. At parties, I had to eat normally. People were watching me. They couldn't know I wasn't eating. I just decided I would purge it all after it was over, and to save me the trouble of aimlessly puking, I chose a marker food. It was a trick I would continue to use for years.
A marker food is a food used to tell you when you have successfully emptied your stomach during a purge. An effective marker food should of a recognizable color. It should be bright; it should stand out. For example, I used to choose things like Cheetos or Doritos. I could always tell when I was finished because my vomit would suddenly turn orange.
The problem with my purging plan was that it became part of my routine.I was more than comfortable with it. Every purge brought me satisfaction. It didn't matter how much I ate; I could get rid of it anyway, right?
I started binging on junk food when I was nervous or stressed. The second I felt a pang of anxiety, I rushed for the fridge. It was my dirty little secret. Until my mother caught me.
Annemarie had gone to the market that day. I had the kitchen to myself; it was all I had been thinking about while my English tutor was with me. I was struggling. After years of speaking German (taught to me by Ingrid), I was suddenly expected to speak perfect English. It was frustrating. I knew my English was bad. I knew m English tutor had no idea what to do with me.
The second she had left, I rushed for the kitchen. Almost instinctively, I gripped the handle of the fridge door. When I opened it, I was suddenly in heaven.
I started to eat everything. I grabbed anything I could get my hands on. I ate bread, leftover pizza, mayonnaise, apples, asparagus, chocolate syrup, mustard, lettuce, cheese, leftover turkey, salami, pepperoni, and even raw eggs. It didn't matter. I was suddenly hungry and couldn't fill myself. I couldn't stop eating. I ravaged the cabinets. I scattered everything across the island counter. I had crackers, pretzels, chocolate, peanuts, peanut butter, and literally anything I could get my hands on. It must have been thousands of calories, but--
"Maxim?"
I stopped eating and looked up. I had a mouthful of food and a chocolate bar in my hand. I managed to swallow the massive amount of food in my mouth, but she never gave me a chance to speak.
"Oh my God." She gasped and put her hand over her mouth in shock. "Oh my God, you're an over-eater." She paused. Her face grew more distressed. "My son is fat!" she cried. She grabbed me by the wrist and forced me to sit down in the living room as she grabbed the phone. "Hello? Scott? I need you to book a room at that place, you know, the place I stayed when I had that cocaine problem? Yes, for Maxim..."
Whatever she said after that became background noise.She was sending me to rehab? But I didn't do anything wrong! The next day, I was gone. Nobody at home knew why. My mother had told everyone that I had to go away for awhile. I lost contact with everyone for the next three years, but one thing was clear when I walked through the doors of La Coste rehab in San Diego.
When Max J walked through the bathroom door that night, he never came back. He was flushed down the toilet along with the orange-tinted remains of that night's dinner.