Read Online Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia by Marya Hornbacher - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marya Hornbacher
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Eventually they agreed that I was old enough.
In truth, the last thing I wanted was to be alone. As I turned the corner down Nancy Lane, the house's blank eyes stared back at me.
I began picturing the inside: the mirror in my bedroom, in my bathroom, in the downstairs bathroom, in the laundry room. I began thinking of what to eat once I got inside. Was I hungry? Not terribly.
I was overwhelmed by time, all that blank space in front of me, a few hours stretching out into silent eons, the house as bare and full of sad light as my chest. As I walked the block toward the house, the panic mounted. I ran the rest of the block, opened the door, dropped my book bag on the floor, and sought solace in front of the refrigerator, heart pounding in my chest. I melted cheese on toast and ate. And more cheese, more toast. Cereal. Mushrooms fried in butter and brandy. Filling the mouth, the hole in my heart, the endless hours with the numb stupor of food.
Predictably, these afternoons spent watching Three's Company and reruns of Gilligan's Island , hand to mouth, put a few pounds on me.
My time in front of the mirror, at night, found me pinching my thighs hard, harder, until welts rose, slapping my ass to see if it jiggled, so I could say, Fat bitch. Turning around and around like a music box doll in front of the mirror, face pinched.
And so it came to pass that one day, stuffed full of Fritos, I took a little trip downstairs to the bathroom. No one gave me the idea. It just seemed obvious that if you put it in, you could take it out.
When I returned, everything was different. Everything was calm, and I felt very clean. Everything was in order. Everything was as it should be.
I had a secret. It was a guilty secret, certainly. But it was my secret.
I had something to hold on to. It was company. It kept me calm. It filled me up and emptied me out.
But, as is always the case with bulimia, it is at once tempting, seductive, and terrifying. It divides the brain in half: you take in, you reject; you need, you do not need. It is not a comfortable split, even early on. But early on, its pros seem to outweigh its cons. You have a specific focus, your thoughts do not race as much. They stay in an orderly row: go home, eat, throw up. The problem in your life is your body. It is defined and has a beginning and an end. The problem will be solved by shrinking the body. Contain yourself.
You no longer face the threat, upon opening the door, of falling headfirst into the white light of silent hours and wild worries, as you pace up and down the hall, sit on the couch while staring out the window at the light coming off the lake. Getting lost in the light and the lack of boundary, sitting there listening to words whistle through your ears, listening to your breath or the wind or the light banging around in the echoing hole in your chest. Forgetting who you are and where you are and if you're there. Getting lost in the thought that you might be imagining everything, you might be dreaming your life. You look at your hand in front of your face, surrounded by light, and your heart thrums as you think: I'm dreaming, I'm not even here, I don't exist. It is too fascinating, the thought that you aren't . The thought that if you watch the lake long enough you might disappear into the white flames of light on the blue, which seem to be just inches from your face. It sucks you in, and you stare, only a little afraid. And then you scream, startled, when your mother comes through the door. You crash back to earth.
It's dark. It's evening. You're here and your mother is looking at you and asking, What?
No more of that. Crazy girl. You're losing your marbles. Come in the door, eat. Fill up the space. Keep yourself on the ground.
May experience the world as strange and depersonalized.…For the bulimic person, what is outside or inside the body is often quite confusing…bingeing is an attempt to experience containing by exerting control over what goes
In truth, the last thing I wanted was to be alone. As I turned the corner down Nancy Lane, the house's blank eyes stared back at me.
I began picturing the inside: the mirror in my bedroom, in my bathroom, in the downstairs bathroom, in the laundry room. I began thinking of what to eat once I got inside. Was I hungry? Not terribly.
I was overwhelmed by time, all that blank space in front of me, a few hours stretching out into silent eons, the house as bare and full of sad light as my chest. As I walked the block toward the house, the panic mounted. I ran the rest of the block, opened the door, dropped my book bag on the floor, and sought solace in front of the refrigerator, heart pounding in my chest. I melted cheese on toast and ate. And more cheese, more toast. Cereal. Mushrooms fried in butter and brandy. Filling the mouth, the hole in my heart, the endless hours with the numb stupor of food.
Predictably, these afternoons spent watching Three's Company and reruns of Gilligan's Island , hand to mouth, put a few pounds on me.
My time in front of the mirror, at night, found me pinching my thighs hard, harder, until welts rose, slapping my ass to see if it jiggled, so I could say, Fat bitch. Turning around and around like a music box doll in front of the mirror, face pinched.
And so it came to pass that one day, stuffed full of Fritos, I took a little trip downstairs to the bathroom. No one gave me the idea. It just seemed obvious that if you put it in, you could take it out.
When I returned, everything was different. Everything was calm, and I felt very clean. Everything was in order. Everything was as it should be.
I had a secret. It was a guilty secret, certainly. But it was my secret.
I had something to hold on to. It was company. It kept me calm. It filled me up and emptied me out.
But, as is always the case with bulimia, it is at once tempting, seductive, and terrifying. It divides the brain in half: you take in, you reject; you need, you do not need. It is not a comfortable split, even early on. But early on, its pros seem to outweigh its cons. You have a specific focus, your thoughts do not race as much. They stay in an orderly row: go home, eat, throw up. The problem in your life is your body. It is defined and has a beginning and an end. The problem will be solved by shrinking the body. Contain yourself.
You no longer face the threat, upon opening the door, of falling headfirst into the white light of silent hours and wild worries, as you pace up and down the hall, sit on the couch while staring out the window at the light coming off the lake. Getting lost in the light and the lack of boundary, sitting there listening to words whistle through your ears, listening to your breath or the wind or the light banging around in the echoing hole in your chest. Forgetting who you are and where you are and if you're there. Getting lost in the thought that you might be imagining everything, you might be dreaming your life. You look at your hand in front of your face, surrounded by light, and your heart thrums as you think: I'm dreaming, I'm not even here, I don't exist. It is too fascinating, the thought that you aren't . The thought that if you watch the lake long enough you might disappear into the white flames of light on the blue, which seem to be just inches from your face. It sucks you in, and you stare, only a little afraid. And then you scream, startled, when your mother comes through the door. You crash back to earth.
It's dark. It's evening. You're here and your mother is looking at you and asking, What?
No more of that. Crazy girl. You're losing your marbles. Come in the door, eat. Fill up the space. Keep yourself on the ground.
May experience the world as strange and depersonalized.…For the bulimic person, what is outside or inside the body is often quite confusing…bingeing is an attempt to experience containing by exerting control over what goes
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