CHAPTER 1

Unreal to Real: Snapshots of My Story

"Self-observation is an instrument of self-change, a means of awakening."

—George Gurdjieff

I started making myself throw up when I was thirteen years old and didn't stop for thirtyyears. I hope that the snapshots of my story and other women's stories in this book,coupled with my own healing and recovery work with women for over twenty-five years,can help you find your personal path to recovery. Within the pages of these sharedexperiences, please look for what touches your heart, your memories, and your fears. Ifone story or one exercise delivers sudden understanding or amazement (because youdidn't know anyone else behaved like that), you have found your entry into your recoverypath. I hope this book supports and sustains you on that path to freedom. It can be done. Iwas bulimic for over twenty-nine years. I've been in recovery for twenty-six years. I'veseen and been part of the recovery of many women along the way.

My bulimia story began one summer in New York when I was thirteen years old. I wasvacationing at a Catskill Mountains resort with my parents. Guests could order anyamount of any food from the dining room menu. I remember men smiling at me and anolder woman saying, "Isn't it wonderful how you can eat all those desserts and remain soslim?"

I ordered and ate a sample of all the desserts at every meal. I knew I couldn't get fatbecause my mother wanted me to win the hotel beauty contest. I didn't want to lose theattention I was getting for my miraculous ability to eat so much, and I knew I had to pleasemy mother by making a good show in the contest.

One night I discovered a secret trick. I could eat heaps of chocolate rugula and tinycreamy pecan pies, and then make myself throw up. Presto! I kept the attention and gotrid of the calories. I was elated. I had found the solution to my problem.

The day of the beauty contest arrived, and I felt like a robot going through the motions.When I was on the platform in front of the hotel guests, wearing my white bathing suit,fishnet stockings, and black high heels, I was terrified and felt fat and ugly. Yet againstadult women, I won.

I didn't give up my miracle trick after the contest and vacation were over. I continuedeating and vomiting all through high school. Except it wasn't a miracle trick anymore; itwas something I had to do. It became a shameful secret. I became surreptitious to avoiddiscovery as I binged and purged.

At first I relied on food at home. I prowled through the refrigerator and ate from leftovercontainers. I disguised the remains of my secret foraging—leftover stews and pastas werebest for this. The uneven and chunky contents didn't show marks of my spoon, the way aslice out of a cake might. Large containers of pudding were also good for the samereason. Individual serving cups of puddings didn't work unless there were many cups. Ihoped no one would notice if one or two were missing.

My secret life that was to last almost thirty years had begun. I ate in secret and raided thecupboards and the refrigerator unseen. I took care to leave no trace. I had no money ofmy own to buy food, so I also had to find subtle ways to binge at the dinner table. I ateslowly and methodically with my family and excused myself in the middle of dinner. I wentto the bathroom, drank as much water as I could, jumped up and down to mix it all upinside me, kept the tap running to block my retching sounds, and threw up dinner. Then Irejoined my family at the table and continued to eat.

I struck gold when I started babysitting. The mothers of the children I watched weregracious. After a mother told me what to expect from her child and gave me emergencycontact information she would almost always follow with, "If you get hungry, help yourselfto a snack." Then she would show me cupboards packed with snack foods and arefrigerator stocked with treats. I believed whole packages of potato chips, crackers,cookies, and ice cream were set out just for the babysitter.

After I put the children to sleep, I'd go to the cupboards and eat everything. Then I'd lookfor opened packages of food, especially crackers or cereal or cookies. Candy was goodtoo, as long as I could throw it up easily. A limit for me was never opening an unopenedpackage. I remember once seeing a mother who was obviously startled when she noticedhow much food was gone. But no one ever said anything. And I was a popular babysitter. Iloved the children, played well with them, and was caring and attentive. They alwaysasked for me. It was when the children were asleep that I'd go into my binge/purgedramas.

My attempts to stop my binge purge episodes through willpower failed within minutes. Itnever occurred to me to confide in someone or ask for help.

I binged on fruit in an attempt to control my massive eating. I'd take six or more orangesdownstairs to the recreation room, turn on the TV, and settle in. First I would peel anorange with a sharp knife. Then, to postpone eating for as long as possible, I would cutthe peels into many tiny pieces. I'd cut the white from the orange skin. I tried to getsatisfaction from the cutting, but I always moved on to the binge. Looking back, it's curiousto me that I never cut myself, as many children and adults suffering from anorexia andbulimia do. That wasn't part of my pattern.

I started college at Northwestern University, where I majored in journalism. At my sororityhouse, Zeta Tau Alpha, only one bathroom offered privacy. I planned my eating andvomiting so I could use that bathroom when the adjoining room was empty. I binged andthrew up before dates in my attempt to appear as a normal eater in public.

I remember long and awkward times in public bathrooms. I risked discovery. If someonecame in, they might see my feet turned the wrong way in the stall. In a small publicbathroom I risked someone in the adjoining stall hearing me. I couldn't come out until theyleft. I wonder how much time I spent in bathroom stalls, waiting for people to leave?

My...