I weigh more than a blue balloon.

I popped a blood vessel in the corner of my eye yesterday.  I did it while purging.
French fries.  Forbidden french fries.
I don't want to tell you this.
I want to tell you that life is grand and I've moved past all this bulimia stuff.
I don't need to write Chrysalisbreak anymore cuz I have emerged a butterfly.
But that's not the truth, and I am here to tell the truth.

My husband could see it.  I am pretty sure he noticed.
I'm sorry husband, I know it makes you sad.
I get this grey swelling around my eyes from the pressure in my head
It was a violent one too, thick and uncooperative and choking.
It was the kind of purge that happens in nightmares when I can't force it out.
But I was determined, and I did a real number on myself.

Afterwards I took a shower and washed my hair, twice.
I scrubbed the toilet.
Then I went to sleep for an hour without brushing my hair.
It was a deep sleep where I forget what day it is and who I am.
I woke up to a throbbing swollen head, and Pepper chattering,
"Mom, I'm hungry."
Food.  There is always food.  I can never get away from it.
When Andrew got home I couldn't look him in the eye.
It wasn't intentional, it's just a side affect.
My eyes stayed down like when I walk by a huddle of men on State street.
I can feel the eyes on me, but I am not equipped to deal with them.
Now I am hungover from it still.
This is the cycle of an alcoholic, of a bulimic, of an addict.
I know it all too well.
It used to be the only thing I knew.
It is the reason I labeled myself, "Crazy"
________________________________________

I just looked in the mirror.  The red spot is still squatting there inside the corner of my right eye.
Pepper pointed it out to me.
"Mom, you have some blood, right there, in your eye."
"I know,"
I told her, and in my voice was the ability to walk on.
It was not the deflated voice of self-loathing.
It was acceptance of the Sarah who hides in dark corners, who is wounded.
She is still with me, even though I have been in recovery for 9 years.
It seems stupid or shallow to say that after all this time, I'm still scared of gaining weight.
My fear is loosing control.
My fear is that if I stop, I will sink.
I'm afraid to get soft.  I need to stay sharp.
I'm terrified of finding that doughy person in the mirror whom I have known before.
I never want to be her again.
But I don't want this either.

I looked up images on the internet for this post.
I did a Google search of bulimia.
Google didn't get it right.
I found a series of staged, over-dramatized scenes.  It looked like a circus freek show.
Girls puking up blood, and gorging on donuts, super-models in fishnets bent over the toilet.
I found pics of Lada Gaga and Demi Levato, as is they are the only two women in show-biz with eating disorders.
Everything was stark and blaring and strangely assertive.
Really my experience with bulimia is quiet and lonely and grey, like my afternoon nap.
The goal is to be weightless, and small and free.  No one is watching.  I have no audience.  There is no drama.  I am chasing the impossible utopia like a zealot wailing for heaven.  In reality I am a concrete body with weight and needs and weakness.
I weigh far more than a blue balloon could ever float.

It's always scary to venture out into the next day.  It is easier to purge when I did it yesterday.
I can't make any bold promises to myself or anyone else.  The way out is not the path of absolutes.
I treat myself as if I were actually sick, as if I were actually on the verge of vomiting.  The way out is with slow steps and deep breaths.