Of all the million and a half disorders listed in the DSM IV, I always thought, Yay, at least I’m safe from one.
I thought I was immune to bulimia. Not because of my great self body image, self esteem, or other psychological factors. It’s very simple really, I have a TERRIBLE gag-reflex.
I can’t make myself throw up for the life of me, and trust me I’ve tried. Once I swallowed a taco chip, whole (great talent, I know). I bawled as it scratched its way down my esophagus. Fingers, toothbrushes, coughing, nothing brought it up. Five minutes later, I was fine, mentally and physically, secure in the knowledge that the taco chip made it to my stomach without killing me, and that I’d never be bulimic.
All this has changed since last night. No, the taco chip did not come up from the digested afterlife…I made myself throw up…all confidence, that there was one thing I could always hold out on was gone.
The fault lies in the nine days food in camp. It’s hunks of quasi melted cheese and starch. It didn’t settle in my stomach, but glued together my ribs. I whined to everyone, I attempted a nap, I whined a little more, but after an hour I had to face the facts, there was only one way to go…up (taken out of context this last sentence can almost sound like spiritual motivation)
I didn’t actually believe I could make it happen given past experience.
I kneeled pleadingly in front of the toilet and hugged the rim.
I tried coughing heavily. I got a headache.
I tried my fingers. I tickled my uvula.
I tried a toothbrush. Three times.
My neck lurched and extended and heaved and I…regurgitated.
Now, I’m charley hoarse in my neck as well as ¾ s of the rest of my body.
I’m also reevaluating my mental stability.
So far so good.