Recently I have become very worried about a friend. She asked me to critique some of her writing, which I gladly consented to do. One of her stories was about Bulimia. At first I thought it was simply fiction, but now I'm not so sure. It's written in 1st-person, she displays an intimate knowledge of what I imagine being bulimic must feel like, and all of the other details of the story are definitely true. If anyone here who has experienced bulimia, has bulimic friends, or knows anything about the subject could help me, I would very much appreciate it. I'm including the essay below. Please tell me whether you think she has a problem or if it looks more like a work of fiction. If you think she is Bulimic, please tell me what I can best do to help her. Feel free to email me directly, long2024@care2.com.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Patrick Long (aka Socrates).

Catharsis

Nan Ni


2:43 AM. I was sprawled out somewhere between this world and the land of slumber, unaware of anything but the second hand's painful ticking. My mind groggily discoursed with me, random words slurring together in a run-on sentence without end. I ignored the prattling and squeezed my eyes shut, blocking out everything but the waves of blackness that would carry me closer to oblivion. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Stop. The. Sound. Numbly, I rolled over, away from the clock, as if a few more inches could isolate me from the perpetual clicks. Suddenly, the snowing night beamed through the shades and onto my face, causing the insides of my eyelids to glow bright blue. The unexpected gush of light evaporated all traces of drowsiness and I found myself facing the windows, my body snarled in the blankets. My eyes opened and I sat up. The ceaseless sounds of the clock instantly receded and the bleary babbling in my mind began sorting itself out, threading distinct words into lucid phrases. Do it. Then go to sleep. Do it. Then go to sleep. I slowly lowered my torso onto my mattress, hearing it creak as my head fell back into the dent on my pillow. Through the slip of window between the shade and ledge, I watched huge snowflakes tottering down in diagonal lines.
Absentmindedly, I ran my fingers along the bare skin of my ribcage until the palm of my hand rested upon my stomach. I kneaded the little rolls of fat (or was it just skin?) and cursed the thirteen partially digested oreos inside. Thirteen?! I put the pillow over my head and prayed for a quick death by suffocation. Random thoughts flipped through my head and I lazily watched them float past. In a salmon-colored room with mismatched curtains, I see myself as a little girl in a green jumper standing beside my cousin. The relatives swarmed around her, eager to caress her golden ringlets and salmon tinted cheeks, while I stood by, pretending to smile lightly at the homage like a forgotten concubine. After an aunt had gotten enough of her dimpled beauty, she patted me on the head on her way out and said, "Well, this one will probably turn out smart." I still remember how I politely stretched my face into a bigger smile, then faked a yawn to explain my moist eyes.
Some cryptic corner of my cerebral matter commented. Ah, yes, the classic plain little unhappy girl story. Was that incident the root of your dysfunction? What dysfunction? You ran into it in the B section of the dictionary yesterday. I don't remember… Nevertheless, look at how well the definition fits you! An eating disorder characterized by episodic binge eating, followed by self-condemnation and self-induced vomiting. Sick, ain't it? A few extra oreos doesn't mean anything! Yeah, but their not going to stay in your bloated stomach, are they? The snow was tumbling down now, forming misshapen clusters on my windowsill as I idly wondered if everyone's head hosted such dialogues.
I am in elementary school, fifth-grade math class, beaming over another deserved perfect score. After more than five years, my aunt's words still reverberated through my mind and I struggled to live up to them. A pug-nosed boy sees my secret smile and sneers, "You're just a retard who works too hard. If you would leave your books and go play, maybe you wouldn't have such a fat face." Always an awkward child, I didn't know how to retort, so I grabbed the hall pass and ran to the bathroom. I couldn't let him see cry. When I got there, my eyes were dry and the bubbles of anger in my chest had popped, leaving only a hollow feeling . So I stood in front of the mirror and squeezed my chubby face until the patches of compressed flesh started turning purple. Then, I sat down on the gray tiled-floor and waited for the bell to ring. I went home with pale yellow bruises on my cheeks and my parents thought someone had hit me.
It's disgusting. How can you stand yourself? I don't do it that often, just when I overeat a little. Not that often? Its part of your routine by now, like breathing, sleeping…and eating. Its only Wednesday, and I've already counted five times, plus when you're going to the bathroom in a few minutes.
I fervently denied it and resumed tossing and turning, a hand sliding down to my stomach. Mentally, I multiplied 13 oreos times 110 calories each, carefully lining up the columns. 1430 calories were now resting beneath where my hand lay, dissolving and oozing their fat onto my thighs, my stomach, my face. The thought made me almost frantic, but I had resolved not to perform that revolting action tonight. I curled up in fetal position, ramming my knees against my chest and trying to ignore the new rolls of fat that formed on my torso.
"It's an emotional crutch, something they NEED in their life! It is often brought on by the victim's feelings of not being in control." My middle school health teacher paused for dramatic effect. "By purging, they don't have to live with the consequences of bingeing huge amounts of food." Most of the class had dozed off, and I was drawing intricate snowflakes in my notebook margins. But I remembered her words two years later during my freshman year at boarding school when in the midst of a stress-filled week of finals, I rewarded myself with a cookie for every page I read. When the last tome was slammed shut, a hill of empty plastic wrappings greeted my eyes. Horrified, I went into the bathroom, and after making sure no one was around, I stuck my finger down my throat and coughed hard, like I had seen Meredith Baxter do in "Kate's Secret". It worked, and three packages of half-digested chocolate-chip cookies came spewing back out, splashing the water was they landed. I felt relieved and wonderfully empty, yet so disgusted.
So, aren't you dying for that clean, empty feeling? You know you won't be able to sleep until you've done it. Sooner is better than later…less absorption of all those grams of fat…You. Shut up. I am not going to drag my self into the bathroom at three o'clock in the morning to make myself throw up. I may have done it occasionally, but I don't have to do it now, so leave me alone, ok? I'm going to lie very still, count sheep, whatever it takes to force myself to sleep. I press my fists against my eyes until hot pink dots appear and explode. The ticking of the clock returns, along with inaudible susurrations. They were double-stuffed. My eyelids part. What? The oreos. Double stuffing amounts to an extra 300 calories, my dear. Jesus Christ, no.
Tossing the blankets off, I stumbled out of bed, my feet fumbling for my furry slippers. Tiptoeing out my door, my ears picked up the sound of snores and heavy breathing in the master bedroom. All clear. I slowly pushed open the bathroom door, and kneeled before the toilet, the cold, gray tiles against my knees sending tiny tingles through my body. No, no, no, I won't. I don't care how fat I get, this is so sick…looking up desperately through a tiny window, I glimpse a blizzard raging, clumps of snowflakes welded together, floundering towards earth. Yes, yes, finally! Don't you want to sleep? My finger goes into my mouth and down my esophagus. I don't even need to cough now, it's so easy to bring up slimy, bile covered Oreo bits from my stomach. I ignore the disgusting mass in the vortex of the toilet and get up to rinse my mouth out, kind of enjoying the burning sensation in my throat. It's like a punishment I deserve. Avoiding the mirror, I flip the light off. Too utterly tired to slither back into bed, I put the toilet lid down and rested my cheek against the cool plastic. There was no clock in the bathroom, and the last things I heard were my own thoughts. Sleep is a funny thing. You can claw at Morpheus's gates for hours, but he won't let you until you're pure. It'll be nice to wake up to a white Christmas tomorrow morning.

Is your friend ok?

Talk to her and ask her. But if she's losing weight to quickly then she might have a problem. The story sounds like a real life thing thats she's dealing w/. (but it's really well writen) I'm sorry, my "advice" isn't to great, I never have felt the worry you are having & never dealt w/ this problem, hope everything turns out ok.