Sometimes, I feel ashamed not for the bulimia itself, but for even daring to have an eating disorder. My life is so good. I have everything I’ve ever wanted, and I am truly, deliriously happy. Even if I weren’t, I am healthy. I have all my limbs, fingers, toes. I have no major ailments or illnesses.
How have I been so ridiculous for so long? I have a colleague who just lost her breasts to cancer—I feel like I have no right to judge mine in the mirror. I have a friend whose husband is slowly losing his sight, and I am criticizing my wrinkles.
I know that the pain of others doesn’t mitigate my own, doesn’t make it less. But sometimes I feel so utterly ridiculous for allowing bulimia to take purchase for so long.