i've never forced myself to throw up. they tell you horror stories about the skin on your finger being burned away, the nail yellowing, the lining in your esophagus deteriorating into an unfixable mess. i always avoided that route of bodily self-harm; not eating at all, i reasoned, was probably a lot cleaner and harder to trace.

because i was sick, i spent a lot of time in the bathroom last night, hovering over the toilet. i studied every facet of the blue porcelain, every bubble in the water, wondering why i was being subjected to such excruciating pain in my abdomen. maybe i needed to throw up, i thought. you know that feeling you get when you're sick and you've just thrown up? it hurts, but afterwards you feel empty, and you can at least lay back down without pain. but my body wouldn't provide me with that relief on its own.

i decided to stick my finger in my throat and wiggle it around. after some body-shaking spasms and hacking coughs, i threw up. and it did make me feel a little bit better. i flushed the toilet, pushed my hair out of my face, and looked into the mirror over the sink. my eyes were glossy with tears, and my face looked pale and discontent. and i wondered to myself, if i made myself throw up all the time, is this what i'd look like? haggard and drawn? but i couldn't help but glance back down at the disappearing vomit in the toilet and recall how easy it was to get it out of my body.

it was just a split second. but things like that scare me about myself. that i still view life through those eyes. and that i probably always will.

past future

last five entries:
blisters and bruises - 03.18.08
dorsey - 03.13.07
finding peace - 02.02.07
unintentional clean slate - 09.11.06
natural born cyborg - 06.23.06