I have just returned from enjoying a vast lunch at my boarding school cafeteria. As I dawdle into the fluorescent lit bathroom of my dorm, I see my roommate standing before the large rectangular mirror. I stop to watch as she tends to herself over one of the four, white, ceramic sinks. Her dark, silky, shoulder-length hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail. I scan her figure swiftly which sports a black, full-body, leotard. She’s tall and buxom, a bit much for a dance major, I think, but nonetheless, she is beautiful. At fourteen, I’m only a year her junior, but feel decades apart. My reflection in the mirror is not stately or striking like hers is, and it certainly does not portray the confidence that my roommate’s does. What I see when I look at myself is a frumpy looking girl whose body takes up way too much space.
“I feel fat!” I cry out, with disgust. “I want to go on a diet, but I don’t think I can.”
My roommate pauses what she’s doing for a moment and through her reflection in the mirror looks at me with her big brown eyes. “You don’t have to diet to lose weight, love,” she says, in her thick British accent. “All you have to do is throw up after you eat.”
Surprised at her comment, and not sure if I’ve heard her correctly, I repeat, “Throw up?”
“Yes!” she reaffirms.
Intrigued, I ask her to explain.
“Many girls I know back home do it,” she says, as she goes back to shading one of her eyelids. “That’s how they can eat whatever they want and stay so thin. It’s no big deal.”
Disgusted at the thought, I start imagining a bunch of English girls just like my roommate, dressed in their punk clad, puking their brains out.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“I’m telling you,” she reassures me, “it really works!”
Although I dare not ask, I wonder if my roommate throws up as well, and if so, why isn’t she skinny?
“Go on love,” she encourages, interrupting my thoughts. “Give it a try.”
All of a sudden, my roommate’s crazy suggestion starts making sense. By making yourself sick right after eating, you prevent the food from being digested–food that otherwise would eventually stick to your thighs and butt.
“Just lean over the toilet and shove your pointer and index fingers down your throat as far as they will go,” my roommate instructs.
I decide to give it a try. After all the food I have just ingested, I figure it won’t hurt to get rid of at least some of it. I walk to one of the two small toilet rooms located at the back end of the bathroom and make sure to lock the door behind me once I’m inside. I lift the seat and hesitate for a moment, embarrassed to be doing such an outrageous thing, especially without complete privacy. Before long, however, I feel adrenaline starting to run through my veins, enticing me to do it. I proceed to stoop over the toilet and jab my fingers as far back as I can down my throat until I gag. I cough and cough as I repeat this over and over again but all that comes out is a sea of saliva. I continue to try desperately a few more times, gagging again and again but nothing more than spittle continues to pour out. My heart starts pounding faster and faster. My eyes become a cloud of tears, blurring my vision, my nose, a continuous flood. I think of trying again but soon resign, regretting it all. I blow my nose several times, wipe the toilet bowl clean and flush. As I gain the courage to exit the small enclosure I wonder if my roommate was just pulling my leg, trying to make a fool of me. If so, she has definitely succeeded. I’m hoping she has left the bathroom, but unfortunately, she hasn’t. She is still right where I left her, as if nothing has happened, meticulously applying heavy black mascara to her spider-like eyelashes. Peering down at the floor, I lug my way to one of the sinks, wishing to wash away at least some of the shame that I am feeling. As expected, there is an uncomfortable silence, but then, as though I have just come back from a job interview, my roommate turns to me and asks, “So? How did it go? Did you get it all out?”
Astounded by her questions, I stand gawking at her before grabbing some paper towels.
“I just couldn’t do it,” I answer, truthfully.
My roommate shrugs her shoulders and says, “You just have to practice, love, that’s all.”
I giggle nervously, trying to dismiss her words because after this most unpleasant experience, I know that throwing up to lose weight will never be for me…or will it?
