An RD Confesses: "I Had Bulimia"
The moment I realized that "perfect" wasn't all it was cracked up to be, I was kneeling on the carpeted floor of my mother's bathroom. The remains of my dinner bobbed in the toilet basin, a floating testament to my dedication, determination, and sheer willpower. Here was proof that I could do whatever it took to be, well, perfect. But as I leaned against the wall, reality closed in around me. This was perfect? Swollen, bloodshot eyes. A throat so inflamed it was difficult to swallow. My self-esteem in tatters. Where just moments before, I'd felt relief -- pride, even -- suddenly there was only despair. Sitting there, wasted from the effort of forcing myself to vomit for the umpteenth time that week, I was tired of doing this. Tired of hating myself that much. That night was the beginning of the end of my battle with bulimia.
The ironic part is, today I'm a registered dietitian with a master's degree. That night in the bathroom was a week before I started graduate school, planning to become a sports nutritionist for athletes. And there I was, literally flushing the subject of my education down the drain.
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