I stood up and looked down at what I had done. The stuff stared back up at me...it looked so different then it had a couple of minutes before. I flushed, and wiped the contents that had spilled off of the porcelain shine with a square of toilet paper.

Bulimia.

Was I bulimic now?

I was familiar with the term, but I guess I'd never thought about it from first person's point of view. Did their first day feel like this one? It was normal outside; just a bit cold..nothing was really wrong in my life. I didn't feel like it was official..was it, after you've only done it once? It seemed like another label to me, and that's all. Something you might say to people when you first meet meet them, or in everyday polite conversation.

'Hey there, my name is Jane Doe. I'm bulimic.'

Something to respond to the ever popular question, 'How are you?'

'Oh, I'm pretty bulimic. How are you?' or, 'I'm okay. A little bulimic, though.'

Except..when you're thinking in all practicality, not really. Because anyone who heard you respond it in such a manner would quickly hush you up. Maybe thinking you were trying to be funny or something. Nobody talks about that sort of thing.

It began on Thanksgiving. Well, no. It began long before that..I'd always felt sort of inadequate. I was a fat kid, and I'd had to learn that the hard way..I hadn't realized it until it had gotten pretty bad. Even after losing 30 pounds, my self esteem was low. And I didn't trust anyone who told me I wasn't fat anymore, because they'd told me I wasn't fat before. For all I knew, they were still trying to spare my feelings.

I didn't expect myself to do it. I'd tried before, though. A couple of days prior to that, I'd done some research on it. Throwing up. I don't know why. But I found this article online about how to. It was written in case you accidentally ate poison. And I think it was that day, I tried it. Bent down over the toilet, and tried to heave my brains out. It didn't work. I looked back at the article and realized I'd done something wrong.

'Gag yourself by pressing your index and middle finger onto the very back of your tongue, almost into your throat. Then start stroking the back of your throat.' I hadn't been pressing, just stroking. I remembered it later.

And then, Thanksgiving. What a day. I was looking forward to it. The desserts, mostly. I loaded my plate up with turkey, dressing, the works. And ate all of it. Every last bit. Then for the sweets..

Pie's always been a favourite of mine.

I had three kinds to choose from: apple, pumpkin, and blueberry. I got a slice of all of them. Not a big enough slice to make me feel bad. Even though it ended up doing that anyway.

So, when I was finished, I kissed my mother's cheek, and headed up the stairs to my room. I felt terrible. My stomach felt bloated out 5 feet, although it really wasn't. At first I didn't think about it. I went into the bathroom and stared at myself. Wondered how many pounds this would cost.

I weighed myself every morning, usually.

My gaze drifted from me in the mirror to the toilet. It was over in the right hand corner, where it always was. And then it clicked. Like a great revelation.

'Why not? I couldn't do it before..I probably won't be able to this time.'

So I went over and rested down in front of it. On my knees, bowing down before a watery abyss. I tried again.

Why didn't it feel wrong? That's what I wondered when I was finished a few seconds later. When I breathed, it tasted like puke. When my mother walked into my room a few minutes later, I wondered if she knew. But she didn't. No one did. Shouldn't I feel guilty?

I didn't.

And so this was the start of it all.