Starting from an early age, I developed anorexia nervosa, the eating disorder.
By the time I was eighteen, I was exercising like a maniac, spending hours after school at the gym, jogging all the time, and eating very little. Very, very little.
I became dangerously thin, but didn’t realize it. I’d look down at how my thighs squished out when I’d sit on a toilet for instance, and just know I had to lose weight. Crazy, I know, but that’s really what I thought. It didn’t matter that when I looked in a mirror, I could see all my ribs. I just knew I was too fat.
Everyone told me I was exercising too much, and not eating enough. They said it wasn’t normal. It was if I couldn’t hear them. I thought they were all crazy. They didn’t exercise enough. They were just jealous.
Sometimes I’d get terribly dizzy, and have to sit or lay down for a while.
Thinking back on it now, I realized I was often passing out. One day near the end of my senior year, I passed out in class. The school nurse made a big deal about it, and ended up calling an ambulance. She called my parents, too, and I was terribly embarrassed.
I don’t remember the ambulance ride. I must have passed out again on the way. I did wake up in the waiting room at the hospital. My mom and dad were with me. They had seen me becoming thinner and thinner for so long, they, like me, didn’t believe there was anything wrong. They somehow didn’t see it when I picked at my food, and when they paid my gym membership, they must have thought that it’s not uncommon for girls to want to become very athletic. They never noticed that I didn’t play any sports. I just exercised endlessly. My sister kept telling me I was a nut case, but just thought she was being a typically bothersome kid.
Finally, an orderly led me into an exam cubicle in the emergency room. I was thinking everyone was making much too big a deal of it. I was still feeling weak, but it was probably just that I was coming down with the flu or something.
A youngish male doctor came in, all brusque, acting if I wasn’t a real person, but just someone to whom one asks questions. He kept going on and on about my diet. No, I stayed away from sugar and carbs. Of course I did. Passing out? No, I never really did until that day. “I must be getting the flu.” I told him.
He wrapped a cuff around my arm and took my blood pressure. A nurse came in and stabbed my arm for blood samples. It didn’t really hurt, because I was still woozy, probably because I had eaten too much, I figured. The doctor checked my reflexes. He stuck a tongue depressor in my mouth. He ran a stethoscope all over me. Then he parted the curtains and left the cubicle.
A nurse handed me a hospital gown. I was to change into that. I really didn’t want to, plus it was difficult. I almost passed out again in the process. The doctor returned. He felt all along my back. He felt my ribs in front. Then only saying, “May I?” and not waiting for answer, he started pressing his fingers all over my boobs, checking for lumps, I assumed.
The nurse returned with a tray. I saw something big and metally on it, but as the doctor was having me lay down, he arranged some things on the end of the table, I couldn’t really make out what the things were. He had me scoot forward, and lifted my legs up, into the things. It was weirdly comfortable having my legs higher than my head. Maybe it made the blood rush to my brain. My awareness was starting to clear up. At that moment, it occurred to me my gown probably wasn’t covering my crotch. He could see my pussy! This wasn’t good. Not at all! But then again, he was a doctor. I guessed it was OK, but still…
Then the unthinkable happened. He rubbed some goo on my puss, and before I could react, I felt his fingers pressing my labia apart. He inserted the big, cold metal thing, which I know now was a speculum. The doctor turned a screw, and spread my vagina wide open. Not only had no one ever seen my puss other than my parents when I was little, he had it jammed wide open – I could feel a sort of cool breeze in there – he was looking inside my body.
I cannot explain this, but it was the most incredible feeling. It was not sexual. It was more like I was truly being taken care of for the first time in my life. A moment later, I orgasmed. Surely the doctor noticed, but he didn’t say anything.
All too soon, he pulled the speculum out. I couldn’t see what he did next, but I felt it. He had evidently applied some goo to his finger, and pressed it slowly but surely up my butt. Even though it hurt a bit, the incredible ‘being cared for’ feeling came over me again, and I orgasmed again.
Then it was over. My diagnosis: Anexoria. It took me a year of therapy sessions to even believe it. At one point, I had convinced myself that I had a heart condition, and that was the cause for my troubles. Me, anorexia? Impossible!
To this very day, I get sick to my stomach when I watch someone eat a big cheeseburger, or eat a large meal. But, I’ve learned to accept my condition. I’ve put on weight, and am totally healthy, but I do have to make a point to eat three meals a day. There’s still a little voice inside me that says I shouldn’t eat lunch, or that a full slice of pie is way too much.
Oh, and I masturbate often. My husband knows. Oh, we have plenty of sex, but I still need to masturbate several times a day. It started that day in the hospital. Prior to that I had masturbated only occasionally. The very next day, I was a wanking fanatic, frequently thinking back to my exam, and fantasizing about it in various ways. I think to a small degree I’ve replaced my eating disorder with a masturbation disorder, and that’s alright with me [she laughs].
Although less common, boys can also become anorexic