I never said I was sorry. But I am. It may be too late; I’m almost 45, and you will be 49 this year. But I still owe you an apology.
I ruined your birthday. I don’t remember if it was your 22nd birthday, but I think it was. I think it was because that would have made me 19, old enough that any hospital—any psychiatric ward—would have to release me if I wanted to be released because of laws governing involuntary admission. I don’t think they even did those kinds of evaluations back then.
The day of your party, I wanted to be thin so I could eat cake, your birthday cake, and whatever else that might have been on the menu. I don’t remember how many laxatives I took. I was probably taking more than a hundred at a time. The pink pills came in blister packs in boxes of incrementally larger numbers. The smallest boxes had 15 pills in them. When I initially started taking them, I’d take one or two or maybe three. The pill was marketed as “the gentle laxative preferred by women.” But then I started taking more than one, and soon I was buying a pack of 30, 45, 60, 90. I bought so many boxes of pills and so often that I had to go to multiple drugstores and grocery stores so that people wouldn’t get suspicious. I didn’t even have a car at the time, so I had to walk to the stores. I took buses, too, after school. Sometimes I’d go all the way downtown so I could go to a drugstore in a neighborhood I didn’t live in, where no one knew me. I’d make up lies to explain why I had to go out. I stole a lot of money, too. I’m sure I stole hundreds of dollars, probably thousands. I have never paid any of it back.
Then there was all the food. My routine was to take the laxatives while bingeing. I’d pour myself a huge glass of lemonade and then take a few pills. Then I would eat a family-size bag of tortilla chips or potato chips with French onion dip. I’d eat a pound of gummy bears and a 7-ounce variety pack of mini chocolate bars. I ate banana chips and dried pineapple or dried mango slices. I’d eat boxes of graham crackers with peanut butter and family-size packages of cookies. I’d eat pretzels. I’d eat a half-gallon of ice cream. And then I would wait until the laxatives made me sick.
I spent hours hunched over a toilet. I sat there until I felt completely empty. If I didn’t feel empty, really empty, like nothing was left of me, then I hadn’t taken enough, so I might have to take more. If I timed things right, then I’d get home from school, binge, take laxatives, skip dinner and then spend the evening in constant motion, walking from my bedroom to the bathroom. Sometimes I spent the whole night in the bathroom. Sometimes I had diarrhea and had to clean my bed and change my clothes. Sometimes this happened because I just hadn’t gotten to the bathroom in time, but sometimes it happened because I was passed out from dehydration. I spent a lot of time cleaning toilets. I learned how to use the plunger. I got embarrassed many times because I clogged our pipes. Did no one really know why the pipes were clogged, or did no one know what to do or say?
The smells were inevitable.
Sometimes the laxatives made me sick in other ways. They made me vomit, and I’d vomit everything up. All the food, all the laxatives, all the lemonade. Sometimes as I scanned through what was in the toilet, I’d see food I’d eaten a week before in my vomit. That’s how slow my digestive system had become. That’s what I had done to myself.
You probably think this was all because I really wanted to be thin. You would have been right back then. I would have told you that you were exactly right. But really, it wasn’t about being thin. It was about hating myself. Hating my life. Wishing I could die. Wishing I could disappear. Hoping I might die. It was feeling like I didn’t matter, no one cared, I didn’t fit in, I didn’t have friends. I didn’t feel love. I’m not saying I wasn’t loved or that you didn’t love me. I’m saying I didn’t feel it. I still don’t feel it, not often. Now, what I’ve learned to do is invite the possibility, suspend belief. I let myself at least consider that others might love me, particularly if I remind myself that I love others just as they are, not as I wish them to be.
Laxatives wreak havoc on electrolytes. I learned later on that long-term laxative abuse can cause imbalances in chloride, calcium, bicarbonate, and potassium. Laxative abuse can cause sever edema, cathartic colon syndrome, and heart failure.
So, on your birthday, I passed out. I fainted. All I remember is that people were standing over me, and then an ambulance took me to the hospital. I don’t remember the ride or if anyone was with me. I don’t remember any questions or conversations.
I remember one of your best friends had been with us at dinner. She came to the hospital. Had she driven you? And I remember she was the only one who said to me, to my face, while I was laying there in a hospital bed, that I could have died. How much, if anything, did she know about me? Had she put together any puzzle pieces? Did you know? How much did you know?
But they couldn’t keep me at the hospital. Once my electrolytes were fine, I was free to go. I don’t remember the rest of the night. I just remember thinking I was glad no one could force me to stay, and I remember thinking I had to stop using laxatives. But I didn’t. It went on for many more years.
I ruined your birthday, and I know I ruined so much of our relationship. I have never been able to manage to give you the apology you deserve, not because I didn’t think I owed you one, but because I didn’t think I could ever be forgiven.
I love you. I’m sorry.
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