My Mental Struggle: Battling That Bitch Bulimia and Her Bitch Sister, Anorexia

by Cheri Shandra

Listen to Executive Director Gabriel Nathan read this post aloud:

I hovered over the toilet the way I always did, hands braced, muscles tense, surrounded by a space I’d cleaned far more times than necessary. It had become a ritual: the compulsive need to scrub and disinfect as if by controlling my environment, I could cleanse the chaos unfolding inside me.

My left hand anchored me to the moment. My right moved almost on autopilot, guided by a quiet urgency I never quite understood. Then came the familiar wave, the body’s automatic surrender once I crossed that internal threshold. Within minutes, everything I’d consumed was undone, slipping away in reverse until it struck the bowl with a dull finality.

I purged.

Tears blurred my vision, my mouth stung, and yet, a rush of relief flooded in. The high, fleeting but potent, reminded me why I kept returning to this. A dangerous comfort. A lie that felt, in that moment, like control.

It wasn’t about beauty.

It wasn’t to fit some “ideal” physique.

It was the lie I swallowed and believed—that this made me feel better and gave me control. But that’s what trauma does; it distorts truth, births maladaptive coping mechanisms, and teaches you to self-sabotage while masquerading as strength.

For 19 years, I lived in a cycle of self-punishment disguised as control. After purging, the euphoria felt freeing, but within minutes, I’d crash into shame. That high-low rhythm became its own trap. Purging was a release valve for pain I didn’t know how to name. It wasn’t just an eating disorder—it was emotional regulation through self-destruction.

I call bulimia my worst best friend. And she was. She was always there when I needed her. She kept my darkest secrets sealed inside bathroom walls. Only bulimia knew the needs of my body as it fought to expel lunch. She never judged me. She needed me. I needed her.

When you’re born into dysfunction, raised in verbal abuse, emotionally neglected, and made to feel invisible in a world full of noise, bulimia becomes the most loyal, lethal friend a trauma victim could ever have.

And lethal is an understatement.

Bulimia nervosa isn’t just a personal struggle; it’s a hidden epidemic. According to the National Eating Disorders Association, about 1.0% of young women and 0.1% of young men in the U.S. will experience bulimia in their lifetime (NEDA, n.d.). In a nationally representative study using DSM-IV criteria, Hudson et al. (2007) found that approximately 1.5% of women and 0.5% of men in the U.S. experience bulimia nervosa in their lifetime. That’s more than 330,000 young people: friends, classmates, and siblings, each fighting a private battle that often goes unnoticed.

While that number may seem small compared to the millions living in America, bulimia is a deeply covert disorder. It hides behind smiles, clean plates, and bodies that may appear perfectly “healthy.” Unlike anorexia, which can sometimes present visible warning signs, bulimia thrives in secrecy; silent, concealed, and easy to miss. For every diagnosed case, there are likely many more hidden by shame or fear.

The toll isn’t just physical, though the risks are real; damage to the heart, digestive system, and mental health. But perhaps the most devastating part is the isolation: the quiet, convincing lie that you’re in control, even as the disorder slowly pulls you apart from the inside out.

And that convincing lie? It had me in a chokehold.

I needed her, yes—but I also knew the endgame. Bulimia would be my undoing—a slow deterioration. My health would collapse under the weight of her abuse until my body could no longer fight.

I didn’t care.

I needed to feel like I had control, especially during a marriage to a man who treated adultery like an Olympic sport. A man who could look me in the eyes, squeeze my hands with excitement, and profess undying love while his mistress waited for a text to confirm their next meet-up. A man who withheld affection, attention, and even conversation anytime I dared to speak up about his betrayals. A man who controlled the finances but blamed me for “spending too much,” projecting his guilt for what he spent on other women.

Dear God, I needed bulimia.

But here’s the thing—she’s got a sister. And she’s a bitch, too.

After I found undeniable proof of his affair, one that ended with his mistress confronting me, spewing hate, and shoving me headfirst into a rabbit hole of self-disgust I didn’t even know could be worse than it already was—bulimia stepped aside.

Anorexia took the stage.

I couldn’t eat. Anorexia approved of this. She nurtured the emptiness. And her grip? Tighter. Colder. Quicker to bring me to my knees. Within a month, I lost over 30 pounds. Two months in, I dropped from 155 to 115.

Then 113.

110.

108.

103.

My skin sank into my bones. My shoulders and arms exposed outlines I’d never seen—no muscle, no fat, just ghostlike limbs. My ribs rose like hills and valleys, sharp beneath a thin, transparent veil. My stomach caved in, gurgling for nourishment. And still, I stayed obedient.

Doctors warned me.

They told me I needed help.

Not my family or friends, they saw a woman smiling while fitting into skinny jeans. They congratulated me on my new physique, unknowingly fueling my contorted thoughts.

Only my primary physician and psychiatrist saw through my facade.

They were the ones to cast light on my shadow.

But I didn’t listen. I couldn’t.

Their concern couldn’t reach the part of me that had already decided I wasn’t worth saving. I ignored every red flag, even as my immune system collapsed. I got the flu multiple times in two months. Fever blisters erupted, resistant to medication. My hair fell out in clumps.

My thoughts were distorted. I believed I deserved the punishment. I felt unworthy of love. The man I had loved, had children with, and devoted my life to, tossed our vows into the garbage disposal. I became nothing in his life. His world was reserved for temporary appetite-satisfiers.

And I was just… discarded. I went from bulimia providing me a sense of distorted control and a rush of pleasure facade to anorexia being my Lord High Executioner—the sentencing for merely existing.

Then one day, as I lay crying, weak, hollow, hopeless, I felt a spark.

I heard my kids in my mind. I heard them wishing me well, begging me to fight. I heard their voices—not as they were then, but older. Future versions. Calling to me from a life I would miss if I didn’t wake up. That moment changed everything. I had to make a decision: live or die.

It was a simple question that weighed heavily in every cell of my body.

I chose to fight. Yes, first and foremost for myself, but also for my children. They needed me. And even though healing would be a long, painful road, it would also be the most liberating experience of my life. Accepting that my eating disorders were manifestations of unprocessed pain and the desperate need for control was the first step toward breaking the chains of mental slavery.

It’s been a long road.

And I won’t sugarcoat how difficult it was to let go of the only “stability” I had ever known. That delusional thinking was the fog that kept me from seeing the path to personal freedom. I had to accept every painful truth of my life:

The addiction to my disorder.

The maladaptive coping.

The enabling of my now ex-husband.

The stagnancy I allowed myself to remain in.

I had been in therapy since 2009, but here’s the thing: therapy only works when you’re honest with your therapist and yourself. It wasn’t until 2015 that I started getting real. And even then, it felt like trudging through quicksand. By 2020, I had stopped entirely engaging in disordered eating.

I haven’t resorted to it since.

Do I still think about it? Yes.

Does my mind want to float back to that toxic place because it’s easier? Absolutely.

But I don’t.

In 2021, my father, the first abuser and the man who taught me you can love and hate someone at the same time, died from complications related to COVID-19. That moment became my final catalyst. Since then, it’s been a battle of truth-telling, justice-seeking, and reclaiming my power.

Now, I fight—not just for myself, but for other survivors of childhood abuse, domestic violence, and those trapped in the tangled belief systems of disordered eating.

Few want to talk about this, and believe me, I get it. But we must. Because underneath every eating disorder is a deeper wound—an unmet emotional need, a cry for stability, a desperate attempt to regulate chaos.

My disorder masked my pain. But I finally set myself free when I began leading with authenticity and ownership. The mental health struggle is real, but the steps to healing are a truth few realize.

And now? Those voices I once imagined, my children’s future selves, are real. I hear them echo down the hallway as they call out to me, their laughter bubbling in the car on the way to school, their voices cracking with emotion as they share stories of love and heartbreak.

I get to know the older versions of them because I chose life. And life, in turn, continues to bloom, each moment revealing my children’s growth in beautiful, ordinary ways. As my oldest prepares to wear his cap and gown, waving goodbye to high school and packing for his next chapter in college, and as my other children step into their own academic adventures, I feel immense gratitude. I am thankful that bulimia and anorexia didn’t take me away from the purpose I was always meant to live.

And to that I say, without any doubt or uncertainty, goodbye, eating disorder.

Goodbye, bitches.

​EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR / EDITOR: Gabriel Nathan | DESIGN: Leah Alexandra Goldstein | SITE ORIGINATOR: Bud Clayman

See Related Recovery Stories: Eating Disorders, Mental Health First Person Essays, Trauma