Have you suspected that my grandiose thirtieth birthday weekend, despite my flowery prose of happiness, wasn’t just lalala?

If you’re a resident professional at eating disorders, I suspect that you’re answering with yes.  If you’re a civilian, I bet you’re pretty damn shocked at the wool pulled over your eyes.  It’s okay.  That is why I’m blogging.  I want to teach you about the deception of eating disorders.

This weekend, I was a bitch to those who matter.  I hated my body.  I murdered two quarts of ice cream, successfully hiding the evidence.  And today?  I broke up with my family.

The Murder

Parading about in the fabulously elegant glory of Kate Spade, I jovially mingled with family and friends, delicately sipping chardonnay from my 1940s wine glass, smiling brightly, posing for photographs, maintaining the elegant airs of a prim and proper birthday girl.

You are a fat fucking bitch.  Your back is disgusting, fatty red arms puffed alongside.  Your face resembles that of a blowfish.  And that glamorous, gold zipper, running along your spine?  It’s only intensifying your fatness.  Sir Edmund better not dare snap a photograph of your back.  What the fuck is wrong with you?  You’re not a skinny yoga girl anymore.  You’re a fat fuck.  Start spinning this week.  End your relationship with Sir Edmund.  He gets in the way of your progress. 

I continued mingling, smiling widely, sipping my wine, eating foods otherwise not considered as safe (a big bowl of crab, raw vegan caramel slices, and sea salted nuts, lots of nuts).  Each time that I inserted food into my mouth, I worried that someone was judging my fat.   And Sir Edmund wouldn’t leave my damn side.

Why the hell is he following me?  Why won’t he leave me alone?  He’s babysitting my food intake?  He thinks I’m a fat fuck!  I wish he weren’t here!  I fucking hate him.  Leave me the fuck alone!  I’m thinner than all of your girlfriends, so don’t fucking judge me, idiot.  I know you’re pretending to just stand by my side.  You’re pretending to be my ‘sponsor.’  I don’t need a fucking sponsor.  I don’t need you.    

By the time that the evening ended, I was raging, ready to combust!  I’d had enough, so Sir Edmund politely entered the passenger side of my vehicle after I caused a scene, telling him that I would drop him off at his apartment.  He, on the other hand, despite my bitchiness, wanted to carry my presents, princess Gwendolyn, me, and my things over the threshold to my humble dwelling, but I wanted him GONE because I had three raw chocolate caramel slices in my “to go” bag from my mother, and these caramel slices were meant for my alone time rituals.

Why is he yelling at me?  He’s inadvertently calling me fat.  I HATE him.  Shut the hell up!!!!!!!!!

The next morning, I uncommonly skipped breakfast, paying tribute to the prior evening’s raw chocolate caramel sliceS consumption, walked seven miles in the snowy enchanted forest with my baby, and felt on my game again.


Fight with the sister.  Fight with the family.  

All parties were wrong.  Nobody should ever be so vicious, so hateful, so damn unkind.  But the anxiety created within was simply too much for me to handle.  I was ready to blow up, and I wanted ice cream.  

So I left their home in a rage, bought two quarts of SoDelicious, and prepared for its consumption.

The cashier: “Is this stuff any good?”

Me: “Oh, yes!  Especially if one is vegan and gluten intolerant.  Fantastic culinary delight.”

But don’t forget to vomit because that’s what I’m planning to do.  How do you think I look this way, you stupid bitch?

I got home.

I can’t binge.  I made a promise to Gwendolyn.  And if I eat this, I’ll get fatter.  My thighs are expanding!  Goodbye size 26 jeans!  Just eat a bowl maybe?  Toss the rest?  Will I want more later?  Bulimia was easier!  If both quarts are consumed in 30 minutes and vomited in five, then It’ll be okay.  It won’t matter.  I can start my day over at 5pm.  I can erase the bad.  Maybe just this once.  I need it.  Now!!!!!!!!!  

Heating a spoon, I allowed it to dive gorgeously into the dreamy container of deliciousness.  I lifted the creamy delight near to my mouth, and I looked at Gwendolyn.  She was cocking her head.  And I screamed, “Fuckkkkkkkkk!!!”

Throwing the spoon against the wall, grabbing a knife, I stabbed the ice cream, viciously!  I stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.  I poured hot water over the cream, for 20 minutes, killing both quarts that cost me $12, stabbing until it was DEAD.

I murdered the ice cream.  

In my manic rage, I collected no evidence of the murder.  But later in the evening, I fetched the containers from the garbage, posing them beside the chocolate laden murder device, the knife.

And today I broke up with my family.

I’m ready to start life freshly, as a 30-year old.  I’m not a bad person anymore.  

© nicole marie story and nicoleandgwendolyn.com, 2011, 2012.