A Sacred Story by Laura Gray
In my early 20’s, I was bulimic. From work, I would drive home 35 minutes to scarf down some lunch to then throw it up in the comfort of my own bathroom. If I was unable to make it home, my good friend and co-worker would serve as a lookout so I could do the deed in the office restroom. Early in my career, during a business trip to Chicago, our group had dined at a white tablecloth restaurant. Fear ran through my veins as we sat and ate. I felt trapped, and the food seemed to choke me with each chew and swallow. Eventually, I excused myself from the table and proceeded to violently vomit the pre-digested filet and then returned to the table with a polite smile. I had mastered this game of dine/ dash/discard.
control. One day, a colleague commented, “Laura, you are getting so thin.” Instantly, my mind converted her words to mean, I am not thin enough if you can still see me. Soon after, I was back in therapy. Through several sessions and quiet reflection, I realized the food and weight game was collateral damage from my childhood trauma. I had been packing pounds on top of the excruciating physical and emotional pain from the sexual abuse by a family friend for many years. Since my body was the scene of the “repeated” crime, I began to fight for control, tear down the invisible yellow tape surrounding my body and ultimately find peace.
Both my boss and my mother began to express deep concern over my physical condition. It was certainly different back then when your older, male boss could call you into his office and genuinely inquire about your health and wellbeing. With the support of my mom, I received counseling and began a “healthier” relationship with food.
Putting it together made sense. The chewing, swallowing followed by an extreme sense of panic was consistent with the memory from the oral sexual abuse of gagging and not being able to breathe. The intense task of keeping the bulimia a secret mirrored the devastating and dark game of the abuse. In the same way, I successfully functioned as a child, I conquered the ability to return to many dinner tables and carry on the conversation.
After the birth of my first son at the age of 31, it was imperative to lose the pregnancy pounds and I successfully was able to zip my size 6 jeans in time for my 6-week postpartum checkup. Returning to work, I slid into old patterns. The dynamic between myself and food was very contentious. I viewed it both as means to live and as a pawn in a game I could
As a result of childhood sexual abuse, many survivors put on weight to “hide” in their bodies and not appear “attractive” to a potential perpetrator1. However, as in my case, one could go the opposite way,
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