Acting to save bulimic roommate's life cost me a friendship

By Allison King

November 19, 2004 | I remember when I would turn down the television, sneak into my bathroom, and close my eyes so I could hear the best I could. Very carefully, I would sneakily press my ear hard against the thin student-housing wall that connected our bathrooms. My heart would beat harder as I tried to be as quiet and still as possible.

The same routine, every time: I would hear the scale be put on the ground from where it sat upright between the toilet and the wall. It would be quiet as she waited to see the results.

I would hear the toilet seat hit the tank as she lifted it up and knelt on the floor. She would run the water in the sink to blur out the sound of sticking her finger or her toothbrush into the back of her throat. I would cringe at what I knew she was doing. I could hear the undigested food hit the water. Splash. Sometimes I could hear her whimper. She'd flush the toilet when she was done and I'd run back to my desk and turn up my television so she wouldn't suspect I was spying on her. This happened at least once a day.

My roommate Jane suffered from bulimia. At first, she would throw up when she was really full, and she would tell us about it sometimes. Our other roommate, Holly, and I didn't think much of it, as we had done this once or twice before ourselves. Jane was a healthy, smart girl from a good family. Although she had obvious insecurities, again, we thought it was nothing out of the
ordinary.

But then Holly and I would come home and find her in the kitchen. She would go into her room shortly after we got home and act as if everything was normal. Large amounts of food would often be missing. We could hear her crying a lot and she would tell us she was just stressed out when we asked her what was wrong. She bleached her teeth compulsively. She would exercise herself crazy at the gym. She would come out of her bathroom with a red face. She became quiet and never seemed happy. It started to become obvious Jane had a problem.

We intervened after a short while. Although she did not want to hear what we had to say, Jane admitted she was unhappy and wanted to do something about it.

She was not only our roommate, but also our friend, and we were worried about her. She agreed to go to counseling. After one session, she stopped going, and went as far as to answer the phone and tell the counselor she was not available when they called to check up on her.

So the bingeing and purging went on. Holly and I went to counseling ourselves to find out how we could deal with this situation. On top of all our stresses, this was the last thing we needed to deal with. But we cared about Jane, and because she lived with us, we were the only people that really knew about her growing disease.

I started resenting her. I would say, behind her back, that if she wanted to throw her own food up, that was OK with me, but I didn't want the food I paid for to go down the toilet, literally. Well, without being digested first at least. I started eating with her, and when she was in the kitchen again in an hour, after a trip to the bathroom of course, I'd ask her why she was still hungry when I was so full after the large meal we just ate. Jane, naturally, would become very defensive. This was not the way she needed to be treated, and I learned quickly that it made her problem worse instead of better. She threw up more often, and this time kept it even more of a secret. I knew she didn't like how she felt, and she didn't want other people making her feel even worse than she already did.

Things got rather awkward in our apartment soon. Because Jane had begun dating a guy who fed his ego on her weaknesses and treated her very disrespectfully in our house, Holly and I fought with her about him being around. He knew she had a problem, and he would call her "fat" to her face. Sometimes he would push her around. She would let him. She sat like a doormat on the floor. Like a pathetic, spineless child. And then, she would do anything for him and still give him her "love" at the end of the night.

So, as insecure and controlling people often do, he pushed his limits. Jane would take everything he dished out to her, and he would take advantage of what he could get away with. Therefore, he did worse and worse to her. He then would turn his rude comments and pushy arms onto Holly and me. We had enough and were now dealing with a world of troubles we didn't need, and frankly, didn't know how to handle. And when we would try to tell Jane how we felt, she would defend him and tell us that she loved him, that we were being stupid, and that she was doing just fine.

With nowhere else to turn, after Jane had stopped talking to Holly and me completely, but was bingeing and purging at an alarming rate due to the even lower level of self-esteem she now had, we knew something had to be done. This time, not only for her, but also for us. So, after much deliberation, we called her parents. We didn't want the responsibility of worrying about Jane anymore. We didn't want to find her passed out in her room and think about what we could have done to avoid it.

Her parents, also uneducated about how a bulimic should be treated, yelled at her. Then she yelled at us for telling them. And he yelled at her for being weak. It was a mess, but it was finally in someone else's hands, and although worried about Jane's health and happiness, Holly and I could finally take a deep breath.

Jane moved out a while later. Her parents forced her to move home and drop out of school to get better. She hated us for ruining her life. I understood I guess, but hoped that someday, she would realize we had good intentions. We could have saved her life, and as long as she realizes this someday, I'll feel like all of it was worth it.

It's been over a year now. I hear Jane's doing better but is still not completely recovered. And she may never be. After extensive research, I learned bulimia is a disease. It takes people years, and even lifetimes to overcome it, if at all. The effects this disease has on the body can be fatal. And, unlike anorexia, it is not usually the excessive weight loss and malnutrition that kills its victims. With bulimia, the teeth and throat get eaten away by stomach acid. Vital organs get damaged. Bowel movements get extremely off schedule. Weight fluctuates and puts strain on the entire body. And, worst of all, self-worth gets flushed down the toilet along with the undigested bag of chips and whole box of macaroni.

If you know someone with this disease, don't blame it on him or her, it only makes it worse. Put the responsibility in the hands of someone who can take care of it, never in the hands of the victim. Research how to act or approach the victim, and how to handle it. There are treatment centers all over the place. It is a scary, self-inflicted disease that is very serious. It makes lives miserable and even kills people. There is help for both victims of eating disorders and those who care about and must deal with these victims. It is not silly business, and should not be treated this way.

I learned the hard way. I should have showed her how much I cared about her while I had the chance. Maybe it wouldn't have gotten as bad as it did. And, just maybe, I wouldn't have lost a wonderful friend.

NW
MK