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The sickening truth

My story will shock you, but if I can save one person from my pain...


Published by: Polly Taylor & Kim Willis
Published on: 17th February 2011

You know what it’s like when you’ve just broken up with someone, you’ll do anything you can to take your mind off the heartache.
When I broke up with my girlfriend Gemma after nine years, my distraction was the gym. At 5ft 6in, and weighing 10st, I didn’t need to lose weight, but pounding the treadmill made me feel as if my insides had been cleansed.
 Moving out of the house I’d shared with Gemma into a bedsit was devastating. But my mum Christina, 51, was on hand with
a hamper.
‘This lot will keep you going,’ she smiled, unloading bread, crisps, cheese, cakes…
‘Thanks,’ I sighed.
The second she left, I started eating. I couldn’t seem to stop.
Within minutes, I’d chomped through an entire loaf of bread and a block of cheese.
What the hell had come over me?!
All I knew was my bulging belly weighed more heavily with guilt and shame than with food. I felt disgusted.
Suddenly, I was running to the bathroom, sticking my fingers down my throat to throw up.
Afterwards, I slumped against the tiled wall. God, I felt better. And it was so easy – I could gain comfort from food, then get that clean feeling back instantly.
The next day, I went shopping and loaded up with junk food.
Sat on the sofa at home, I started eating. When I reached bursting point, I made myself sick.
I was like a man possessed. I’d no idea where this overriding need to vomit had come from, but I couldn’t stop it. After that, I started bingeing and vomiting every day – sometimes up to five times.
The bulimia had become an uncontrollable beast.
When I got the urge to binge, I couldn’t stop myself. And afterwards there was only one way to make myself feel better…
In a year, my weight plummeted to 6st 6lb. I was constantly exhausted and couldn’t concentrate. It was so bad I had to quit my job as a fraud analyst for American Express.
With no income, I started to panic about how I’d buy food – but soon I came up with a solution.
Stuffing carrier bags into my pockets, I went to the supermarket.
Once I’d loaded my trolley, I took it to a quiet corner and put the lot into my bags, then calmly walked out of store with them.
Like a druggie, I was stealing to satisfy my addiction.
‘What’s happened to you?’ Mum gasped one day when she popped around. ‘You look dreadful!’
‘Lost my appetite since Gemma and me split,’ I muttered. ‘I’m fine.’
She had no idea I’d quit my job, and was throwing up. I had to keep it secret… so I stopped answering the phone and the doorbell, and became a recluse.
A year later, I found I’d made myself sick so many times, sticking my fingers down my throat no longer made me gag.
But I had to be sick, I had to get back that lovely cleansed feeling!
In a daze, I went to the bedroom and picked up a wire coat hanger.
Unravelled, it was almost 3ft long, and I shoved it down my mouth.
The metal pricked the back of my throat as I fed it down until… Yes! I gagged and threw up.
Ready for another binge, I returned to the sofa and surrounded myself with packets of crisps, bread, and tubs of ice cream.
In a trance, I ate like a starved animal, cramming handfuls into my mouth, even though I was still gagging from the wire hanger.
Soon, physically and emotionally exhausted, I fell asleep.
Waking up hours later, I was far from done. Grabbing the nearest bowl of ice cream, I took a huge scoop and rammed it into my mouth. It was warm and mushy – it must have melted and curdled while I’d been asleep.
Hey, what was that? Something green was floating in the bowl. Was that… broccoli?
Then it hit me. ‘Oh God,’ I cried. ‘I’d already eaten the ice cream, and thrown it up before I fell asleep!’
I was eating my own puke!
Retching, I struggled to my feet and dragged myself to the mirror.
I was unrecognisable – my eyes were bloodshot, and my face gaunt.
‘What have I done?’ I cried. ‘Sat here, eating my own vomit.’
Looking around the dank room, I felt disgusted. Buckets, bins and ice cream tubs brimming with cold vomit covered the filthy floor.
‘This place is a cesspit and, for the past two years, I’ve been drowning in it,’ I whispered.
In that moment, I woke up.
Blinking back tears, I took pictures of it all on my camera phone and even filmed myself throwing up. The images were hideous, shocking – but that was what I needed.
As I looked at them, I was able to take an emotional step back and see for the first time what I’d been doing. Over the next few weeks, I posted the photos and videos on the YouTube website, to alert others to the dangers of eating disorders.
It didn’t take long for people to flood my email with messages of support. I’d become so ashamed of myself, but talking to others who understood what I was going through helped. It gave me the courage I needed to see a doctor, who admitted me to hospital.
‘Why didn’t you tell me what was wrong?’ asked Mum.
‘I didn’t know for a long time,’ I confessed. ‘I was in denial.’
‘Well, I’m here to help you now,’ she promised.
Gradually, I stopped making myself sick, and therapy has helped me understand my illness.
Now, I eat three healthy meals a day, weigh 8st 3lb, and I’m studying critical and social theory at university. I’ll always be in recovery, and every day is a battle. But another break-up won’t leave me wanting to break out the junk food again.
• For help and support for men suffering with eating disorders, visit www.mengetedstoo.co.uk
Aaron Asphar, 33, Hove, East Sussex