Corrections in Ink: A Memoir

by Keri Blakinger

The first time I threw up seems like such a pivotal moment, and yet I do not remember it. But I can imagine. I would have been twelve at the time. I must’ve pulled back my light brown hair—it was long then—and haltingly forced my finger down my throat, retching and heaving a few times before I was successful. Afterward, I would have cautiously peeked out of the middle school bathroom stall, checking that the coast was clear before I scuttled across the tiled floor to the sink to wash the vomit from my hand. I probably took one of the little brace brushes and pushed out the tiny chunks of regurgitated food—or at least the visible ones. Then, I must have looked in the mirror at my watery eyes and red cheeks, and decided it was a good idea to do this whole routine again. And again, and again, and again. I didn’t dive in all at once; it started as an occasional thing, like a social smoker who only lights up at the bar. Except there was nothing social and no warm fuzzy feeling after, just a fleeting dizziness and an empty sense of victory. Bulimia is by nature a solitary task—which made it well-suited for a pre-teen with strict parents and few friends.