Alas, one of the oft-o'erlooked consequences of years of bulimia: Complete obliteration of natural tooth enamel, resulting in almost no resistance against cavities. Even when you stop puking, even if you religiously brush your teeth with industrial strength super-duper tartarkiller toothpaste, you're still in deep dental doo-doo. Once your toothe enamel is gone, then it's gone, whether you've recovered or not. You may have conquered the big beast, but have lost a bit of your armor along the way.

Too bad about the teeth, because otherwise, bulimia is so freaking glamorous.

When "doing the deed," I used to distance myself from the situation, mentally revisiting the previous activities of the day or listing what I had to do that night. Sometimes I'd torture myself by thinking about what my mother would say if she found out. Sometimes I'd compose silly poetry in my head.

Often, a grotesque image would come into my mind's eye; that of a kaleidoscopic web of women, each painfully separate yet inextricably linked, each hunched over her toilet bowl, wretching violently and grimacing like a gargoyle, ironically trying to make herself beautiful. I had to laugh,inwardly, at the absurdity of it.

Sometimes I'd concentrate on how powerful I felt. The undeniable sensuality of the experience, the heaving, the expandsion and contraction of the hills and planes of my back, my shoulders, my stomach. It was my button to push, and it gave me a perverse sense of invincibility.

I'd make games for myself, finding shapes and faces in the ever-changing eddies of vomit were plunging and churning inches from my nose. I found comfort in the occasional unexpected prettiness of these swirls, and in some chamber of my brain likened it to finding creatures in constellations cumulous clouds. Again, the absurdity and irony would strike me; making accidental Rorscharch blots out of a medium that was doing no good for my psyche, yet offering altogether too much self-insight.

I'm lucky enough to have escaped most of the health problems related to bulimia. My heart, digestive tract, throat, liver, they all run like champs. My hair isn't falling out, my eyes are fine, my blood pressure rather impressive. But, my teeth?

Two years ago, after about 18 months of hardcore puking, I had a run-of-the-mill dental cleaning. Till then, I had never had a single cavity. In fact, I had beautiful teeth. White, but not too white, straight, but not with just enough skewishness to give them personality. (Speaking of which, why did Tom Cruise ever get those braces? That off-center front tooth was the most endearing thing about him.) I didn't need braces or headgear or any other contraption that lends to the torture of adolescence.

I lucked out. Then, I fucked up.

That cleaning two years ago, when I was 23 years old, uncovered 13 cavities. As I was just finishing school and was still under my father's insurance, it wasn't something I could keep to myself. That was how I "came out" to my parents about my eating disorder. 'Twasn't pretty.

My mom, who, while she would take a bullet for me in an instant and only wants the best for me, is not the most understanding individual and tends to take everything personally. This is why I'm often hesitant to tell her things... She gets so hurt.

Not surprisingly, she took my bulimia as "a slap in the face," an indication that I was wantonly choosing to reject the self-respect and self-worth that she and my father thought they had instilled in me.

My father, after I compared the illness to an addiction, a self-destructive coping pattern, was much more sympathetic. He's a recovering alcoholic, been sober for almost 10 years now, and he could relate to my expressed lack of control and fear over my unnatural behavior.

My family is very important to me, thank God-or-whatever. Regardless of their reactions, I would have preferred telling them about it under different circumstances. Not after a damning dentist appointment which made me appear to be rotting from the inside, out. But the tangibility of my damaged teeth was impossible to ingnore.

So, these days, the dentist chair is a much more foreboding place than it once was. It was never fun, mind you, to sit my ass in a recliner while gloved hands and sharpened tines prodded my gums and incisors, but now it's terrifying. My teeth have become for me an external symbol of my mental health, and thus the phrase "your teeth will rot out of your head" has a much more sinister ring.

I still have very pretty teeth. They're still straight, and still white despite the fact that they encounter the more-than-occasional cigarette. (I strongly recommend Arm & Hammer Whitening toothpaste, by the way. Damn, that stuff's like zamboni on a brush.) But I'm constantly paranoid about them; I have this crazy phobia that they'll spontaneously start bleeding, or stinking, or falling out of my gums like hail, and that everyone will know that I am not a normal girl, that I am not as well as I seem.

But really, I'm quite well. I'm happy. What was once an all-consuming obsession has waned to a haunting occasional bad habit, and while it will continue to haunt me, it will also continue to wane. The tooth enamel, however, will not return. How whacked is that? Is this an earthly penance?

It does sound like I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, doesn't it? Perhaps I am.

Nonetheless, the problem and the symbollism remain. I meantion all of these mechanisms and habits in the past tense, but honestly, they're not 100% behind me. I've never told a single person about the details of my purging. It's too intimate, I feel too vulnerable. And it's gross.

On a vain note, I really don't want to lose my teeth. I think that one of the only things separating me from a crazy lady gumming the insides of her cheeks on the subway, is that I still have a headful of pearly whites. I believe that what landed her there is mostly circumstantial. I'm no better than she is, just luckier. And I have the nerve to fuck it up.

On a larger scale, cavities are really just a slap on the wrist, considering I could have pulled a Karen Carpenter. There are deeper, less visible marks, of course, which will need to be "purged" of their own accord. But, it'll happen, and I'll heal. But my goddamned teeth won't.

Jesus H. Who brought the party-pooper? Enough of this.

Maybe you've noticed, I've done some HTML-putzing, which resulted in what I hope is a much more readable and less eye-bleedy page. The text window and the font are bigger, for your viewing pleasure, allowing me room for a cheerier subject, which I meant to address in the LuvaCentennial.

So, to end on a cheerier note, let's go back to the inwardly-spiralling land of meta.

You want banners? I'll give you banners.

Oh, this is so self-indulgent.

So, here's my first banner, made on that free application that Diaryland provides. It's terribly low-quality and inane, but it has a great click-through percentage, which isn't really a shock. See also: South Park.

Incidentally, I don't know if the combination of pineapples and cashews results in digestive discomfort. The meter worked, OK? That's all I needed. Feel free to experiment with the mixture on your own, and report back to me.

Next up:

This is sort of playing on the whole, "I say I'm an 18-year-old redheaded nymph, but I may be an 80-year-old ex-truckdriver with a spitoon 'round my neck and a ragin' case of hemerrhoids." Ah, the mysteries of the internet.

Banner #3:

Meh. I just thought the martini glass was cute. I don't really drink alone.

And #4:

This one might be my favorite, as I get a non-stop kick out of the latent narcissism I exhibit on this weird-ass page. I rather dig the incomplete floating masks. (By the way, I must confess that none of the images are mine.)

Banner E:

Jesus, what an awful banner. I keep submitting it, however, despite the predictably low click-through percentage.

"Galatea Dunkel was a tenacious loser" is a random quote from "On the Road" that I found particularly funny, in and out of context. Don't ask why.

Galatea Dunkel is a tertiary character that Sal Paradiso and his pals originally judge to be really lame because she, like, holds down a job and doesn't get high all the time. By the end of the book, however, they're all kind of in awe of her. Me, oh my, aren't I literary and deep?

Bannero Seis:

Yeah, it bugs me while "swingers" in the 70s were supposed to be all liberated, the term "wife-swapping" nonetheless reduces women to being a commodity. Fuckers.

The banner's way ugly, I realize, because I was too lazy to figure out how to Photoshop away the gray. (Gotta Photoshop that gray right outta my banner, and send it onnn it's waaaaay!) The end.

NOPE! NOT THE END! BANNER #7!

Ahahahahahahahahahahaha, the kids love this one. Hoo. Fart jokes. Big click-through. See also: South Park.

8? Is there an 8? You bet yer sweet bippy!

Pretty self-explanatory. Dancing veggies! Whee!!!

Niiiiiine .....:

I hate this banner. Hate. This. Banner. First of all, I, personally, have no problem with clowns, so by submitting the banner, I'm living a LIE! Second of all, it's stupid. Thirdly, it's ugly. But it does OK for itself in clickies, so maybe someday it will grow into a beautiful swan.

OK, 10:

Actually, this is my favorite banner, but you'll never see it flown by Diaryland. And why? Dunno, but Andrew doesn't think it's appropriate, I guess. The original version had a picture of a sexy lady instead of the baby, which I thought was perdy hilarious and pat-myself-on-the-back transgressive, but I toned it down with the infant in hopes that Andrew would have a change of heart. But, no.

Banners about spanking and lesbian action are ok, I guess, but mention the possibility that babies or babes take poos, and you get the shaft. (I've got nuthin' against the spanking or lesbian banners, by the way, I just don't understand where the line is drawn.)

GOD, Do I Really have 11 banners? Yes, I do:

Thumbsquash: To summon a giant hand from the heavens to smite one's opponent, nemesis, or just someone you find unforgiveably annoying, by squashing him/her under its thumb. I have a list of potential thumbsquash victims.

TAH DAHHH!!!

Gotta go. The weekend calls.

Brush your teeth.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

---

BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

---

BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

---

««« Chicago Blogs Webring »»»

---

email:

---

words © luvabeans, 2003 - 2004