Bully Me, Yeah..


Please note- this post might be a trigger for a lot of people, so consider this a TRIGGER WARNING. It is not my intention to upset anyone. Please do not read ahead if you find eating disorders a sensitive issue.

I think I had just turned nineteen, the first time I ‘discovered’ Bulimia.

I had started seeing someone the year before, and the honeymoon phase had melted through, as fast as a snowflake on the beach. I was suddenly under a lot of pressure to lose weight, because Le Boyfriend didn’t think his parents or his sisters would be approving of anyone who packed on the pounds. In his words, “if you weigh this much now, you’re inevitably going to put on so much more after marriage.” Which should really have been my first warning sign, but, oh to be a fool in ‘love’.

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with food. I’ve written before how much father always force fed/ force feeds me, because in his head, as long as I’m fat and bloated, I’m safe from the prying eyes of the entire male population. To the extent that if I start working out regularly or start a decent planned diet, he goes out of his way to sabotage it. I kid you not, he starts banging on the door during cardio hour for stupid things like come-and-do-your-laundry-right-now or come-and-do-the-dishes or come-and-read-the-newspaper-out-for-me. It’s really that ridiculous a situation. When that’s not happening, he’s making these ginormous smoothies with say,two bananas and an entire glass of full fat cream and mountains of sugar, or random fruit and full cream and sugar, or buckets of repulsive KFC wings, or plates and plates of steamed rice, or entire bowls full of walnuts and pecans and apricots that he expects me to eat drowned in cream. I’m getting a little nauseated just writing all these down, because I know what it feels like, having to shovel all of it down under his watchful eye. Yergh.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy good food. I like eating out, exploring new cuisines, it’s all fun but within limits. I’m obviously not a fan of eating myself into resembling a beached whale, at every meal time. That’s what was happening though. Backed into this corner of Lose Weight vs No Losing Weight, I turned to Bulimia.

It really seemed like the simplest thing at the time. I would eat as much as I had to, wait for everyone to get distracted by random things after lunch/dinner, and go throw up. Throwing up is really not that difficult, for the record. All you need to do is stick a couple of fingers down your throat to get you started, that’s all. It was so uncomplicated, really. I’d go from what I thought of as ‘Tank Full’ to ‘Tank Empty’ in less than five minutes, and could be back out to eat the pile of dessert Dad would keep ready. And of course, repeat.

I was smart about it too. Had the whole ‘scientific’ approach to throwing up so that I would do as minimal damage to my GI system as possible.For example, drink a glass of water before throwing up and it all comes out easier, without bringing up any of the stomach’s mucus lining that keeps it protected. I wanted to get thin, I didn’t want to give myself an ulcer. I even used a bit of chocolate to ‘mark’ between the healthy meal and non healthy meal. Felt like common sense back then.

But it doesn’t work like that. It’s never that simple.

It worked fine for a few months. I dropped three dress sizes and my boyfriend though I looked good enough to point me out to his sisters. Their reaction was, “Are you kidding? That short, fat, dark girl?”. Which got him upset, so he came and told me all about it. That upped the ante, so I started throwing up more frequently, going from just after meals to after I ate anything at all. In fact, some times I would drink half a bottle of water on an freshly emptied stomach and throw it up again, to ‘rinse’ everything out. And I was still being smart, in my head. Drinking electrolyte solution from time to time to make sure my serum electrolytes didn’t go out of whack. My mum found it odd that I was getting my electrolytes checked out every other month or so, but the results were normal, so she didn’t think much of it.

That was still in the first year. I was down five dress sizes, looking thinner every day, garnering compliments from all around. My dad couldn’t figure out what the heck was happening. He thought it was my busy schedule and all the running around that was making me lose weight, so he started piling on the food. I started throwing it up even more often. to the point where I started spending half my time at home either in the bathroom or hunched over the kitchen sink if no one was around. Getting it all out, rinsing it all out. I was vaguely dizzy half the time, from the sustained low blood sugar from eating barely anything (I was still drinking plenty of water, I didn’t want my kidneys shutting down lol). But for the rest part,well.. I had fine tremors in my hands. I blacked out for the first time in my life. I was exhausted constantly, running on black coffee that blessedly has no calories. I didn’t care about any of it, I was thin. My boyfriend was even hopeful that his parents might not have a problem with me after all. I was gloriously thin. And then the arrhythmia started.

I started having these attacks where my heart rate would speed up, to an insanely rapid gallop. My throat would close, I would cough uncontrollably, trying to breathe, My pulse would be between 140-180, twice the normal rate. I would just sit or lie down wherever I was, and wait for the attack to pass. It often felt as though my heart would simply burst, like a feeling of constriction in my chest, and my ribs feeling like iron bands around it. All my veins would be popping out, you could always see each of them throb, visibly so in my neck and my throat. The wave would slowly recede, leaving me exhausted, barely able to get off the bed. My heart had just sprinted a couple of miles, even if the rest of me hadn’t. Just for a few painful minutes, though. Nothing I couldn’t handle. It only happened once in a week or so. I could take it. Till it started happening every day. Sometimes, more than once in a day. Even my mostly-oblivious-to-everything-wrong-with-me parents had started to notice that I was having a problem. My dad was inclined to dismiss it as attention seeking behavior (drama, to use his words), but even he couldn’t deny the fact that something was wrong with me, when he could see it. They took me to a couple of doctors, and then forgot about it. I didn’t though. I was waking up.

It had finally dawned upon me that no one was worth putting myself to such extremes for. Especially when the ‘someone’ I was doing it all for, had started harping about other things wrong with me. I’d stopped writing, to appease him. I’d stopped going out with the girls, talking to any of my online friends, talking to most of my real life friends. I’d basically stopped going out at all, so as to stay out of the sun. I wore a hoodie all day to minimize sun exposure, even. All through the summer too. Through his eyes, I suppose, everything was wrong with me. Everything about me needed to be changed. Well, he was fixing them, and I was getting tired of being fixed. I have no freaking idea why I was so obtuse, so blind to the fact that I was wasting my time, wasting myself for this person. But I’d started to see it, and once you start opening your eyes to the truth, there’s no going back to the illusion.

I stopped throwing up, that year. I stopped cutting myself because of him. I stopped doing everything I was being pressured into doing. I never got professional help of any sort. I doubt my parents would’ve gotten me any help even if I asked them for it anyway, so I figured it out myself. It took me almost two years to figure out the rest of it, but I did. No one who doesn’t love you for who you are, should be allowed inside your head. So I locked all the worthless people out.

The road to being thin is just a finger away, but I’m not taking that way anymore. I’m much happier taking the long, meandering road, with healthy food and minor accomplishments that I have to earn. The one with portion sizes and pound by pound weight loss that doesn’t even show yet, but that’s okay, I know it’s there. I’m much happier, period.

I’m still figuring things out, but that’s okay too. I’m doing it for myself. No one’s allowed to bully me anymore, yeah.

Hugs and cuddles (and supersize ‘em!)

Cookie <3




One day
You will realize
That you had it all and
you let me slip by
I clung onto
Your fingertips
You still left
Leaving my universe
spinning awry

Just like everything I touch
We turned to ashes too
I cannot fathom why
But you walked away
And I watched, all pride forgotten,
You didn’t even turn

I sit in the pouring rain
Under the night sky
With a pack of
sodden cigarettes
in my hand
And I burn

And I burn

And I burn…





I wander the pathways of my mind.

I walk down every nerve, arcing through layers of bone and sinew
Down every vein, sluggishly painted blue
Every artery, cursing richly crimson
Down the road every taut tendon takes
I do not know, what I hope to find

I wander the pathways of my mind.

In the infinite silence of my chilled, still heart
A confluence emerges, of blood and froth
Wrathful agitation, but see
Focussing on it completes my paradoxical peace

I learn so much from my own heart’s beat

And in that expanse, that paradise of self
That I delve in, through the levels of my own Hells
The world is louder and quieter than ever, its sounds
Resonate in my marrow, but hollow, dampen to the ground
There is a shrine inside me, pulsing softly, in inner view

I wander the pathways of my mind
And, kneeling at that secret shrine
I find you…


© CM

House of Cards


House of Cards

I built a fortress, tentatively,
Barring the walls
From my own hate
Each faint memory
Emblazoned on cards
Away from the real world
O’er dead pieces of eight

Stacked the queens
With the jesters
In corners
Marked the turrets
With knaves
And kings
Vision by vision, elaborately
layered my house
It expanded,
Under the weight of
So much hope
My dreams buckled
paper thin
Cards fell, lay crushed,
And I with them

What else
could such an endeavor

Building a rickety
House of cards
On a windy day
It’s just tempting fate
That’s what I get
For climbing so high
And giving my Heart
To a Spade

© CM




I was acutely aware of the stone
Harshly cradling
my prone form
Against the curve of my back
I lay, exposed
Displayed to the Elements
To the fury
Of the storm

The Sky stared down
Dew drops trickled
Down from my hair
Down from my eyes
Furrowing new paths
As if,
to the Sea,
Tracing rivulets
Cold, wet
Where I began
I didn’t know
How much was rain
How much tears
How much of that marking me
Or sweat
How long, or
From where,
I flowed

Glistening, thus postured, I
Stretched out,
Limbs askew, throat bared, eyes
Wild behind the
Ebony cascade
I languished there
The sacrificial lamb that
Did not run away
Awaiting your footsteps
Bristling through the heather
Anticipating the descent
Of one
Who obeyed

By more than chains
On a refrain
Captive, of my own will,
Arms outstretched, keening in supplication
I prayed

© CM

Through the Eyes of a Child


Sometimes I think that I’ll forget it all, and then the smallest trigger causes the floodgates of memory to open wide. Bad memories. They’re akin to magma, simmering and bubbling ominously, silently in the crevices. A hint of pressure, a fiery spark, and it all erupts. No wonder then, that it feels like there’s a crater in my mind. A void, a deep, empty, hollow void. A ready receptacle for the next flood of memories.

My first lucid memory of my father is from when I was around three years old. One of the house help had broken a glass after breakfast, and blamed me for it. Not that I had any awareness of the fact at the time, I just knew that I hadn’t done it. I was ‘brought’ to my father for judgement, for appropriate punishment. I said that I didn’t do it, and he said he’d make me confess. So I stood there in front of him, even then not a crier, and he rapped a wooden ladle across my knuckles, each time asking, “did you do it?”. And each time I’d say, “no, I didn’t”, and it would incense him even more. After a prolonged and fruitless interrogation, he decided that I needed to be taught a lesson about lying. So he shut me in the store room at the back, in the dark.

By the time dinner time came around, the maid’s guilty conscience probably got the better of her, and she went and confessed my mother. A huge hue and cry ensued and they opened the storeroom to find me sitting in a corner, wide awake and long finished crying, still in the dark. My father chose to observe that I’d probably fallen asleep in there anyway, no harm done, and everyone silently agreed. It wasn’t worth the argument, to differ.

I was never afraid of the dark ever again, not at any point in my entire life.

I grew up dreaming of various ways I would get back at my father, for everything he’d put my family through, for everything he’d put me through. One of my favorite fantasies was that I’d lock him up in a germ free isolation I’d read about in a Sidney Sheldon novel, I forget which one. One of the rich men is so germ phobic that he refuses to meet anyone without an unbreakable glass barrier in the middle. I always wanted to put my father behind one of those glass barriers, heck, in an unbreakable glass box. And then I would tell him everything I think about him, everything I’ve always want to say, without fear of the beating of my life (or that would end my life, lol). And he wouldn’t ever be able to get to me, through the unbreakable glass…

Life never gave me that opportunity. Not yet, anyway. I learnt how to die a little inside, every time he erupted. Eventually, I died so much that I could die no more, and I just existed, beyond that point. I progressed through the Five Stages of Grief that generally apply to a close person dying, every time I died. And I learnt, I kept learning.

After years of erosion, the damage is fairly significant. The fire has cooled, though. Instead of burning my hands to cinders, letting the anger eat away inside me from bottling it up so tight, each time there’s an ‘episode’, I recede into an unshakeable calm. The volatile nature of anger has long given way to the much more sluggish trickle of pure, unadulterated hate. Tolerance, and hate. I still hate him, more so every time he does what he does, what we are forced to bear. But now, I know he doesn’t know any better. He’s a mad man, he can’t control it. I understand that, and hate him just the same.

Through the eyes of a child, the world is simply love and hate. And the lessons learnt in childhood are rarely misguided. I was given my first taste of hate a long time ago. I learned it, and I remember.

And even if, in some miraculous way, i forgive?

I’ll never forget.

Beetle Nut!

Beetle Nut!!

I was standing in my yard (that magical land of fantasy and adventure) when this Lil Feller plopped down onto the ground, quite right out of the sky. He blushed a pretty green to see me, then bloomed a wondrous orange yellow in the sun, and admittedly, I was stunned.

Not stunned enough to forget to take a picture for you guys, though. :)


Hugs from a bug,

Cookie <3