I know it sounds bad, but when my husband told me he had bulimia, I felt furious.
Not sad. Not supportive. Just… angry.
Not at the illness — but at what came with it. The secrecy. The timing. The mental load I’d been carrying alone for years.
It’s not that I didn’t care — of course I do — but there’s context.
And once I explain it, maybe you’ll get it… or not.
So let’s set the scene. I’d just got back from a long day at work — already done for the day. On the way home, I got a text.
A message telling me that someone in my family had been diagnosed with cancer.
She’d need a hysterectomy, chemo, and radiation. I was devastated.
The kids picked up on my energy and were being cunts.
So I suggested I pop out to get them some ice cream.
At that point, they could’ve asked me for a joint and I’d have gone to the alley halfway down our road — or the station.
When I got back into the house, I felt an electric energy from my husband.
Surely he wasn’t that excited about a Magnum?
It was the wrong kind of zingy — the kind that makes you feel discombobulated (if you know, you know).
Later on, once the kids were in bed, I told him about the feeling and asked if he’d been drinking.
We’re both acutely aware that drinking doesn’t suit him.
He said no. So I pushed — what had happened in the short time it took me to go to the corner shop and back?
He told me he’d been sick.
“What?”
I asked, “On purpose?”
He said yes.
“Why?”
He said it was something he’d been doing for a while.
I said, “You’ve been doing this for a while? At home?”
He said yes.
My brain exploded — it short-circuited.
One moment there was a lot, and then there was nothing.
I went quiet. It was like the shutters had just gone down.
Then I heard my brain whisper — What the fuck?
What the actual fuck?!
My heart joined in, pounding so loudly that the rest of my senses woke up.
I felt the tingling in my toes rising up through my body.
And my brain shouted: You motherfucker!
All these years, when the kids have been sick, I’ve had to deal with it by myself.
Even when all three of us were puking and shitting our guts out.
You told me the sight and smell of sick — even just the sound of retching — made you feel sick.
And you’ve been voluntarily sticking your fingers down your throat for years?
Surely, surely that’s not right?
I took a deep breath and said, in the most measured voice I could manage,
“I’m really sorry, but I can’t do this today.
Thank you for sharing it with me.
I need some space right now — it’s been a big day.
We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
I gave him a hug and left the room.
As I was leaving, my brain conjured a powerful question:
Why, of all days, did he choose today to share that with you?
It’s something that’s troubled me since.
Almost like a magician — Don’t look at this hand. Look at this one.
Now you feel it… now you don’t..
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