Tiziano International

“Pass, pass, pass, then you curse but it never passes.” That’s the beginning of “Mai nata”, one of the songs I’ve written that tells of the life of some people, quiet people, people difficult to photograph. Bulimic people.

From the perspective of a non-specialist, bulimia is complex to frame, difficult to recognize, often invisible and much more widespread than you think.

It’s when the stomach replaces the heart that this painful route begins, made of binges, experienced in secret. Food suddenly becomes a fascinating enemy who’s always able to win the war against will power. 

There are mainly two types of bulimics: those who stuff themselves nervously, without control, and those who can’t bear the resulting sense of guilt, causing them to vomit. In fact, many specialists tend to distinguish the two situations and specify that the phenomenon of “vomiting” is to be considered absolutely in its own right compared to the bulimia that’s downright “binging”.

But I don’t want to talk about how to treat or prevent these cruel diseases of the new century, but rather to attempt to tell in a few lines some stories that would otherwise remain camouflaged among millions of people.

When my album came out, “Mai nata” entered the homes of many people and I started receiving the first letters.

Pages often become remedies, a confessional for those who can’t be accepted by the “society of images”. Many of those who write me call themselves “fatties” and try to explain what happens each time they tend to their wounds by throwing themselves on food: often it’s almost like I can hear them scream in the audience during concerts, asking me for help to liberate them from this merciless dependency.

Finding an answer is not easy.

The bulimic is not given many possibilities. They are hard on themselves, they are too attentive to others, they are hypercritical and often hard to please, they always put others’ needs before their own, they know very well how to solve the problems of all those around them and help anyone in any eventuality. The bulimic is provided with above-average sensitivity and is so afraid of being hurt that often they stuff themselves in order to fatten up and not be accepted as “normal”. I think that they feel unfit to meet the norms imposed by society, but that’s just my feeling, and… they wouldn’t ever admit to it anyway!

The bulimic is constantly on a diet and always postpones the beginning of a “real” life to the moment when they’re able to lose weight, but that moment never seems to arrive. It’s love, it’s only love that pushes many kids to get up at night and gorge on an endless amount of food and desserts that makes them feel less alone. In those moments of “hidden pleasure” the world goes on and they don’t. They can stand still, talk to themselves and indulge in a bit of “joy” far away from everything and everyone. Their greatest enemy is the scale, that can instead become a perfect ally when, after several weeks of induced vomiting, the kilos come off.

It seems that everything depends on weight and it’s unbelievable, considering bulimics are the first to know that the point is not that. I no longer think of them with sadness, the people who write to me talking about this problem, because maybe what they need more of is a bit of determination. They need someone who talks to them and can inspire that determination. The problem is not food, but life itself and the road taken. Food is only a palliative, a mirror that reflects the situation of the soul in a deformed way. It’s wrong to think that these are “eating disorders”, because they are certainly, first of all, disorders of the heart. There’s no love? There’s food! There’s no sex? There’s food! You’re sad? There’s food! Something went wrong? There’s food! And it’s like that when faced with every exhausting question, for each completely different question the answer is always the same, it’s absurd. I don’t know whether it’s fear, concern, excessive sensitivity, repressed rage, or pride, but I understand this: bulimics avoid answering the most important questions in their lives, skillfully bypassing a deep analysis of their issues, fooling everyone but themselves. This is sad, and it’s even sadder to think that many of those we call “gluttonous” are often only people who suffer in secret.

Then there are those who try to vomit and reduce themselves to skin and bones, convinced that it won’t disappoint anyone, but this also means circumventing reality, as if “looking thin” resolves every issue: from work, to family, to health, to love. But no, it’s clear that it won’t be the scale that gives the equilibrium with themselves that the bulimic desperately seeks.

In a world that sees us running a little too fast, instead the kind of crumb we’d need more of is a fragment of love, of dialogue, of understanding. 

It won’t be self-esteem that helps them understand they can very well make it, because the most difficult task for a bulimic is to look at themselves with love, and then to grant themselves the respect that that they strive to deny themselves every day.

I keep reading the stories of these kids and give them support as much as I can. I’ll continue to sing about the possibility of believing in yourself and taking life into your own hands.

I know well how difficult it will remain, for bulimics, to embark on a path that takes them to really appreciating themselves.

These stories continue to exist silently, far away from everyone’s gaze. After all, bulimia is one of the many, sad consequences of this “world of images”, a product of the many sad gifts brought by the 21st century.