Hypocrite

I'm such a hypocrite, in more ways than one, but tonight I will focus on my hysteria with the physical aspects of bulimia.  I went tonight to my weekly viewing of my ultimate tv show, Project Runway, at a cafe.  A couple of friends accompanied, one of whom, I'm sad to say, is seriously immersed in her disorder.  It's unnerving to be in the presence of a pronounced bulimic, even for me.  I don't know how you've maintained sanity these past five years.  This particular person ordered a beverage, and I couldn't help but monitor her actions.  She went to the restroom minutes after drinking her milky coffee (so quickly, I must add), returning with darting eyes, reaching for her glass of ice to chew on.  I know the signs, or at least, I know my signs, and they all fit the equation for purging.  I want to help; it's in my nature to nurture (sorry for the cliche), to tend to those who are suffering, most especially those hurting more than myself, but for some reason I can't.  I'm too uncomfortable.  An endless number of people have pillared their strength to help me make it to this day in my recovery.  Why can't I be supportive for someone who's suffering, also?  I've spent hours making fliers, posting them around the city, to reach out to those who need a lifeline, but I can't follow through with the emotional support when the physical body is crying out, reaching for aid.