I remember the first time I thought I was fat. It was in second grade, my friend and I were standing in front of a full-length mirror in my bedroom in our underwear comparing our body shapes. Well, actually it was mostly me pointing out how much bigger my butt and thighs were than hers. That marked the beginning of my fight against eating disorders.
Throughout elementary school I was always one of the older girls. I would never have classified myself as fat, not now anyway. But then, I thought it was. At the end of the fifth grade, she was five feet six inches tall, had breasts and a full figure. She weighed in triple digits and was hallucinating. Most girls my age were barely 90 pounds and here I was at just over 100! I started to get depressed about my size, at that time I didn’t really know what to do to lose weight, so some days when I felt particularly fat, I ate very little. She just didn’t want to be known as one of the fat girls.
In seventh and eighth grade I was very shy and ashamed of my figure. My normal outfit was a looser shirt with baggy pants. Anything that made me look like I had a flat chest and a small butt, I’d wear. I also didn’t have the best of friends during that time period. They had all experienced something with boys, and here I had never held one’s hand. I was more or less the fan of the group and it took me until high school to realize that I was just there to have fun, not as a friend. All I wanted was to fit in, to be able to ‘show my stuff’ in those tight tops and shorts. But if I had worn an outfit like that, I would have felt that everyone would look at me with disgust, not admiration.
The first year was a big step for me. I signed up for some tough classes like Advanced English and Spanish 3-4, and I didn’t take a resource like any other freshman. Also, the times at home were pretty bad. My older brother of 3 years created many fights with my parents and sometimes he was violent with me in the mornings, verbally and physically. He then ran away just before Christmas. It was so much. Also, my father is an alcoholic and sometimes he would make inappropriate comments about my round butt, my breasts, or how big my butt looks in certain clothes. That’s when my self-esteem started to plummet. I played volleyball and racquetball, so I thought not eating would be a simple solution to my fatness. However, after working out on an empty stomach, I had the worst hunger pangs. Eventually it became a continuous pattern, eat for a couple of days, don’t eat for a couple of days, repeat.
The second year was more or less the same as the first year. However, I remember being much more depressed because of my size and because of the comments my father told me. Eventually, as a kind of rebellious act towards him, I started wearing fishnet stockings, dyed my hair dark red, and wore all black with dark makeup. Fortunately, my character did not change, but my eating habits gradually worsened.
The summer before junior year I really started to take my eating habits seriously. I would record how many calories I would eat each day to make sure I didn’t go over a certain low number. It was also very easy because I practically worked 40 hours a week, so I didn’t eat anything during my shifts.
The third year was when I started dating. I wanted to be the hottest girlfriend. So, an hour and a half before school started, my friend and I would run a couple of miles while doing a lot of stair climbs, sit-ups, and push-ups. Then we would go to school where I ate about 16 grapes between first and second period. After school, I would go to work or racquetball practice and go home to sleep. I was so obsessed. I wanted to like what I saw in the mirror, I didn’t know that would never happen. Eventually it got to a point where my ribs were constantly aching and I just had to eat for energy. When that time came, I would eat like half a sandwich and then purge. I assumed it was like tricking my body into feeling full, but then getting rid of the stuff right after.
One of the worst times I remember was the summer between junior and senior year. I had to get up to go downtown to meet a group of architects who would help me with my final year project. When I got up, well, let’s just say my legs were so weak I could barely stand up. However, I had to prepare myself, so I began to walk slowly and found that I couldn’t clear my eyes. It was as if there was a fog in my eyes that would not go away. As I walked down the hall I kept bumping into the wall, I knew I was shaky, but also dizzy? I was so confused with what was going on with my body. Deep down I was afraid that something was really wrong with my body, but I didn’t want to accept that, I didn’t want to stop what I was doing. So I ignored the signs, braced myself, and left feeling like a zombie.
I knew he was addicted; I have a very obsessive compulsive personality. Also, considering that my father is an alcoholic and his father was an alcoholic, that addictive gene has been passed on to me. However, instead of obsessing over alcohol, I became obsessed with my body.
At that time my addiction had taken over me. It was as if I had created a monster that had me tied up. He couldn’t help it, he just had to accept it. I really didn’t know which was worse, the thoughts in my head when I didn’t or my body’s reaction when I did. I was trapped in a very complicated situation. So I took the easy route: just listen to my head and continue the purge of not eating.
At the beginning of senior year, my ribs were constantly aching from all the exercise and lack of food. It was always so cold, even on a 90 degree day. I had two permanent bruises on my bony back from doing so many sit-ups every day. However, I was still not satisfied with my body. I had so many mood swings too, that I’m really surprised that my boyfriend at the time is still with me today.
Halfway through the year, my mom approached me while I was in the act. I tried to lie and say, “I just don’t feel very good.” But I knew from the look in her eyes that she noticed that after every meal I excused myself to go to the bathroom, I knew that she noticed the bruises on my body even though there was no reason for them, I knew that she noticed my mood changes and my weight body fluctuates. I started to cry, ashamed of what he had been doing to me, scared that now I will have to fight the beast and accept who I am no matter what the scales say. I couldn’t have asked my mom to be better about the situation. She sat me down to talk about it and said things like, “This isn’t you, this is a disorder, a disease” and “we’ll get through this together.” She was there for me through it all and now I am so thankful that she caught me.
Two years later, I am now 20 years old and can officially say that I have overcome my eating disorders. I am at a healthy lean weight and exercise regularly to stay physically and mentally healthy. I have my moments where I look in the mirror with disgust, but I’m not going to slowly kill myself to be skinny. I want to have children and I want to have a healthy heart to live long enough to see everything I long to see; the world. I can’t put my family through this again. At this moment I live with the love of my life and, although he is not as physically perfect as I would like to be, I love my life and I am happy. Remembering how depressed and emotional I was during my illness keeps me from going back.
