I remember the first time I thought I was fat. It was in the second grade, my friend and I were standing in front of a full length mirror in my bedroom in our underwear comparing our body shape. Well actually it was mostly me pointing out how much bigger my butt and thighs were than hers. That marked the beginning of my struggles with eating disorders. Throughout elementary school I was always one of the bigger girls. I would never have classified myself as being fat, not now anyway. But then, I though I was. By the end of fifth grade I was five foot three with boobs and a full figure. I weighed in the triple digits and was freaking out. Most of the girls my age were barely 90 pounds and here I was just over 100! I started becoming depressed about my size, at that time I didn’t quite know what to do to lose weight, so some days when I particularly felt fat, I would just eat very little. I 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 baggier shirt with baggy pants. Anything to make me look like I had a flat chest and a small butt, I would wear. I didn’t have the greatest of friends throughout that time period as well. They all had experienced something with the boys, and here I had never even held hands with one. I was pretty much the follower in the group and it took me till high school to realize that I was just there for there amusement, not as a friend. All I wanted was to fit in, be able to ‘strut my stuff’ in those tight halter tops and short shorts. But if I had worn an outfit like that, I would have felt that everyone would be looking at me in disgust, not in admiration.
Freshman year was a big step for me. I signed up for some hard classes like honors English and Spanish 3-4, and didn’t take a resource like every other freshman did. Also, times at home were going pretty bad. My older brother of 3 years was creating many fights with my parents and was sometimes violent towards me in the mornings, verbally and physically. Then he ran away right before Christmas. It was just so much. Plus, my father is an alcoholic and sometimes he would say inappropriate comments about my bubble butt, or my boobs, or how big my ass looks in a certain outfit. That’s when my self esteem started to plummet. I played volleyball and racquetball, so I figured not eating would be a simple solution to my being fat. However, after working out on an empty stomach, I would have the worst hunger pains. Eventually it just became an ongoing pattern, eat for a couple days, not eat for a couple days, repeat.
Sophomore year was pretty much the same as freshman year. However, I remember being a lot more depressed about my size and about comments my father said to me. Eventually, as kind of a rebellious act toward him, I started wearing fish net stockings, died my hair dark red and wore all black with dark make-up. Luckily though, my character didn’t change, but my eating habits were gradually getting worse.
The summer before junior year I really started to get serious about my eating habits. I would record how many calories a day I would eat to insure I didn’t get over a certain low amount. Plus it was really easy because I practically worked 40 hours a week, so I just wouldn’t eat anything throughout my shifts.
Junior 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 miles while doing lots of stairs, crunches and push-ups. Then we would go to school where I would eat approximately 16 grapes between first and second period. After school I would either go to work or racquetball practice, and would go home to bed. I was so obsessed. I wanted to like what I saw in the mirror, little did I know, that would never happen. Finally there came a point where my ribs constantly hurt and I just had to eat for energy. When that time came, I would eat like half-a-sandwich, and then purge afterward. I figured it was like tricking my body into feeling full, but then getting rid of the substance 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 bunch of architects to help with my senior project. When I got up, well, lets just say my legs were so week I could barely stand. I had to get ready though, so I started walking slowly and realized I couldn’t clear my eyes. It was like there was a fog in my eyes that wouldn’t go away. While I walked down the hall, I kept running into the wall, I knew I was shaky, but also dizzy? I was so confused with what was going on with my body. Deep inside I was scared that something was going 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, got ready, and left feeling like a zombie.
I knew I was addicted; I have a very obsessive compulsive personality. Plus considering my father is an alcoholic and his father was an alcoholic, that addictive gene has been passed to me. However, instead of becoming obsessed with alcohol, I’d become obsessed with my body. By this time my addiction had taken over me. It was as if I had created a monster that had me on the leash. I couldn’t stop it, I just had to accept it. I didn’t really know what was worse, the thoughts in my head when I didn’t do it, or my body’s reaction when I did. I was stuck in a very sticky situation. So I chose the easier rout: to just listen to my head and keep up with the not eating purging.
By the beginning of senior year, my ribs constantly hurt from all the exercising and lack of food. I was always so cold, even on a 90 degree day. I had two permanent bruises on my bony back from doing so many crunches every day. Yet I still wasn’t satisfied with my body. I had so many mood swings as well, that I’m really surprised my boyfriend at the time, is still with me today.
Halfway threw the year, my mother walked in on 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 eye that she noticed that after every meal I would excuse 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 swings and my body weight fluctuating. I started crying, ashamed of what I’ve been doing to myself, scared that now I’m going to have to fight the beast and accept who I am no matter what the scale said. I couldn’t have asked my mom to be any better about the situation. She sat me down to talk about it and said stuff like, “This isn’t you, this is a disorder; a sickness,” and, “we’ll get through this together.” She was there for me through it all and I’m now so thankful that she caught me.
Two years later, I’m now 20 years old and can officially say that I’m passed my eating disorders. I’m at a healthy thin weight and I regularly work out to stay healthy physically and mentally. I do have my moments where I look in the mirror in disgust, but I’m not about 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 all that I long to see; the world. I can’t put my family through it again. At the moment I live with the love of my life and, though I may not be as perfect physically as I would like to be, I love my life and I’m happy. Remembering how depressed and emotional I was during my illness turns me away from going back.