I grew up an athlete.
Swim, track, tennis, figure skating, more track, cross country, springboard diving, …
Though I knew I was strong and physically in shape, I didn’t agree with the mirror.
I lived in my own hell and prison, believing I was not thin enough, lean enough, toned enough.
I grew up sucking in my belly, wanting to shrink myself ever more.
I wanted the thigh gap of a Victoria Secret model, the lean and thin arms of a “real” athlete, abs like a washboard.
I felt like my ribs were too big – yes, really – as if they protruded.
I felt like my cheeks were abundant, making me feel like I would never outgrow the essence of a child.
I wished I could lose weight in even my fingers – they were too stubby and unladylike for my liking.
When I was around people, all I wanted to was to swap bodies, experience what life would be like if I looked like that or even like that but never this – me.
I never chose me.
I began to hate the way I looked. So much so, I stopped eating normally.
I did everything but eat normally.
Then punished myself by starving.
Then punished myself by binging.
I loved and hated it.
I loved the way I would look and how that would make me feel.
And I hated it.
I hated how I loved the way I looked and how that would make me feel.
I knew deep down this wasn’t it.
That this would never be it.
I knew without doubt that I could not live like this.
And I continued to, day by day.
I was dying inside, if not dead already.
The constant war took over my every thought.
Anywhere I was, I was looking at restaurants and fast food joints and donuts and any place that offered sustenance of any sort.
The grocery store ads in the mail became porn, the fast food deals and coupons, my secret pleasures.
I would dream about getting those forbidden chili cheese fries, that cheeseburger, that steak and mashed potatoes and creamed corn.
And I would continue to look into my mirror lost in my relentless nightmare that I was unlovable, ugly, and undesired.
If I was thin at some point, I would live in fear of gaining weight.
If I was not “doing good”, I would live in despair of possibly never losing weight, never liking what I saw, what I looked like.
What a life, eh?
What a damn life.
Until… until everything broke down. In the best way possible.
Til the next post.