When I was around 12-13, I had hit that awkward stage in growth. I had already gone through the beginning phases of puberty-- I was somewhat of an early bloomer-- and my body just couldn't keep up with the raging hormones tearing through my person and my psyche like a hurricane. One for which I was definitely ill-prepared.
It was also around that time that I began to notice boys. There was one in particular who I'd like to call my first crush. He was actually my best friend at the time, and someone who helped me through my awkwardness more than I think he will ever realize. But as crushes tend to do, he moved on, quicker than I expected, and I was left with a confused head and a broken heart.
"Why," I pondered, "wouldn't he want me?" We loved the same tv shows, books, and music. We loved the same God. We could talk for hours. We made each other laugh. In my mind, we were perfect for one another. Why didn't he think so, too? What was wrong with me?
I began to watch my friend with the girls who had become his new friends and compare myself to them. They were all older, taller, and thinner than me. So pretty. And none of them had a disability.
Don't get me wrong; I was a pretty little girl. I look back at pictures now, and I see what I guess he must've seen in me then. But at the time, all I saw was a fat lump, positioned between two metal sticks. It's true that I was a little lumpy. I wasn't finished growing, and hadn't yet achieved comfort in my new, maturing body. I was overweight, and could stand to lose a few pounds. I was convinced that losing weight would make him want me. It would make everybody want me, right? After all, I couldn't control the fact that I had to walk around between two metal sticks... but I could control what was between them. I was going to lose so much weight that no one would even notice my disability anymore; I'd be too pretty for them to focus on that, or any of my other flaws.
I started out slowly, skipping meals and telling my parents I wasn't hungry for more than one meal a day. It was still summer at this point, and I could get away with being "too tired" or "too hot" or even "too sad" to eat, since what I considered to be "the break-up" was still really fresh in my mind. I was exercising a lot too, going on long walks in the evening and spending the majority of my day at marching band camp. The pounds began to melt away, and I was getting positive feedback from my family and friends, telling me to keep up the good work.
I decided to kick it into high gear, and what followed in the next few months continues to be a blur to me. I began my weightloss journey at a weight near 140, and before I knew it, I was staring at myself in the mirror at just under 90 pounds, still calling myself fat and still seeing the lump that I imagined myself to be. I was eating diet everything, and very little of it. I was counting every calorie. I was hiding food in my napkins. I was mashing it on my plate to make it look half-eaten. A diet coke had become a meal. I had grown so accustomed to not eating that it had become a self-imposed competition to me. The longer I could go without food, the more successful I was. My weight had become nothing but a numbers game to me. I was obsessed with the number of calories I ate, the number of minutes I walked, the number of pounds I lost, and the numbered size of my pants. I could think of little else other than food, and how I was going to beat it, and my lumpy little self-image, into submission.
Then, one Tuesday morning in 9th grade Biology, I ate a 190-calorie package of peanut butter crackers. They had not been on my food agenda for that day (I kept a written log of everything I ate) but they had looked so good when I passed them in the vending machine that I HAD to eat them.
I remember the gritty texture of the crackers feeling so unusual in my mouth; it had been such a long time since I'd tasted any. I ate all six and licked the peanut butter residue from the inside of the plastic. I guzzled my diet coke, satisfied.
Thirty seconds later, though, I couldn't focus. I had written the crackers down in my notebook, and they just didn't fit. 190 calories!! Why did I eat them?? I was such a fat cow. Didn't I have any willpower?? What was wrong with me?? I jumped from my seat and ran to the bathroom. I had to get them out. Now.
I hurled myself into the large stall, and shoved my finger down my throat 7 times until the crackers followed it out of my mouth. Their marvelous gritty consistency had become a slimy and disgusting soup in my stomach. Watching them fall from my mouth into the toilet I felt better knowing I had corrected my mistake. I was still in control.
All day, I could think about nothing but the crackers. What was I doing? Had I really become that sort of person?? The kind you see in tv movies or after school specials? The kind who could be sent away for help??
I told my mom and dad that night. I told them everything. About the crackers and the calorie-counting and the food-hiding, and the crazy thoughts I was having about myself.
My parents never scolded me, because they loved me. But because they loved me, they got me help. There are still many days that I struggle in a war with food.... and for someone who loves food, that's hard to admit. There are some I wake up and everything seems disgusting to me, and others that I could eat a whole pizza in an hour and contemplate purging after. It's a war that to some extent, I will continue to fight for the rest of my life. Somedays, I'll catch myself looking into the mirror and seeing a lump between two sticks, and others I'll catch myself thinking, "Hey, I look pretty good today."
The difference is that now I realize that I'm in control without needing to turn to food as my vessel. I realize that those who want me in their lives will want me, lumpy or not.
They will want me with metal sticks or without. They will want me for who I am, and not just how I look.
I realize now that I am in control of how I feel about myself, and that no other person can change what I feel just with their opinion. Only I can do that. I am in control of whether I let myself love and be loved, just the way I am....and realizing I have that control is a natural high, much better than the temporary high I could feel from starving or purging any day.
Whether someone else wants me no longer matters, because I love myself enough to stay in control by finding happiness through my relationship with God, my friends, and my family rather than through my relationship with food.
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