“I don’t eat carbs, they’ll make me fat.” This motto has been a big part of my life for many years. Every day at home and every single family event, everyone would say some gut wrenching words regarding food or body image. Diet culture has followed me since I was a little girl. My mom was always trying to lose weight, it became a trend in my home. I’ve watched her stand in the mirror, pinching her extra skin and muttering -“Disgusting.”

I stood in the mirror multiple times a day, hating the reflection that looked back at me. It haunted me daily, the extra skin all over my body. The mirror was my enemy, a distorted image that I couldn’t shake. The bags around my eyes made me look weak after all the meals skipped and extra workouts. As the number on the scale went down, so did the number of calories I consumed. It was a silent battle of numbers floating in my head. My lunch consisted of four carrots, 28 almonds, and 10 grapes. In my prime eating disorder time, my grandma told me to only eat 10 grapes because they have a lot of sugar. That stuck with me forever. If I ate 11 I would have to do an extra workout.  

“Don’t be fat” lived rent-free in my head. From home, to school, and onto social media there was never an escape from this standard I was trying to meet. According to what feels like everyone, If you're too skinny you look like a skeleton and they’ll tell you to eat a burger. If you're too “fat” then society tells you to stop eating. My family and friends would praise me for living such a “healthy” lifestyle. Compliments only fed my addiction. It was like giving an alcoholic a bottle of wine. “You look great!” they would say “You’re sooo skinny.” But then their contradictory words would tell me to eat a burger but little did they know I would cry on the bathroom floor leaning over the toilet because I had a sip of Coke instead of Diet Coke. “I hate myself” I would sob while trying to make myself throw up. When I ate too much or something “bad” guilt flooded me. 

A little voice in my head would tell me I didn’t look the part. “You need to get worse” it whispered. I named him Ed. He was the evil creature telling me I was worthless and everyone thought I was fat. He consumed my life. He told me I wasn’t skinny enough for people to know I had a problem. I just looked like your average freshman. Every thought was surrounded by food. How many calories should I eat? What would I eat next? I’m starving but I just ate two hours ago.

I knew I needed help when I couldn’t get out of bed without feeling dizzy. The whole room spun each time I tried to be active. My hair was thinning, my bones were growing weak and I had no attention span anymore. I found little interest in the things I used to love. I lost most of my friends and pushed everyone away because all I cared about was the number on the scale.  I found myself a therapist. She asked me questions like “What am I telling myself and what did that mean to me?” I had no idea.  Recovery is a rollercoaster. To this day I still have bad days but a lot more are good. There were days that I felt defeated and like I was that worthless, fat little girl again. But, I also have had many realization moments.  After many years of work, I realized it was a cry for control. When I feel like I don’t have a hold on things I fall back down into that deep dark hole. All those uncomfortable conversations led me to uncover some of the deeper meaning of my eating disorder. I’ve learned to listen to my body and eat when I’m hungry, stop when I’m full, and workout for leisure not as a punishment.