I stood in the shower, water beating against my back. Hunched over, I started to breathe rather quickly. The pace freaked me out. Had I ever felt this way before? Surely things would ease up. They didn’t. And light began to drain from my surroundings. I began to lose balance. In a frantic gesture, I pulled aside the curtain, leaned against the edge of the tub, and cried for help.
What was going on?
My mom came in and all I could manage to do was ask for something to eat and a glass of water. My voice shaking. My body trembling. Maybe this one time I had taken things a little too far. That morning I had decided to go on a run. Intentionally, I took to the street on an empty stomach in the heat of the day. A little weak, but mostly tired I made it home. Another workout done. At this point in my life, things were incredibly dark. Comfortably dark. The darkness quietly asked me to keep things just as they were. Away from others. Held close to my chest. My control of food and exercise had started so small. I hadn’t realized that it was big enough to swallow me and that without asking, it already had.
The control had consumed me. And I sat in the darkness of its stomach with freedom silent and tied up beside me.
It would seem that a moment as big as the one I had in the shower would have shaken me. Stirred me. Woke me up to my reality. But it didn’t. I had become addicted to the power control gave me. There’s a sort of adrenaline that I get when I restrict myself. Like a surge of reckless power, restriction feeds some deep need inside me for control. Restriction beckons me. Come closer. Give me more. Eat less.
Things first began to startup in a nutrition class my freshman year of high school. I only remember excitement as I entered that class. I knew that we’d be learning about cooking and meal planning. Flipping through the pages of our textbook, I found pages of color and yummy new recipes. Through that class, we got to dig deep into the science behind food and the way it interacts with our body. The ins and outs of food’s affects on the body intrigued me and I was beginning to realize that I could have control of those affects. I could control what I ate.
My control. Could give me. Whatever body. I wanted.
At that time in my life, I envisioned the most beautiful body to be a thin, narrow-framed girl who could wear anything and look flawless. I knew that growing up I was rarely that girl. I was the girl who’s shirt fit a little more snug. The girl who didn’t know when to stop eating. So slowly, I began to walk towards that body. I believe this is when I first stepped onto the treadmill. My pace was hesitant at first. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I started running a couple times a week, trying to pick up my pace and push my body until it would ask me to stop–sometimes going a little further just to say I did. I could. I’m in control of my body. I’m in control of food.
Sitting across from my friend one day during lunch, I reached into my brown sack and pulled out a PB&J, except it wasn’t. It was almond butter and jelly. No peanut butter. Because peanut butter was on my bad list. A list that nobody knew about. I had it scribbled in the back of my mind, which meant it never stopped taunting me. Don’t eat that! It would yell at me anytime I reached for a food that was not allowed. For example, peanut butter, a food that I had deemed too fatty and oily. I pulled out my sandwich. Admittedly, it was dry and slightly plain, but healthy. Very healthy. That’s all that mattered to me. I took a bite as I watched my friend pull out her real PB&J and her bright orange Cheetos. My bright orange “Cheetos” were carrots. Fresh of course, but nothing quite like a bag of crispy, cheesy Cheetos. I just wanted to enjoy my meal, but I couldn’t.
I was fighting.
It was a silent war, so no one could fight with me. No one could. Help. Me.
For about a year, I lived this way. Skipping meals with my family. Opting to eat a raw salad with homemade dressing and organic raisins. Taking apart every sandwich to leave behind lettuce, tomato, and a few pieces of meat. Turning over label after label of nutrition facts to make sure that “high fructose corn syrup” never made its way close to me. Cutting my apple into tiny pieces and eating it as slow as I could to make it last. Often times that was my dinner–almond butter and a giant apple. Sipping on hot green tea before bed simply because it was said to reduce stomach fat and induce weight loss. Lifting my shirt day after day. Looking down at my stomach. Sucking it in and thinking– Not there yet. Keep trying. Running everyday. Nearly passing out in the shower. Learning that I needed to bring jackets with me everywhere because I started to get extremely cold. Feeling sick more often than normal. Unknowingly preventing my body from having a period. Falling asleep with a restless mind that stumbled over thoughts of tomorrow’s meal plan. Eat this. Not that. Buying books. Reading articles. Talking to other people striving after my same body. And scariest of all, still thinking that I was fat.
Are you tired yet?
I was.
But when you’re in the dark, no one thinks to offer a shoulder. A hand. A word of advice. They don’t know you need one. And so I sat there chained up. For a whole year.
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