It all started in the 8th grade.
It was little things at first. I decided to eat more produce and to jog every other day.
In theory, these are great practices; however, things began to spiral out of control quickly, and my reasons for changing my health habits were not good ones.
Granted I was never one of those “stick thin” girls, but I was never fat by any means. I was a pretty active kid who loved obscure foods like brussel sprouts. But, through the years I noticed I never had the pole thin, young girl body type, rather, I always had curves with strong legs.
I began to dislike my legs, which soon developed into a feeling of hatred. This is when I decided to change my health habits in the 8th grade. I carefully planned the decision on a long road trip one spring break. I wrote down healthy food ideas and exercises – sounds mature of me, right?
Unfortunately I am genetically prone to depression and bad body image, as it runs in my family. It wasn’t long until I began running almost everyday and limiting my caloric intake to almost only fruits and veggies. In a blink of an eye I dropped about 20 pounds (keep in mind, I never really had weight to lose.) I even lost my period for several months – however, this became a source of pride for me.
All I wanted to be was thin, but this goal felt unattainable. Even when I was fitting into extra small sizes and receiving comments from my friends like, “You’re too skinny!,” I still felt it was not enough. If anything, “too skinny” comments just fueled the fire to maintain my strict lifestyle.
Upon reflection, I’ve realized the reason I felt I couldn’t attain my idea of a “perfect body,” is because I wasn’t happy with myself – I didn’t love or even really like myself. This is still something I struggle with today.
Fast-forward a few months, and I was an under weight, exercise-a-holic, sugar craving, emotional mess. I entered my freshman year weighing about 100 pounds, which with the way my body is shaped, is extremely unhealthy for me. I was eating 8 fruits a day to sustain myself and beating myself up if I skipped one run or ran less than I originally planned.
I remember once I was so hungry, but I felt like I couldn’t eat anything – or at least wouldn’t allow myself to eat anything. I wasted probably 30 minutes in the kitchen just looking at food options and weighing the pros and cons of each item. My mom, who was in a hurry and waiting for me to be ready, finally angrily put some peanut butter on a slice of whole wheat bread for me. I was almost in tears at the idea of eating it, so I scraped most of the peanut butter off and reluctantly consumed the morsel of food. It was so satisfying, but with every bite I felt like I was “giving in” or “being weak.”
As one can imagine, this lifestyle took a toll emotionally, as well. I became a blurred reflection of the person I used to be.
As a young girl I was confident, I loved who I was, I didn’t question myself or others’ thoughts (no matter how weird I could sometimes be,) I was funny, I enjoyed relaxing and most of all, I didn’t plan every single part of my day out to revolve around food and exercise.
As an insecure teenage I spent night after night lying awake in bed planning out all my meals for the next day – weighing the pros and cons of each food. For example, I remember I spent the night at a friend’s house, and I was so worried about eating a different, “unhealthy,” breakfast at her house, that I packed my own health cereal and skim milk – this was in 8th grade.
My mom and I began to have an extremely rocky relationship. I was only happy if I had had a “perfect” week of eating and exercising. I was always forcing myself to do things that my depleted, starving body was fighting against – like running that extra mile, resisting the grumbles in my stomach, avoiding carbs. This caused me to lash out at those around me, only because I was simply mad at my own situation.
One night, my mom made these beautiful homemade potato crisps. They were fairly healthy – baked in olive oil and lightly salted. I wanted to eat them so badly, but I wouldn’t allow myself to consume the delectable treats my mouth was practically salivating for. If I recall correctly, my mom commented for me to try them – she was rightfully proud of them – and a boiling pot of raging emotions inside of me exploded. I basically had a breakdown and claimed it was her fault for cooking carbs – how dare she, right?!
Wrong.
I wish I could take moments like those back. I caused so much stress on my family – mostly my mom. The only way I can understand it now is I was truly an unhappy person who felt stuck between a hurricane and a tornado – there was no plausible or casual route out.
My life felt like a living hell.
Even so, there were happy moments. After workouts I was always in a good mood. Although, even when I put on a brave face and smiled to the outside world, internally my daily life decisions felt extreme, and ultimately unberable. I know this may seem dramatic, but this is just how hard it was to decide whether or not to go out with friends, where I could potentially risk missing my workout or being around tempting food.
As high school continued my mom guided me to seek help. I visited a dietician and ever so slowly, I began to return to a more “normal” weight.
Once I got my period again it was assumed everything was fine and dandy and I was on the road to recovery. I truly wanted to believe this too. However, I always was about five pounds underweight, and mentally, my journey to recovery hadn’t even begun.
During my senior year of high school I dated my first boyfriend. He truly loved me unconditionally, and although I too was smitten, I was never on the same level as him. It wasn’t anything to do with him, rather that I didn’t love myself, and I was too consumed with my own eating and exercising habits.
Even though I appeared healthy on the exterior and very fit, I was still an emotional wreck on the inside. When I didn’t workout, I was in a nasty mood – if I ate dessert, the week was ruined. My mood was still determined by my eating and running.
I sabotaged some of the most wonderful moments with my high school sweetheart because of my self-destructive mentality.
I remember going skiing with him, and he offered to buy us cookies and hot cocoa during lunch. To me, the idea of stopping skiing – a form of exercise – to consume high calorie, sugary foods that I consistently use all of my willpower to resist was absolutely the highest form of insult. Of course to him, he was just trying to make a generous gesture, and he didn’t understand the source of my anger and irrational mood. I couldn’t even formulate these emotions into words because I honestly didn’t understand them myself.
I continued to live my life like this for a couple of years. Halfway through my freshman year of college, I was single, lonely, homesick, depressed and stress eating chocolate. One day I decided to face the scale and discovered I had gained the ‘Freshman 15.’ At the time, I was speechless – I hated myself for gaining weight and felt like a piece of trash that deserved to be thrown away.
In retrospect, the weight I reached after gaining the ‘Freshman 15’ was probably one of my healthiest weights.
I spent the next two months exercising like a maniac, eating iceberg lettuce with vinegar and planning everyday down to the last second. Before I knew it I lost the 15 pounds and was at what I considered then, “my best shape.” I was fit, toned and skinny – it felt like the complete package.
Realistically, I spent all of my free time thinking about ways to avoid food, how to fit in more exercise and how to drop more weight. I was on a one-way train headed for another full-blown eating disorder.
During those few months of weight loss, I was struggling with heartbreak. Remember my high school sweetheart? Well it turns out he became a typical freshman bachelor and completely shattered my heart halfway through the year.
I avoided the sadness by devoting myself to losing weight – at one of my unhappiest moments I simultaneously ran and cried for two hours.
When I came home for summer vacation I had high expectations everything between my ex-boyfriend and I would fall into place, and we would have a beautiful summer romance. Unfortunately this did not pan out, and yet again, my heart crumbled to a million pieces.
The second time around, I still wanted to avoid my emotions, but instead of exercising I turned to food – or in other words, my worst nightmare since 8th grade. My body was craving nourishment from my rapid weight loss, and the idea of bingeing on Ben and Jerry’s was entirely too tempting.
I quickly gained the weight all back. This was so devastating. I never had been a yo-yo dieter – I always prided myself on maintaining a weight, even if it wasn’t at a healthy number.
All of a sudden I couldn’t hide behind my exercise and restrictive mentality. I didn’t know how to handle my roller coaster of emotions. I felt like I couldn’t leave the house or even get off the sofa. All I wanted to do was eat when something reminded me of my ex. I couldn’t find joy in anything.
The outgoing, active girl had quickly vanished from plain sight and became the eating disordered girl’s biggest nightmare – an inactive, binge eater.
Halfway through the summer came a dramatic plot twist. My ex-boyfriend and I got back together and had an adventurous remainder of the summer.
“Normal” people would have sprung right back to a healthier version of themselves; however, I continued to feel depressed. I still had the urge to binge and hole up in the house. I still had that deflating feeling of being unworthy or a lowlife.
I returned to college for my sophomore year with a month of counseling under my belt. I thought being back in school would whip me into shape.
On the contrary, I continued to periodically binge and feel abnormally insecure. I hid behind my low self-esteem by staying home and eating or drinking too much alcohol at parties. My inclination to explore experiences outside of my daily routine diminished – I honestly didn’t feel capable.
There were moments I thought I had a grasp on everything; but after a few high spirited days, my world would come tumbling down through a guilt ridden day of Netflix and binges.
To an outsider, they might say, “What’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you just get up and leave the house or call a friend?”
Excuse me while I reference an overused cliché – it’s easier said than done.
I physically felt glued to the couch or my bed. In bad moments my self-esteem was so low – I didn’t feel capable of doing anything. Even the idea of taking a five-minute walk or taking a short shower felt like it was I against the world – so huge and unmanageable that it wasn’t worth it.
Over winter break things escalated rapidly. My emotions went from sad to angry to overly happy on a daily basis. Yet again I couldn’t control my food cravings, and I couldn’t leave the house sometimes.
Finally I visited a doctor with my mom, and I decided to try an anti-depressant. I always had shied away from the idea of medication, but the doctor explained to me it can be used as a tool to reach self-content.
While examining me, the doctor asked me when the last time was I lived a day without planning, regretting, questioning and feeling guilty. I couldn’t even answer the question – it had been too many years. This really highlighted how difficult living each day had been for me.
After the first couple of weeks, I remember thinking to myself, “Is this what I’ve been missing out on? Is this how everybody lives?”
In the spring I switched anti-depressants and found the perfect fit for myself.
There are still up and down days and moments where I feel the depression creeping in. When this happens it truly scares me. It has been so easy and carefree to go through my days without feeling like my workout or next meal is a life or death choice.
I feel I’m much easier to relate to now and more outgoing. So one can understand that when the depression symptoms seep into my emotions, I feel like screaming out to someone for help before I’m completely sucked back to my old habits and feelings.
Right now it feels like I’m bobbing above a sea of water, and I can still easily be pulled under the blue waves, where I will be muffled forever.
Maintaining the metaphor, I hope to one-day reach a point where I feel like I’ve settled on the beach, and I’m at no risk of being in the sea of depression. I hope one day to truly love, care for and appreciate myself. I’m taking it one day at a time now and truly learning to live all over again.