Aight. I need to get real about some shit. Posting this publicly scares the crap out of me, but I’m gonna try, because ya know… Accountability? I guess? Also I am the internet generation. We can’t keep things to ourselves.
I’m, like. The size I was when I was 19, right now. And it’s weird. It feels really weird.
It’s probably not that noticeable to other people, but. I’m back to drowning in size 2 pants and feeling this uncomfortable excitement at the idea of maybe being a zero again. A ZERO. A size that shouldn’t even fucking EXIST, you guys. I might be a zero, lol! NEAT!
There’s still that elusive double zero, but hey, even I have to know my limits.
I’ve never struggled with weight, but I’ve struggled with people telling me I struggle with weight. I guess? I’m not really sure how else to put that.
I’ve never gone outside the healthy weight range. But. I guess I was a chubby kid. I don’t know. There are no pictures of me from that time. I don’t really know what I looked like.
When I was 13, I went to the doctor for the first time in a couple years, because I had chicken pox.
When the doctor weighed me and left the room, my mom said, “So, 118 pounds.”
And the silence hung.
“When I was your age, people said I disappeared when I turned sideways, lol!”
My mom didn’t actually say “lol” in conversation, guys, IT’S CALLED CREATIVE LICENSE OKAY.
Anyway, it didn’t take much to damage my stupid shitty teenage brain, and a couple off-hand comments like that were enough to send me into a self-loathing spiral which easily could have given me an eating disorder if I had, like, any will power whatsoever. But. I didn’t. Hunger is a massive douche, and for me, it’s nearly impossible to fight. (Which is why I’m OH SO LUCKY that sometimes I don’t feel hunger for days?!?! Ha ha!)
I’d stopped growing any taller by age 13. Shit dawg, I basically have the exact same body now, BOOBS AND ALL, so that number—118—still feels like a looming threat. It’s been sitting in my subconscious for 13 years, mocking me.
I don’t own a scale for this reason, but whenever someone else has one in their bathroom, I can’t not use it, and I can’t not base my self-worth on how close to, or far from, that number I am.
When my mom left, my dad told me it’s fine, because I would lose the weight now that she’s gone. It was true. Food and love were synonymous to my mom, and without the constant push to eat more, I lost the weight almost immediately. Probably in part due to loads of stress lolz but WHATEVER.
I spent the next few years being thin and depressed. I lived alone in South Carolina for a year when I was 17. I spent months eating Oreos and playing on the internet, and somehow managed to come out the other end without busting through that wall of 118.
When I got back, my mom said she was so relieved I didn’t get fat. “You’re so skinny! I was SO worried you were just gonna sit around and eat all day and get FAT.” She said this, like, a half dozen times in the 2 hours we spent together. It felt great!
Also hilar, because what I actually did was fly to Canada and do loads of drugs with strangers from the internet. NO NEED TO WORRY ABOUT THAT THO LOL, drugs keep you thin, so. SO.
GOD, why am I even writing about this.
I guess the overarching point is to acknowledge that my issues are playing a part in my inability to eat?
Not at first. Like, I don’t make myself not hungry. But I could defo do a better job of stopping it.
This time, I probably could have fixed it on day 1. I could’ve just downed some protein shakes and cut back on the coffee, and BOOM. Solved. But I have to acknowledge that, once the cycle starts, there’s a subconscious avoidance of things that might stop it.
On the one hand, I can feel my brain and body shutting down, and it scares the shit out of me. But on the other, there’s a surreal sense of pride and accomplishment when I have to start punching new holes in belts I’ve owned for years.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve never gone over that 118 mark again. It doesn’t matter that if I did, I WOULD STILL BE PERFECTLY FUCKING HEALTHY. What matters is that I’m winning some imaginary battle with Chubby 13-Year-Old Jess Who Probably Looked Fine But Who Cares She Was Chubby Lol.
Why can’t I let it go? Why can’t I be okay with whatever my body naturally does? Why am I weirdly HAPPY that I got a cold so soon after my stupid no-food week, and now my stomach’s not working very well again? Why am I both terrified, yet strangely giddy, at the thought of busting through the 2-digit weight barrier again?
I guess logic doesn’t magically rewrite a childhood full of people telling me what I’m supposed to look like?
This shit isn’t revolutionary or unique. As far as I can tell, everyone’s mom was an asshole about weight and everyone has these looming fears of being “fat.” But I guess I just need to acknowledge it, because it helps to… not pretend I’m an emotionally healthy person who just HAPPENS to have a broken appetite?
And for the record, I haven’t actually been starving myself this weekend. I’ve been eating a lot (i.e. a regular amount) and feeling really bad about it, instead. Ha ha. Cool.
Honestly, if I hadn’t lost this weight all at once, I doubt I ever would have even recognized I’d gained it. It’s not a constant obsession. I’m just… hoping it goes away again soon?
The obsession. Not the weight. I ALREADY NAILED THAT PART LOL.
Okay, it’s time for me to actually upload that podcast lol. Love you guys. Sorry I’m late to everything. Maybe I can find a way to blame my mom for that, too.