I was thirteen the first time I truly felt fat, a moment in time forever etched into my brain.
She was taller and her hips not as wide, but I didn’t see her flaws only my own. I ate less that night, the first time I felt that deep shame and disgust. As a preemie baby and tiny child with an abnormally small appetite, I felt I always had to be the smallest eater. To fit that mould; I followed what I thought was right.
By fifteen I’d figured out that somehow my pre puberty clothes still fit, and a connection was made. Eat less and you will succeed, a thought propelled by the anxiety increase that was being a perfectionist in a world where I was never good enough. By eighteen, my favourite sport was the thing that terrified me the most, traumatised me the most. The need for power and control in a world gone topsy turvy finally hit. It was always there, it never had a name, just a voice I was never enough for, even before the worst.
Was I destined for this never ending pain? By twenty I turned around and said enough, the meds had helped but the behaviours continued and morphed into a new set of rules. I am twenty three this year, I am supported and facing my past, admitting to the start, the behaviours and processing the trauma.
My eating disorder existed long before trauma and was morphed into a different type after. I hate the body I’m in, but it’s carried me through what I never thought I’d survive, so I’m grateful for that and for the places where no matter my size, I will always be heard.
Eating disorders destroy and the ones you don’t see coming are the ones that will kill you.