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Today, a friend posted something on social media. Something strong and brave that immediately captured my attention. She told her "story," which as inspired me to tell mine. While I may not be ready to post it on social media, I think at least writing it down is a good first step.
Now, this is something I have never told anyone. Not my family, not my friends, I would not even talk about it the one time I was forced to see a therapist. It all started around this time one year ago. I went away for the summer with a crazy girl. She was crazy about how she looked and what she ate. She made it a point that she never ate lunch, and I was struck by her side all summer, miserable. Not to mention, I was extremely insecure about my figure. It wasn't long, though, before I too fell into the trap. As a goal-oriented individual, I set a goal to lose 5lbs this summer. Good and reasonable, I thought. I remember being ecstatic as I weighed myself in the hotel gym that same week and discovered that I had already made some progress.
I came home that weekend and everyone was telling me how good I looked. So, when I went away again I wanted to keep it up. It became an obsession, an addiction to see how few calories I could eat in a day. It wasn't long before I lost 5, 10, 20lbs at my worst.
My body image is something that I struggle with, something that consumes my daily thoughts. If I am not upset about being too fat, then I am unhappy because I look too skinny. Nothing is ever good enough.
Even though I knew I had a problem, I refused to open up or talk about it with anyone. I made up excuses for my weight loss, unable to expose my vulnerabilities. This constant feeling of insecurity led to perpetual feelings of sadness. I spent several nights silently balling my eyes out as I grabbed onto my love handles. My brain was clouded by negative thoughts and I could never be good enough.
I am writing this entry in the past tense as if this is all over and done. While I wish this were true, unfortunately, I cannot say it is. I sit here writing feeling ugly and dense, and yet I still do not know what to do, who to talk to, or how to get these feelings to stop. I often scroll back in my camera roll to photos of me when I was barely over 100lbs and wish I still looked like that girl.
I wish that life was easy. That I did not grow up in a world where girls starve themselves all day to look good in photos before a night out. Where the amount of likes you get on Instagram is directly related to how blonde your hair is, and inversely proportional to the diameter of your waist. And where beauty is defined by the long legs and small hips.
So yeah, this world, this generation sucks. I know this because I am not the only one who feels this way. There are people, like my friend, who have opened up and shared their story, and have welcomed and accepted help. And then there are people like me, too ashamed or frightened to open up. I am hoping to get to that point someday, to read this out loud and laugh at myself for ever being scared or embarrassed. I promise I'll get there eventually. But for now, I just have to learn to accept me.
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