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127, the scale read, I grab my stomach, pulling at my skin. How could I let myself go so much? I used to go to family reunions and everyone would gush about how skinny I was, and how I needed to eat more. Back then I would get annoyed when someone would force feed me a burger, but now it's something I long for. How could I have gained so much weight in such a short amount of time, I ask myself hands over face, sobbing. I grab my waist, fantasizing about taking a large knife and cutting all the fat off in order to look normal. As I stare into the mirror in disgust, an overwhelming need to purge rushes over my body. I sprint to the bathroom covering my mouth, letting it all go when I reach the toilet bowl- unknowing this was the start of a cycle. Throwing up after eating became an everyday occurrence for me, something I knew better than anyone. It became a habit, it was my second nature. It had become routine; eat breakfast, go to the bathroom. eat lunch, go to the bathroom. eat dinner, go to the bathroom. It had become an everyday occurrence, but really it was more of an addiction. An addiction to lose any weight I could. I would step on that freezing cold scale every night, watching the numbers go down- it was never enough. Overtime, I was becoming normal, skinny, slowly but I was starting to notice the change. Losing weight was so important to me I didn’t even notice what it was doing to my life. I was becoming more easily irritable, because I was so hungry. I would come home from school and take it out on my parents, constantly talking back and giving them an unnecessary amount of attitude. Causing a split in my relationship with my parents- my mom who was my best friend would now not want to speak to me. I would be constantly grounded for my disrespect which only made the anger inside me grow stronger. As I would stand in the shower, and run my fingers through my hair, handfuls of my hair would depart from my scalp- what is wrong with me? Bulimia only made my self-esteem worse. I began growing more unsatisfied with the weight the scale projected, “are you serious- I only lost 3 pounds this week,” I would scream with disappointment. The cycle began to grow more grueling, now not only would I throw up what I consumed- I would also now not eat. Quickly, I started seeing the results of starving myself, “115,” I read on the scale. A smile covering my face, staring into the mirror at my flat stomach. I started to loosen up, but the habit of puking had never left me. If I ever over ate my body and my stomach would grow angry with me, causing me to rush into the restroom and beg for forgiveness in the form of purging. While I may have grown less obsessed, Bulimia has followed me. One day my friend made a comment when we were in front of a mirror, “I wish I had a flat stomach like yours,” and guilt flashed over me. How could I tell her I cheated- I hadn’t gotten that on my own. I felt so guilty. Guilty for lying, lying to everyone. I had not gotten my stomach on my own, I refused food for months for it. While I felt proud, to finally be noticeably more skinny, the guilt overpowered any pride I had ever felt. All of a sudden the obsession rose over me again- what if she’s just saying that because I'm still fat- what if she's just saying that to make me feel better about my disgustingly meaty body? That same disgust from that day the scale read 127 rushed through my stomach, angrier than normal. I rushed to the bathroom once more, puking out the skittles I had just eaten 10 minutes prior. A familiar voice returned, Why did I eat those? Who do I think I am- I don’t deserve them. As I spent the next week refusing any foods, or desserts I would have previously given anything for I remember something from my childhood. My family and our friends were out for a picnic. A couple of my friends and I were playing tips with a volleyball, and I had jammed my finger. Overdramatically crying I was quickly ushered to the little shelter where the parents were sitting, and chatting. Saki, my friend's mom had asked me if some chocolate cake would make me feel better- and obviously to 11 year old me it did. Back then I would trade my mom for a large piece of chocolate cake, now I would give anything to not have to eat it. For a while, when we would hangout with family friends they would offer me desserts, knowing my old love for chocolate and anything sweet but the looks I now receive when I decline stating, “I’m not hungry,” I wish I would never have to see another look of surprise ever again. They talk to my parents and, to me, about how I don’t need to starve myself. Is it really that noticeable- that I stopped eating as much? Then lecturing about how I get enough exercise to eat all the cake I want, and how calories don’t even matter- but how do I tell them I care about calories more than anything in the world. How watching the scale go up makes me want to puke, and never eat again. How food brings me to utter nauseation, and guilt. I feel guilty for eating. Staring into that obese face in the mirror is something that haunts me, I will never be enough for myself, no matter what the scales say. So if it reads 105, or 127 it’s all the same- meaningless and never enough.
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I get you. I never purged because the taste of vomit always disgusted me but I would eat 0 to 1 meal a day. Sometimes only having liquids for dinner. I was 97 pounds, in 6th grade , I dropped down to 70. My organs started to fail but my parents got me to the doctors in time. I've now recovered and even if I'm 97 pounds at 14 in the 9th grade, the doctor showed me that I was still under-weight and it made me feel a little bit better. I hope you can find your magic number too <3
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