If only you understood the depth of my desire to be thin. The struggle to mask my obsession with achieving a perfect figure was overwhelming. The harsh dialogues in my mind were relentless, and even now, they occasionally resurface. I often found myself gazing at airbrushed images in magazines, constantly questioning how I could obtain that unattainable perfection. Those were the bodies I yearned for, even though deep down, I knew they were fictitious.
In 2006, at the age of twenty-seven, I was living on the opposite coast and had reached my lowest weight. I honestly felt the happiest I had ever been regarding my appearance. If only he knew. I had only met my boyfriend — who is now my husband — seven months earlier, and by then, I was already at a dangerously low weight. There was no way he could fathom the facade I was maintaining, and I wasn’t about to reveal the truth.
The reality was that I wasn’t naturally this thin. I had a typical body, with curves and hips in all the right places. But I refused to accept it. I wasn’t loving it, nor was I viewing my body with pride and confidence. To me, my body was just a vessel — flawed and in need of perfection. It wasn’t slender like a straight line; it was lumpy like rolling hills. I believed it had to be smaller, skinnier, prettier, and better.
Being thin had been my goal for as long as I could remember. It consumed my thoughts: “If only my ribcage didn’t protrude so much,” “If only my hips were narrower,” “If only my backside was less prominent.” As I entered puberty, I wished I could revert my widening hips to those pre-adolescent days. I thought that if I wished hard enough while forcing my hips inward, someone in the ether would hear my plea and grant me a miraculous solution.
My thoughts were chaotic. My weight defined me; it dictated my identity. My self-worth hinged on how small I could become. And small I became. Confidence surged within me like a plague every time I spotted a rib sticking out. I felt a foolish pride whenever I measured my arms, reveling in my transformation. But inside, my soul was crying out in pain. It was starving and exhausted from the battle.
Eventually, I started to regain weight, and then some. It felt like a punishment for my past decisions to gain more than I lost. I thought I didn’t deserve the body I had longed for. Slowly, with the unwavering support of my friends and family, the body I had before my struggle began to return. But this isn’t the end of my journey.
Those thoughts still linger in my mind; I suspect they always will. While I experience moments of relief, they inevitably resurface, like a relentless shadow. Some days are better than others. However, the key difference is that I now possess perspective and awareness. I am stronger than my body dysmorphia. I am stronger than my disordered eating. I am more resilient than I ever recognized, and I embrace my beauty as it is.
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In summary, my journey has been a long and challenging one, but I have emerged stronger and more aware of myself. I’ve learned to embrace my body and its natural shape, moving beyond the confines of disordered eating.