The word "chubby" was engraved in my mind by the time I was ten years old. "Oh your cheeks are so chubby, I could just pinch them." "Your tummy is a little chubby there." "You were such a chubby baby, it was cute." "No wonder you won Little Miss Chubby Cheeks." Chubby. Chubby. Chubby. It soon became a part of me before I even knew what it meant. I was always on the chubby side growing up, I mean my parents were both all-star athletes and I had inherited my dad's big calves, wide shoulders, thighs, and my mom's hips. Nothing about me growing up was small, but yet that was all I ever wanted to be.
Ever since I could remember I was worried about my weight. From my first "diet" in third grade: south beach diet meals instead of the school lunch my friends ate. All of the times I went to play outside, only instead of actually playing I'd do nothing but ride my bike a million times around the neighborhood until my mom whistled for me to come inside because the street lights were on. Every night I sat at my window and prayed that the activities I did that day and the lack of junk food I had would make a difference. I prayed that when I woke up the next morning, my calves wouldn't jiggle, my thighs wouldn't touch, and that my stomach wouldn't roll whenever I sat down. I did this every night from when I was eight years old, up until I was thirteen. But nothing ever got past the wishful thinking and I went about my days the same...until I got to Junior High.
It started with the comments when I was in seventh grade. A boy in one of my classes had become my bully, taunting me for my average size, and I couldn't grasp why it was happening. Sure, I still had some of my 'baby fat' I was only 12 years old. My parents always told me that bullies would leave you alone if you never gave them the satisfaction...so I tried my best to ignore it. Day after day, I would always leave school feeling bad about myself. So one day, I decided that I would make a change, I would work out every day after school, and I did. I would ride my bike up to publix and buy myself dinner, then come home and do my homework- eat my publix sub and put on my rollerblades and skate around the lake by my dads house for hours on end. This was my routine everyday and when nothing changed, I felt defeated. So I stepped up on how long I would rollerblade for. One hour turned into six hours. Ten laps turned into 40. I would rollerblade until I felt like my feet were covered in blisters. I loved the pain, I lived for it. But yet nothing changed again...and I felt more defeated than anytime before.
The summer before my sophomore year of high school, was where it all began to escalate. Long story short, I was unhealthy. My parents made it known that my weight was not at a healthy weight, and my physician made it known too. That entire summer, I was playing softball and thought that to be the right amount of exercise I could use to achieve my ideal weight loss...but it wasn't. And before I knew it, I was rollerblading constantly like I had back in the seventh grade. And while I did see the small changes, they weren't enough...at least not to me. One night as I was eating dinner (a publix sub nonetheless), I remember looking down at my sandwich and suddenly feeling sick to my stomach. I put it down and didn't eat the rest of the night. And while I laid in bed that night, staring at my ceiling...it was then I realized what I needed to do in order to lose the weight I wanted to.
My schedule became: wake up, drink an (organic and surprisingly healthy) energy drink, roller blade for three hours, drink another energy drink, go to softball practice, lie about eating a big lunch before practice, drink another energy drink, roller blade for five hours, take a shower and go to bed.
Suddenly I was having to buy a whole new wardrobe because my jeans were too loose and my t-shirts were too baggy...and I loved it. I loved the feeling of my empty stomach growling for something to fill it. I loved the feeling of the cold water rushing down my throat and landing in my empty stomach. I no longer had any trouble with lying about whether or not I had eaten that day. I could no longer look at food and have the desire to eat it. It was a thrill. And that routine became my life, it consumed every part of my being.
One day, after my morning workout, I had gone upstairs to take a shower. While I was in the shower, my vision began to tunnel and my world began to spin. I figured I was dehydrated and overheated, that it was no biggie, so I turned on the cold water to cool myself off. But when the cold water didn't help and my tunnel vision proceeded to get worst, I felt scared. I stumbled out of my shower and managed to find my way into my bedroom, my vision not getting any better and the dizzy feeling not subsiding. I walked to my bedroom door and everything went black. The next thing I knew, I woke up on my bedroom floor two minutes later.
This event terrified me, yes, but it did not stop me from going through with my routine. It was beautiful to me, the way the pounds dropped. I was receiving compliments from friends, my parents friends, telling me how great I looked. And I loved every moment of it. I managed to ignore the dizzy spells, the tunnel vision, the constant nausea, the headaches...all by telling myself that it was worth the compliments and the feeling of love and happiness I had whenever I looked at myself in the mirror. That the war I was putting my body through was okay, because I was winning and I looked great, I felt great.
I constantly bounced back and forth between my strict routine lifestyle, and my relaxed normal one for about a year. Which of course, meant my weight fluctuated to a point to where I'd be right back at where I started in the beginning- even more unhappy than before. But I still kept it up, because I thrived off of the feelings I had when I lived on this strict routine- I craved it.
Until I could no longer eat a full meal. I was full after taking at most three bites of a burger I'd ordered, not touching my fries. I would sit and stare at my plate, and my mom would question why I wasn't eating and question if I was starving myself. I would tell her it wasn't because I didn't want to eat my food, but because I physically couldn't- that I was full after a measly three bites. Suddenly she questioned why I went to the bathroom every time after I ate- "You're not making yourself throw up are you?" "No, I just had to use the bathroom." "Why did you go right after you put your plate in the sink?" "Because I didn't want to go in the middle of dinner."
Nothing is more upsetting than seeing the look in your mom's eyes when she asks you the question you've dreaded the most: "Are you starving yourself?" How was I supposed to answer? Yes? No? Kind of? The moment I saw the hint of failure in her eyes when she asked me the question...I decided that this lifestyle wasn't what I wanted to live anymore. The slender stomach, non-jiggly calves and slim thighs were not worth the dizzy spells, the headaches and the nausea.
Luckily for me, and with help from my parents, I was able to switch my life around before I could bring myself further down a path that could have been full of dark and horrible times. I was slowly able to build up my energy again, I didn't obsessively exercise...and most importantly, I learned not to be afraid of the food on my plate.
Five years later and I can order at a restaurant without thinking about how disgusting the meal is going to make me feel once I eat it. I can push myself when running or exercising, without becoming crazy about it. And though it has been five years since the moment I decided to turn my life around, the battle is still being fought, and I don't think it will ever truly end. But at 21 years old, I now know just how strong I am and that I can survive through things I never thought I could have.
