Growing up, I was always a skinny twig.
I played travel soccer three seasons per year then would run two miles a day, do 200 sit-ups and 100 pushups in the summer simply because I loved it. I would come home from a game or tournament and shove thousands of calories down my throat without consequence. All of this was great until I graduated high school.
It didn't happen all at once, but I looked in the mirror and realized that I gained 25 pounds. I was disgusted. My toned stomach had turned into a fat one that I felt the need to suck in all the time. My thigh gap disappeared and was replaced with thighs that now chaffed when I walked around in shorts for too long. Even my face had seemed to hold some of the nasty weight I had gained. I was crushed when my size two jeans slowly became a size eight. Surely, I thought, this has to be a mistake.
All of this came to a boiling point when I went into the doctor for a medication refill and asked his opinion on my weight. And it all got worse when he said my BMI was on the high side of normal, possibly the low side of overweight. I didn't hear the rest of the conversation, at least not in the way I probably should've.
All I heard was "overweight."
My once calm life was now a stressful one that contained hours of schoolwork, studying and two part-time jobs. I found myself throwing a frozen pizza in the oven and eating the entire thing while I studied. I would promise myself the gym was in my plan, then come home far too tired to even take a shower, let alone lift and work in some cardio. I set my calorie-tracking app goals to weights lower and lower, limiting the things I would eat.
My life had become more about counting calories than enjoying my food. My favorite Starbucks drinks weren't options anymore when I found out they were loaded with 400-500 calories. I found myself chugging water and chewing gum in an attempt to curb my growling stomach. I would plan my meals before going out to eat with my friends, just to make sure I didn't go over my calorie limit for the day. I stood up at work one day only to be greeted by a dizzy spell from eating less than 500 calories for breakfast and lunch combined. The thought of doing this forever not only gave me anxiety, but it also made me want to cry.
It still does.
Having an obsession over being thin has truly ruined my confidence, my feeling of worth, and my relationship with food.
Instead of seeing it as nourishment, I see it as the enemy. I know that isn't right and I don't want it to be. I'm tired of pouring over beanpole Instagram models at 11 p.m., wishing I could magically wake up and look that way.
Nobody likes the fat girl, right?
It wasn't until I mentioned my calorie-restricted diet to more than a few people that I started to feel a little better. The looks people gave me when I mentioned losing weight were not the looks I gave myself in the mirror. They were looks of genuine surprise.
I may have a higher BMI. My size two jeans might not even be able to make it over my thighs anymore. But my weight doesn't define who I am. It doesn't show that I work 30 hours every week to pay my way through school. It doesn't show the two 100% grades I got on an article assignments in one of the hardest undergrad journalism classes in my program. It doesn't show that I have family and friends who love and care about me.
My obsession with weight may have ruined the way I look at food, exercise and even myself. But I don't want to let it be the only part of me that people see because I have chosen to be so OCD over it. I'm more than a 5'4", 152-pound college junior.
Hopefully, the world can see that too.
