Ana and My Food Journey + Feather 3

I think my relationship with food was normal up until the winter when I was eleven. That's when, to be blunt, I got fat. Not hugely obese, but I grew a good-size belly. That wasn't really the problem, though. The problem was two-fold: I knew I was fat, and I needed to be perfect. "Perfect" didn't come chubby. I remember very clearly the moment of revelation when I first realized I was fat. A cold, wintry day, just before I was about to climb into bed. Standing in front of my small mirror in only my underwear, and seeing my stomach protrude over the elastic waistband. I was disgusted with myself. I vowed I would change.

The change came slowly. Cutting out most sweets. Eating less snacks. Nothing unhealthy or excessive. And the weight started to come off. It helped that I was growing, too. My constant mirror checks on my body were yielding encouraging results. By the time summer came my belly was nearly gone. But that wasn't enough. 

I was on the swim team, my second year I think, and that pulled even more weight off. It was exhilarating watching my body transform from chubby, flabby, disgusting to skinny and firm. 

I don't know exactly when my weight loss changed from healthy to unhealthy, or when the voice in my head stopped being motivation and started being damaging. I don't know exactly when I became anorexic. But I have no doubt that I did. First it started with skipping breakfast. I didn't like eating breakfast anyways, so it wasn't hard. I kind of liked the dizzy feeling I got, swimming in the morning on an empty stomach. Then came cutting out supper. A granola bar would suffice. It got to the point where I was eating a small portion of lunch and a granola bar for an entire day. I got to around 90 pounds and 5'6". My hipbones stuck out and my stomach was a hollow and I could see my ribs and all the bones in my chest. I looked sick. But somehow, I didn't see it. All I could see were my flaws. "My lovehandles are still there," I would think, pinching the small bit of flesh left on my frame. "My waist needs to be smaller. My side view is too thick. My thighs have a little bulge on them." I remember those thoughts well, probably too well.

And then, I stopped. I don't know why. Maybe because in the back of my head I realized how sick this was, more likely because my friends were telling me to stop and eat more. But I gained back enough weight to look healthy again. I was still skinny—my pot belly never came back—but not anorexic any more. 

But that's the thing, isn't it? You're never really not anorexic anymore. I mean, you can be a healthy weight and eat normally. But the voice in your head never goes away. I can't indulge and eat two cupcakes without the voice whispering: "You're a fat pig. Look at your stomach. You should be ashamed. Get yourself under control. Stop eating. right. now." 

True, I haven't listened to these voices seriously in a long time. But the effect they have on your self image is horrible. I can never be happy with my body. I wore a bikini once but I don't have the confidence to pull it off. I feel fat now, at 135 pounds, and the urge to lose weight is nagging at me again. 

Many people have told me how skinny I am, how lucky I am to have a body like I do, and when I tell my friends I feel fat, they laugh at me or glare at me and say: "Shut up, okay? You're so skinny you can't complain," 

But that's the thing, isn't it? It doesn't matter how fat or how skinny you are. Your mind can distort any image in the mirror. I have had good periods where I feel happy with myself. And I have had bad periods where I've felt fat and disgusting. The last good period was during lent, when I went from 132 lbs to 124 and I was elated. I marvelled at the numbers on the scale. I was happy with my lean appearance. And now here I am, back to 135, my highest ever weight, and I feel deeply unhappy. 

Part of it is my terrible eating habits. I've been eating way too much junk food and sweets because if I'm going to put some sugar in my body, I've already blown it and I might as well eat until I'm sick and hate myself. But part of it is just me. Sometimes I think that I'll never like my body, no-matter how many people tell me that it's stupid and self-centered. In some ways those comments hurt the most, because they devalue your struggle in itself. 

Given all this, I think that it's important how I approach my eating habits. Cutting out all sugar for Lent last year worked pretty well, but I don't want to do something that extreme right now. And I've thought of something that feels just right. I guess this is more of a temporary feather, but here it is:

Feather #3: For one week, whatever you eat must be eaten slowly

Deceptively simple, isn't it? I can eat whatever I want, however much I want—just slowly. No eating a handful of m&ms in one bite, and no denying myself foods that I like. {Rhymetime, baby}. Just taking my time to enjoy the food I have. I think it will help control my crazy portions but not send my body-bashing into overdrive. I hope. I'll let you guys know. I'm off to write, in the meantime. 

Angel