Song I'm listening to while I write this: Meet Me in the Woods by Lord Huron
I've decided to revamp this blog. It's been ages since I've actually posted anything of meaning here, and I want to fix that. I've decided to turn this into a bit of a diary of sorts where I post about myself, my thoughts, and various other things. So, a blog.
I've been trying to be kinder to myself lately. I, like a lot of other people on this hellsite, was lured into those ana blogs when I was a naive teenager. For years and years, their words circled around in my head and I've finally started to notice how I give their opinions too much merit. I cut calories and I starved myself, and I looked at all these tiny women, trying to make myself look like them, but why? I didn't know these people, nobody in my life was telling me I needed to look like them, and there I was, trying to force my body to dip under that 100 pound mark. I even made a blog like them as well, though I quickly abandoned it.
I know why I did it, even though I hate admitting it. The part of my family that made sure their opinions were well known was the skinny part of my family. Now know this, when I say skinny, I mean average. My mom wasn't anorexic or bulimic, even though she would go on those fad diets at times. My older sister was average weight. My younger sister was average weight. I was also average weight, but a little curvier and that was my downfall. My mom called me fat and lazy, and whenever I was caught sneaking snacks when I was around 13, I was told I needed to start counting my calories. Was I guided into eating better? Did my family try to help me be more active? No. I was out on my own, and the Internet had a solution for me. I lost 20 pounds in a month because I wouldn't eat. I starved myself for days at a time because my family didn't notice. It was one of the biggest cries for help I could do at the time, and what resulted from it? Did my mother notice the weight loss and congratulate me? Did she ask me if I was ok? No. She never even noticed that I wouldn't come down for dinner, and that I didn't eat breakfast. Even my dad, someone who was trained in athletic science and nutrition failed to notice that I was refusing to eat. The lack of attention killed me, and started turning to more and more dramatic methods of weight loss. I would binge and purge regularly, I had a not so secret stash of laxatives. I hated my body, and that was my life for the next 6 years until I met a guy in college.
J was the first person I ever felt comfortable enough to admit to that I had an eating disorder. He helped me understand that I was more than my body. I didn't need to have my bones showing to be a valuable and sought after person. Despite being in college on an almost full ride, it took some silly guy for me to realize I was more than what I looked like.
It's been a couple years since then, and I've started letting myself wear the things I was never allowed to wear when I was a teen. I show off my tummy and my shoulders. I have bad days, but it's getting better. I'm feeling better, and that's all I can ask for.
