Honestly Not Ok.

It began with a doctor.  Sad but true.

My mom took me in at the tender age of 6 to my family doctor for an annual check up.  At this appointment, the doctor turned to me, a child , and said "You're a fat little kid aren't you?"  My mother promptly cursed and swore and found me a new doctor.

But the damage was done.  I began examining myself and feeling rather self-conscious.  I know I became very shy around this age and have no doubt it was due to fear that others found me ugly or fat..

The next 14 years, for the most part, were spent with me reacting to every negative emotion with food.  My grandmother and I were recently talking about my use of food for comfort and said that even as a child, I would always retreat from my parents' fighting and harsh criticism by going to my room, reading a book, and eating.  I look at picture of myself from a family vacation at age 8 and the bulge that is my belly is huge.  We're not talking cute chubby baby fat belly.  We are talking "does the child ever NOT eat?" big.  If I had a scanner I would prove my point.  Suffice it to say that it didn't help matters that my entire life was plagued with bullying for being fat or ugly, that people spat on me without knowing me simply because I was a "cow", how students in grade four would shake their bodies as I walked down the hall and yell "Earthquake!"

But the more these things happened, the more I ate.  There was something comforting about a full belly.  I could slide away into the taste of the food and forget my pain for a little while.  Not eating would make me anxious.

By grade 9, I was about 5'5" and 169 pounds.  Check with any BMI calculator:  I was overweight with a capital Oh My God She's Fat.  I was very aware of my state but found myself simply maintaining my size in spite of actually having friends and a life.  Walking to school half an hour each way is probably the sole reason I didn't gain much weight in high school, in spite of constant binge eating.  I could devour 4 cups of pasta plus a generous helping of sauce for dinner, followed by potato chips, then ice cream, then candies, then hell even salad.  I would eat anything.  If I couldn't find something appealing, I would snack on bacon bits, spices, anything I could put in my mouth.  I had a two year phase where you could not stop me from eating spoonfuls of iced tea mix from the can.  Even now, I find myself on binge days snacking on spoonfuls of jam, maple syrup, even cappuccinno instant mix.  Hence why I try not to keep such things in the house..  .  .
By the end of high school, it's probably safe to say I was 5'7" and about 190 pounds.  We never had a scale in our house, and I never wanted to see one.  I would look down and realize I could barely see my feet.  I would watch my jeans size creep higher.  I knew.  I knew.  I just simply did not care.  This was the height of my suicidality.  Even as I recovered from my death wishes and attempts, I tried to ignore how hard it was to find clothing in my size.  I ignored how even XL shirts would cling too much.

Last November, I started wondering how much I weighed.  I was curious and also sick of having a hard time finding jeans.  I stepped onto my newly bought scale, and cried.  I had not even realized how bad I'd let things get.

I was 215 pounds.  I had gone over 200 pounds.

The 2 scared me.  200+?  200!?  I was in shock.  I hated myself.  I began to think of all the years I spent binge eating, all of those years spent unable to tell when I was hungry or full simply because I was always eating.  I got mad.  But this time, instead of wallowing in pity, I decided to get even.  I was going to eat right, kick binge eating and actually exercise for the first time in my life.  I exercised 40 minutes a day five times a week.  I cut out junk food and ate three meals a day. 

Nothing would come off me  I froze at 205..

I asked some friends and they suggested I be checked for thyroid problems, given my dad and his whole family are very obese.  I went to see the nutritionist at school.  She refused to check me or listen to me.  She insisted that "maybe this is your body;s set point and you should accept that"

It's funny how doctors keep instigating my problems.

I became determined to show her that I could lose weight.  I cruised pro ana sites for recipes, ways to cut calories, tracked everything I ate.  And the weight started falling off slowly but surely.  I started cutting to two meals a day, no snacks.  I exercised every day.  When my girlfriend set a date to move in with me, I told myself that I had to weigh 192 pounds before she arrived in January.  And I did so. 

The problem with a socially anxious person sharing a tiny one room apartment with someone is she cannot exercise with company.  And to make things worse, my eating habits sucked from then until April.  I stepped on my scale and decided it MUST be broken as it said 198.  When my girlfriend had to move back home in April I bought another scale.  And cried.  I had fucked up again.  I was 203 pounds.  The evil 2 was back to insult me and mock me.

Exercise now being back in my life, I cut calories like mad and worked and worked.  I was in complete terror of what the scale would say.  Even period bloating made me queasy.  I soon dropped to 190 pounds.  I felt better.  But not much better.  I wanted 180.

Some days, I didn't eat at all.  I cut out all drinks containing significant calories.  I removed all fatty foods from my house.  I threw food away if need be.  I marvelled at my willpower to resist the McDonald's next door.  I look into the windows and feel strong for not giving in to my cravings for a burger and fries.

180 came and went.  And now 170 has as well.  I am back to my grade 9 weight approximately and all I can think of is, no down down down more.  Not good enough.  Not pretty enough.  I want to be 140 for my birthday in December.  My present to me.  Failure is not allowed.

The difficulty with any form of eating disorder (me being currently EDNOS now as I don't binge enough to be bulimic and I am not thin enough to be anorexic) is that the rational does not apply.  I study psychology.  I do research regarding eating disorders with one of the foremost researchers in the field. The trouble is, I just don't care most days.  I love food too much to not eat at all.  But I skimp on meals often.  I panic far too much over eating pizza.  I berate myself for not exercising.  I have a problem.  I know this.  But I look at when I ate normally and exercised and my weight froze.  And nobody would help me.  I asked doctors to put me on diets, to check my thyroid, to assist me.  They refused.  And now, I will do things my way.   And unfortunately, I know that the consequences don't exactly deter me.  But I know my friends know that when I reach the point where I can no longer stop if I wanted to (and trust me I could - like I said I LOOOOVE food), should that happen they have my blessing to take me to a hospital and lock my butt up.  I don't want to die.  I don't want to be a mass of bony ribs and thin stretched skin.  I just want what I've never had:  a normal, skinny, healthy weight. 

I just want to be honestly OK.

I Wish I was Special - So Fucking Special