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I think I was six when I first felt fat. There was a really popular girl my class I thought was so pretty. She always dressed nice, had long blonde hair, and of course she hated me for a reason I still can’t quite work out.
Compared to her I felt so ugly. I dressed in the optional school uniform because for some reason my parents thought it was mandatory, my hair was short and brown, I was very timid, and most of all I had a big belly. Looking back at pictures of myself while growing up, I’ve been an average weight pretty much until the end of high school.
During recess I would run around all over the playground and was only happy if I was sweating like a boy. I wasn’t sure what exercise was but I knew the more I sweated the more my stomach would shrink because all the boys were really skinny.
It didn’t help that no one liked me. I felt like someone tattooed “Bully Me” on my forehead in an ink that everyone except for me could see. I’ve had issues with bullies all the way up until high school. Throughout that time I was already pretty down due to living in an abusive household. More often than not I would contemplate if throwing myself in front of a car would kill me or if I would just wind up in a hospital hated by everyone for not killing myself properly. It did not help that my step Dad said if we ever tried to kill ourselves and failed we would be kicked out. I’m not sure why he would randomly say this to us. Like maybe he knew we were suffering but whenever he would say that it was really random and not relevant to whatever was going on.
My self harm did not take the form of cutting. Mainly because we were too fucking poor for me to sneak some money to buy razor blades. We did have fleas though and I am very allergic to them. When I get bit, the bite swells to the size of a quarter and becomes as hard as rock. It discolors to look almost like a bruise and them will scab over even if I don’t touch it. It gave me the perfect chance to hurt myself. I have so many scars all over from picking at scabs just so I could watch myself bleed. I felt so good watching the skin pull away and blood come out. It was addicting. We lived in a shitty ghetto apartment (~2004- 2010 Chula Vista. Not sure what it’s like now but when I was growing up the city was a shit hole) with management that didn’t bother doing anything about the flea infestation mainly because they were more preoccupied with changing our complex name every month. I kid you not I don’t know what the complex was called because it changed its name once a month. It also happened to change managers once a month too so if you had an issue, good fucking luck.
But back to me self harming. Our step dad was overweight, short, and diabetic. He did not understand portion control for himself or his children. From the time our Mom started dating him, we were given these massive portions. I look at my nephew’s plates and the plates for children in stores and what we were given were adult sizes. And we were forced to eat it or be physically struck, often with a belt. It didn’t help that we were not allowed to not like foods. There was a dish, I can’t remember what it was, and I hated it. I was forced for two hours to eat it and was only allowed to stop when I puked it back up. Little did I know I was lactose sensitive so it was probably all the fucking milk and butter that made me puke. We were not allowed to not eat. I learned over the years to just ignore my stomach if it hurt. I ate so much fucking dairy and felt sick all the time I’m surprised it took until 2011 for me to realize what my issue was.
Middle school was a very dark period for me. On top of entering a new school, that was nick named Hell by everyone who went there, I found myself isolated. I had no friends for the first year and my grades were atrocious. It wasn’t until 8th grade art class did I finally meet people I could call my friends. Looking back now I was more like a tag-along they felt sorry for so they tolerated my presence at school. Part of me knew this but since I wasn’t kicked out of their circle I didn’t really care.
Despite meeting new people I could actually talk too on some level, I still felt really bad. I was suffering hardcore from depression and my anxiety was starting to rear its ugly head. I felt like my biggest issue at the time was that I was fat. Not so because I was around 115-120, which for my height (5’1) is pretty average. I hid myself in super baggy clothes and dreamed of the day I would be skinny and pretty and everyone would love me. That day never came in high school nor in my brief stint at college. Despite weighing only 114 lbs I still feel horribly fat. I don’t see any difference between myself now and myself at my highest weight of 145. I’ve obsessively measured myself so I know I’m shrinking but I don’t see it. I have a skirt with a 24 inch waistline that I can almost wear comfortably but I feel like that means nothing. I can wear size small tights and not muffin top but still I’m 145 in my head.
Since April, which was also my 1 year anniversary of being suicidal thought free, shooting for two years now, I don’t think I’ve eaten a normal meal. It’s almost like I traded in my suicidal thoughts for an eating disorder. I still get a little depressed and my anxiety is bad enough now I do want to get properly diagnosed so I can get help for it.
I don’t know who I am if I’m not feeling broken. I had a very brief period in April where I felt legitimately happy. I also felt a little empty. My life was fine so when does the bad thing happen? I don’t want help for my eating right now. It’s the bad thing that hurts me so everything else can be good. If I don’t have at least one bad thing continually ongoing then something really awful must be coming is my logic. Loosing weight is great for me, like it is the thing that keeps me wanting to do this to myself. I’m finally going to be skinny and happy, I just need to suffer everyday for it.
I know all of this is fucked up. I have no illusions about what I’m doing. I feel like since I haven’t been properly diagnosed then it isn’t that bad. I have no labels attached me so I can’t possibly be hurting myself in any meaningful way because if this is legit then everyone would know and I would be forced to get help. I feel like because no one has caught onto my issues then this isn’t real, that my suicidal thoughts were just made up and if I tell anyone then I’ll be lying because while I was having them no one tried to help me. If no one knows then there is no issue and I’m fine. I’m just loosing weight and finally feeling like my life is coming together.
As it stands, it’s currently 12:21 pm and I haven’t eaten a thing.
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