As I reach my mid-twenties, I acknowledge that I am currently fighting a brutal war with my body. I am living with a secret shame, one I have kept hidden until recently. It has never consumed me as much as in the past two years, robbing me of my ability to enjoy my life to the fullest.
And now, I’m going from zero to 100 by sharing that shame on the internet, including all the nasty, horrible parts that nobody seems to talk about.
How it all began
They say perfectionists and type A personalities are more susceptible to eating disorders and body hyperfixations, and that rings true for me. But my catalyst was a long-term relationship where my partner showed little romantic interest in me for months on end and refused to communicate about it, resulting in my slashed confidence.
I was no longer sexy, I assumed. My appeal had vanished, and my subconscious convinced itself that I was to blame. Once I began working out to cope with the chaos of my life, subsequently lost weight without even noticing it, and then had my first heartbreak, my control mechanism was bound to be food and my body.
A new greatest fear shot to the top of my list: gaining weight. I loved being fit, and it was never about my appearance, but the aesthetic benefits of my new routine sure didn’t hurt, and I felt a surge of dopamine and pride emerging from a spin class and seeing the calories burned on my Apple Watch. And whenever I’d go on vacation, I could no longer immerse myself in relaxation, because I was suddenly crippled by the fear that I’d come home two weeks later two sizes bigger from my “reckless” habits.
But my relationship with exercise was normal and healthy compared to my newfound, toxic love-hate relationship with food. There is no word to describe this all-consuming obsession — every other thought in my brain could be categorized into either “I love food” or “I feel guilty for eating this.” Every mention of a meal would send my brain into a spiral; eating became both the highlight of every day and my biggest source of anxiety and fear.
I paid excessive attention to my meal choices, ensuring they were healthy enough but also very substantial, to hold me over until my next sacred meal time. I took up my COVID hobby of intermittent fasting, starving myself until 12 p.m. every day — until my dietician I started seeing later on when I lost my period made me give it up.
I despised eating around other people, making excuses not to go for dinner with friends, and internally beating myself up viciously when I saw or even heard of a friend not eating as much as me at a given meal. I hated myself for finishing my plate, but I couldn’t help myself. Many moments, I wished I had the self-control to avoid food entirely, feeling jealous of the stick-thin girls with oh-so-“glamourous” anorexia or bulimia. I just like food too much for that. Shame on me.
