If only you could understand the depths of my desire to be thin. My obsession with achieving an ideal body has haunted me for years. The inner dialogues I had were often filled with negativity, and at times, they still surface. I spent countless hours gazing at airbrushed images in magazines, yearning to attain that unattainable perfection. Those were the bodies I longed for, the ones I knew weren’t real, yet I couldn’t help but fantasize about them.
In 2006, at the age of 27, I was living on the opposite coast and had reached my lowest weight. Ironically, I felt the happiest with my appearance I had ever been. If only he had known. I had recently met my boyfriend—now my husband—and I was already at a dangerously low weight. There was no way he could see through the facade I had created, and I had no intention of revealing my truth.
The reality was that I was not meant to be this skinny. I was of average size, with curves in all the right places, yet I couldn’t appreciate my body. It felt like a flawed vessel that needed to be perfect. To me, it wasn’t slender enough; it was like the uneven terrain of hills. I wanted it to be smaller, thinner, prettier—better. If only you knew.
Being thin had been a lifelong goal. It consumed my thoughts. I would often catch myself thinking, “If only my ribcage didn’t protrude so much,” or “If only my hips were narrower.” During puberty, I believed I could magically revert to my pre-teen body by wishing hard enough while trying to push my hips inward. If only you knew.
My thoughts spiraled out of control. My weight defined me; it dictated my identity. My self-worth was tied to how small I could become, and I did indeed grow smaller. Each time I caught a glimpse of a rib sticking out, my confidence surged like a contagious disease. Every time I measured my own arms, I felt a sense of misguided pride. I was achieving my goal of being as skinny as possible, and it felt exhilarating. But deep down, my soul was suffering. It was hungry, and it didn’t want to fight anymore.
After a long struggle, I gradually regained the weight, and then some. It felt like a punishment for my poor choices. I didn’t think I deserved the body I had always wanted. Thankfully, with the love and encouragement from friends and family, my body—the one I had before I began my downward spiral—slowly returned. But this wasn’t the end of my journey.
The negative thoughts still linger; they always will. I experience both good days and bad days. However, I now possess the perspective and awareness that I lacked before. I am stronger than my body dysmorphia. I am stronger than my disordered eating habits. I am stronger than I ever believed I could be. And most importantly, I recognize that I am beautiful just as I am.
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In summary, my journey has been challenging, but I have emerged stronger and with a newfound appreciation for my body. I’ve learned that my worth is not defined by my weight and that I can embrace who I am today.
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