I was sixteen years old the first time that I consciously told myself that I hated my body. I can recall standing in front of the mirror at dance practice, in nothing but tights and a bodysuit. I remember looking at my body and comparing it to the bodies of the girls next to me. I had always been aware that I was not as thin as my teammates or the girls that I competed against, but it had never truly bugged me until this moment.
The next day I stood on the scale that was in my basement at home. This was the first time that I was standing on the scale to assess myself (I don’t count the times that I had been weighed at the doctors because I was never concerned with the number). I remember looking down at the number that the scale displayed and beginning to cry. I wiped my tears away and went back upstairs. I didn’t tell anyone the number on the scale, but I made the decision this day that I was going to “eat healthier” and go to the gym. And so, began my days of counting calories and hours on the elliptical.
My concern with my body image truly became an obsession over the next few years. I was in my first year of university when this obsession spiraled out of control and became dangerous. After gaining weight due to medications, I made the decision that I would rather be pretty than healthy and so I stopped all of my medication. I cut my calorie consumption down to 1200 calories a day and decided that I would get in at least an hour of cardio per day. I lost weight, a lot of weight. In two months, I had lost 40 pounds. And with the weight loss came the compliments and attention from boys.
A couple of months later I would begin dating an accomplished and known athlete, and any ounce of healthy eating behaviour that I still had would quickly be lost. I was truly obsessed with the way that I looked and being desirable enough for him.
The summer after my first year of university I had moved home where I was supposed to work and live with my family. After a month of being home, I quit my job and made the decision to move back down south where my boyfriend was training for the summer. I had no job, no school courses, and way too much time on my hands. And so commenced days full of obsessive exercise and minimal food consumption.
I would journal every single calorie that entered my body. I would never eat breakfast, and when my boyfriend’s family would question why I wasn’t eating with them it was always a race to the nearest excuse. I would sustain myself on the smallest portion of steel-cut-oats and tons of water. I would binge watch YouTube tutorials on how to lose 10 pounds in a week. The number on the scale continuously decreased, and with every pound lost, I also lost a piece of myself.
I remember the day that I took the attached images as clear as can be. I remember taking my shirt off and snapping a few pictures before heading to the gym for my second workout of the day. I was running on my typical 500 calories for the day and probably felt as though I was going to faint. I had lost my period at this point, and my arm hair had become more prominent. In contrast, the hair on my head had begun falling out. I would later learn that I was exemplifying symptoms of female athlete triad. This is a syndrome which manifests in females participating in sports that emphasize leanness and is commonly seen in those who have disordered eating.
I was the unhealthiest that I had ever been, and yet I was so proud of the way that my ribs showed in these images. I was quick to throw these images up on my Instagram and flaunt how “healthy” I was; about to attend the gym for the second time that day. As per usual, with these revealing gym selfies, I got numerous direct messages and compliments. These messages always created a desire for more. And so, I would continue to cut calories until I was eating absolutely nothing in a day, and I would increase my exercise until I physically could not do more. This entire time, I lied to my family and friends about how I had lost so much weight, always praising intermittent fasting and the wonders it produced.
I am not sure exactly when I made the decision to stop living this way, but it was shortly after these photos were taken. This decision was difficult, but it probably saved my life. I am not as skinny as I once was, and I certainly cannot count all my ribs anymore. I am however a lot healthier and actually enjoying life. I actually enjoy food and exercise and no longer associate it with punishment.
I want to remind everyone that photos are not always what they seem. I smeared these images across my social media, bragging about how happy and healthy I was when I was indeed dying (both figuratively and literally). Eating disorders are something so difficult to overcome and will be something that I continue to struggle with for the remainder of my life most likely. They are however possible to beat, and I encourage anyone who can relate to this piece to take the necessary steps to find true health again. You are so much more than a number on a scale or a tape measure around your waist. Surround yo
urself with people who love you for more than your appearance, and remember that although the media may sometimes suggest otherwise; strong is so sexy.
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