I still remember how I got ready for one homecoming dance in high school.
Get your clothes, makeup.
Shower quickly after sports practice, do my hair.
Then step on the scale and cry.
I had gained two pounds since eating a dinner of plain lettuce and some almonds. I was a mess. Why was I such a failure?
Speaking from experience, it’s disturbingly easy to find the height and weight of any celebrity, especially female-identifying, that you can think of. Their diet plans are lauded next to their high-profile names. Atkins. Gluten-free. Vegan.
I remember how those Google searches led to me taking out a tape measure and trying to see how my waist, hips, and chest measured up against the stars’. I didn’t think about how they had personal trainers or plastic surgery. I didn’t think about how they weren’t still growing like I was, or how it was their job to look that way while mine was just to grow up as happy as a teenager could be.
I looked up images of skeletal bodies. Fashion models. Anorexics bragging about how they’d eaten a handful of almonds to get through the week. I glorified flat stomachs, thin thighs, and bony collarbones. I wanted to look like the images I’d found. I wanted to be one of those thin figures I saw on the internet, little more than pixels and shadow.
I only thought that I should’ve been more disciplined. I should’ve tried harder. Eaten less. I ignored the stars’ cautious advice about balancing proteins or whatever, and I just ate the least I could to function. I replaced calories with coffee, and I plastered on more makeup to hide the dark circles beneath my eyes.
When people said I was “losing weight”, I took it as a compliment. When they said I was too skinny, I held my head up high. When they pointed at the dry lettuce on my plate, I refused any other food they tried to give me.
One day, I just stopped. I put more food on my plate. I tried to gain weight to a normal level. Then college happened, and I was so busy juggling academics that I forgot about the scale, if only for a bit. Friendships replaced mirrors. New classes and adventures replaced the measuring tape.
My eating disorder didn’t end in hospitalization. But I wouldn’t say it’s ended happily either. I still look in the mirror and press my fingers against my stomach. I still berate myself for eating too many sweets or fried foods. I still push myself at the gym by thinking, “you could do better. You could always do better.”
But now, when I look on Instagram and see a picture of what I consider an attractive, fit person, I pause.
They look beautiful in this image.
I want to look like them…
No.
I want to look like me.