The smells of pizza, french fries, chicken nuggets, and peanut butter and jelly invaded my nose. I kept my head down as if I were in battle and pushed around the lettuce on my tray, sipping from my bottle of water any time I thought my stomach might gurgle and betray me.
“Melinda, aren’t you going to eat?” asked my 130-pound friend (who constantly claimed she was fat) as she shoveled another ketchup coated fry into her mouth.
My (now ex) boyfriend looked over at me, expectantly.
“I had a big breakfast,” I said, glaring at my boyfriend, daring him to refute me.
He shrugged and bit into his shiny, greasy slice of pizza.
He knew I hadn’t eaten.
When my friends’ suspicion became too aroused, I hid in the library during lunch time. I read or worked on imaginary projects.
It seemed for weeks that all I ate were the meals lovingly prepared by my grandmother for dinner. I knew I could never deceive my mom if I tried not to eat at home.
I prided myself in eating small portions at the meals I knew I couldn’t skip. When the hunger became too much and I lost control, I would rush to the bathroom and purge.
My family never noticed. My boyfriend knew, but didn’t care. I felt terrible about myself. I could think of little else except food most of the time.
Luckily for me, I never held onto my practices long enough to develop a full-blown eating disorder. I only suffered from eating disorder “tendencies.” I eventually gave in to my body’s screams for food. I equated this with the fact that I was “weak.” I was too weak to make myself sick after every bite and I wasn’t strong enough to starve myself.
This continued throughout high school. I found myself constantly comparing myself to other girls. I always came back with similar results.
My body wasn’t good enough.
It wasn’t just the extra weight either. I found girls who were obviously larger than me attractive as well. I felt like I could have been content with their proportions because they looked curvy and had sex appeal. But I was somewhere in the middle and I looked ugly.
Interested in journalism, I knew that most magazine photos were airbrushed and edited. Yet, I also compared myself to these women and hated myself for not being just like them.
The summer before college, I finally realized what my problem was. I suffered from what is known as body dysmorphic disorder. I couldn’t see my body type on anyone else because I did not know what I truly looked like.
My suspicions began when I went to buy new jeans. I picked up a size 14 and went to try them on. Holding them up in the store, they looked the size that I believed myself to be. When I put them on, they did not stay up. I tried a size 12 with a similar result. Finally, I grabbed a size 9, counting on failure and humiliation.
I fit into the size 9. When I removed the jeans, I stared at them in the dressing room for a long time. I could not see how the fat I saw in the mirror squeezed into those tiny pants.
The second time this condition was truly called to my attention was when my (current) boyfriend had his arms around me. I could clearly see that his arms were very close together as he held me, but I did not know how my huge body fit in that space.
I explained to him my confusion and eventually confessed to him my ugly truths.
I decided that since I was going to college, I was going to reinvent myself. However, it was not a bad reputation or a mistake I was changing. It was my self-image. I wanted to see myself how I really was, not through the fat goggles I had been putting on for years.
I scoured the Internet for tips on how to improve my self-image.
My final solution seemed fairly simple.
I put a sign on my mirror, telling myself that I was beautiful. When I felt fat, I put on my favorite clothes that I knew I looked good in.
The most important step for me was to realize and understand what was going on inside my mind so I could stop it. When I imagined myself gaining 10 pounds overnight, I pushed the thought away. When I felt fat or ugly, I pushed those thoughts away, too.
It took a lot of self-training and meditation, but I’ve become a lot better at it.
I’m proud to say that I have not indulged in any eating disorder tendencies since I have been at college. I have not purposely caused myself to purge, and I have not skipped a meal for the intention of losing or maintaining weight.
Some days are harder than others, and it is still a struggle.
But I am strong. So strong, in fact, that I kept me from hurting myself.
I am 5’5’’ and 165 pounds. I have bright green eyes that sparkle when I laugh, wide hips that will one day support a child, and curves that show I am feminine and sexy. And I am beautiful.
And so are you.