When I think back at what I used to be, I always just turn my head. I want to cry.
I think about this wordless time, my puberty, my last four years, my development from a 13-year-old to a nearly 18-year-old. What happened since then? Everything and nothing.
2007 – summer: I decide that I am a fat cow and have to lose weight. This was because my best friend suffered from bulimia from her 12th year of life on and I, uncertain of myself and unable to decide what was right or wrong, found that an eating disorder would make me a new person, a perfectly behaved long tan sexy beautifully smiling woman, not the fatpig little baby that I was. I was maybe 160cm tall and weighed (I don’t know whether I remember correctly… it is so long gone) maybe 58kg.
So many occasions led to me developing anorexia. I was popular, no question, but I always have been postmarked as the “chubby happy little girl”. I wanted to be none of this.
I didn’t want to be chubby, because chubby meant that I ate and chubby meant that I had needs that I gave in to. I didn’t want to have needs, they scared me. Why would I have needs? I would rather stare people into the eyes with a ghostly pale look and deadly hypocritical eyes – no one would see, no one could reach… ME. I thought. I thought if maybe if I wasn’t so chubby, the world would respect me.
I didn’t exactly want to be happy, because I found myself too happy. I was too intense, too loud. I was always talking, always. Always making jokes, never serious. I screamed and I laughed to such a high degree that even I myself was annoyed. I did not want to be loud. I wanted to be mysterious and silent, I wanted to be a secret.
… well, and a “Little girl” was the last thing I wanted to be. I am and have always been, if you want to put it that way, “little”. I mean, “small”. I still am barely 163cm tall, so there is, in fact, a bunch of 9-year-olds able to spit me directly on my head. But well, what can I do about my height? Starve. Oh yeah. That had been my plan all along: Short people are prone to be chubby. They do not have long arms, or long legs. Nothing is exactly “long” when you’re short.
So what do you do to appear taller? Right. Make your organs seem longer. How? Make them thinner. And frankly, this worked out real good. On photos I always appear to be 170cm or so (if there’s no one one the photo to compare me to).But in reality I seem to be … somehow invisible. I am nearly not there. Well, I WAS. I now have gained a bit of weight, but when my BMI was 16 and I reached my low-point, then I often heard that I would disappear if I would go on like this. Because I was so small, and then I got thinner and thinner until I seemed to fade away in the thin air.
Well, that was one thing I could cotton up to. Disappearing would’ve been nice, indeed. Just skip. Just quit. Quit everything you hate, stop feeling yourself, stop being yourself, just … go.
I wanted to go so badly. All this time, all these 4 years I waited patiently contemplating death… everyday I was, in a certain way, committing suicide. My hunger was my suicide, my neat little “well fuck you all” plan, my little blow to the world.
It didn’t work.
In the end, I survived, I fucked up my youth to a high degree, I fucked up my metabolism, my friends, my family. I fucked everything up. But here I am, skinny. Hooray!
I think EVERYONE will like me better now that I’m skinny. Because that’s what life’s about, skinny or chubby. The thinner the better.
Good Lord.
It hurts me how my thoughts were intoxicated. It hurts me how I’m mutilated.
I won’t ever be alright again.
