昭。

The other day I wanted to do a journey talk, so that's way I wrote this. You see, my journey talk isn't the lightest, and it contains below trigger warnings: eating disorder, suicidal ideation, and distorted self-image. If you feel uncomfortable reading about these topics, please pause and skip this. Thank you. 

"Sometimes I feel so uncomfortable in my own skin, I want to rip my body apart because it's suffocating me," I once told my mom during our road trip. 

"It's only normal. Everyone feels that once in a while," was her reply. 

Growing up, I never had a good relationship with my body. When I was in primary school, we had to wear school uniforms. During spring and summertime, we were required to wear T-shirts and shorts. I used to stare down at my thighs during class, feeling mildly uncomfortable at how they spread on my chair. I remember going out with my mom and her friends, and they'd say "she"ll grow thinner once she hits puberty." Then I'd curl into myself and set my chopsticks aside for the rest of the meal.

You see, I never was the popular kid. I mean, I still don't think I am. When I was young, I didn't understand why, and the only conclusion I could come up with was, I'm too ugly to have friends. It seemed true at the time, especially when my family constantly told me I needed to lose weight. 

I started dieting when I was 12 years old. How could I not, when everyone around me was telling me I am fat? For 5 months, I only ate breakfast, and I'd work out in the gym for 2 hours every day when my friends went to lunch together. 

The numbers on the scale dropped fast and I, for once in my life, was happy with my body. I didn't feel like I was taking up too much space anymore. I was willingly wearing shorts. And my peers started befriending me. Boys would talk to me more. 

So I thought, of course, it was worth it. It was worth it that I went to class shaking. It was worth it that my stomach hurt. It was worth it when I struggled to fall asleep because of the hunger clawing at my stomach.

I wish I stopped it there. 

I didn't. 

For a while, things were fine. Sure, it hurt, but it wasn't...it wasn't that bad. No, not to the point that I'd give up. 

You see, the thing about an eating disorder is that it often comes with body dysmorphia, and it's compulsive. Soon enough the numbers weren't dropping fast enough. My body wasn't skinny enough. I once again felt uncomfortable with my body. In fact, I hated it. I couldn't even take a shower without shame and self-hatred. 

And that's when my relationship with food also changed. I started hating my cravings for food. I started hating eating. I thought that eating was a sign of no self-control, and I thought I was better than that. 

So I stopped eating. At first only for half a day like before. Then it became a whole day. Two days. Three days. Sometimes even longer than that. But it hurt. My stomach hurt to the point I couldn't get out of bed every morning. It felt like needles stabbing my stomach. I used to think it was literally eating itself because I wouldn't feed it. 

It always ended up with me, sitting by the table, wolfing down anything I could find. Chips, frozen meals, fruits, salad, rice, barbeque, candies...Hunger felt like this insatiable beast to me during binge sessions. But it also hurt. I felt as if I would explode from the sheer amount of food I ate. 

So what did I do?

I threw up. The food,  the shame of losing control, the self-deprecation and my nonexistent self-esteem all went into the toilet. Ironically, my stomach still hurt after I throw up. So did my throat. 

But I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop starving myself. I couldn't stop binging. I couldn't stop throwing up. Eating was no longer normal for me. I'd eat nothing at all or everything in sight. There wasn't an in-between for me anymore. 

The problem kept on going for years. 

I started chewing my food then spitting it out. I started counting calories. Serving sizes for each meal became smaller and smaller. It used to be okay around 1000 calories each day, but then it wasn't. I used to be able to keep half a slice of pizza down but then I threw it right up. The numbers on the scale didn't drop anymore, but my view of my body kept on distorting. I'd cry in front of my mirror in the bathroom and feel like a total failure. 

So one day I walked into the school counselor's office and broke down. I told her how much I hated my body and how I wished I can enjoy food without thinking about the calories. 

"My dear," she said with a soft sympathy in her voice, "I think you have an eating disorder."

Bulimia nervosa. Something I never thought I'd get when I was 12. 

I never told anyone in my family. 

Well, actually, I did tell someone. I told my cousin. 

"I have an eating disorder," said I when we went out for a drive. 

He laughed. "With a body like yours?"

So I didn't tell anyone anymore. I thought I'm not skinny enough to even have an eating disorder. My counselor must've messed it up. The stomachache never stopped. I thought I didn't deserve recovery. 

Then one day, I stood in front of the mirror, and I decided that I don't deserve to live anymore. I thought I'm not pretty enough to live. I'm not talented enough to live. I'm not disciplined enough to live. I'm not good enough, to live. 

But then I thought, I'm not skinny enough to die. I thought people would look at my body and laugh. 

I know, pretty dark, right? 

Well, luckily, things did get better from there. I went back to my counselor and told her what happened. Slowly, slowly but surely, I started breaking the cycle.  I trashed all my laxatives and diet pills. Purging twice a day became twice a week. Then twice a month. Then once in two months. Fasting for days became intermittent fasting. Binging became a regular meal. With a new burning desire to feel better, I started my recovery. 

However, that took a long time, longer than the time I developed bulimia. And even now, after so much work, once in a while I would still fall back to those habits. I'd skip meals purposefully and throw up everything I eat. But it never stopped me to try again. Recovery isn't linear. Falling back once doesn't break my progress. 

It is hard, I won't lie. It is still hard to look at myself in the mirror. It is still hard to eat regularly. It is still hard to keep my food down. It is hard to love myself. 

But every day I tell myself to try. Because I know one day, I'll wake up, and I'll smile when I look into the mirror. 

And that. That is worth it.

Thank you for hearing me out. I want to say that for the people who are struggling right now, you are strong. You are a warrior. Those of us who are recovering, be it physical, mental, or emotional, we are strong. And we will get through this. Don't ever stop trying. It will get better.

Trust me, it will. Because for me, it did.