A Decade of Anorexia

I used to think I’d beat it. But my eating disorder is always finding new ways to ruin my life.

Photo by THE COLLAB. from Pexels

I have a collection of photos on my phone in a folder named “BELLYZZZ”. I should’ve deleted it once I realized what it was: a way to track my stomach fat and make sure that my belly was getting smaller. But instead I keep it as a reminder to myself: you haven’t beat anorexia — it’s just found new ways to come out.

The first time I can remember hating my body I was thirteen. I’d just sprouted breasts (gone from A’s to C’s in the span of three months) and my baby fat still clung to my edges, making me look older and more womanly than I was.

I would spend hours in the bathroom, hiding from my family, taking pictures of myself at different angles to make sure I was aware of every ounce of chub.

I was angry at my body for changing so quickly, for stripping me of my girlish speed and finesse, and I was angry at society. Old men started to take notice of me, examining my hips and tits, and I wanted to go back to being an invisible girl-child again, nimble and uncaring about the opinions of grown adults who ogled me.

The Internet was a wild place back in 2005. I’m not sure how I first came across it, but there was a page that guided girls to the “pro-ana”…