My first instance of feeling self-conscious about my body was when I was seven years old. A family member decided to pinch my thigh and tell me I had thunder thighs. While I still have thunder thighs and love them, I believe this moment truly sparked my self-hatred and allowed others to fuel the fire.
I was eight years old when a doctor asked me if I wanted to be loved when I grew up before then explaining that I should eat meals off of a saucer rather than a meal plate; the appointment was for chronic muscle spasms, chronic pain, and headaches.
By the time I was twelve, I’d spent almost half of my life dieting and exercising excessively. I played football, rugby, and tennis. I went horse riding once a week and ate less than all of my friends. I was twelve years old when I started suffering from Bulimia. I got good at hiding it, making sure people didn’t know. By the time I was 16, only two people knew. My parents didn’t learn about my struggles until a decade after they’d developed.
This year should’ve marked my 8-year recovery anniversary. But I had a wake-up call.
I was still displaying all signs of Bulimia, but the people closest to me thought they were normal food habits, and I was in denial.
As of May 24th 2023, I am officially in recovery.
Bulimia has no size; no set binge and purge cycles; and cycles do not have to be constant.
Recovery isn’t linear; starting recovery shows you’re brave; and making a joke about a fat/plus size person becoming fat because they’ve beaten an eating disorder is beyond disrespectful, ableist, and fatphobic.
I’m going to be posting about my experiences as someone with Bulimia as I go through my rollercoaster of recovery. Feel free to tag along.
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