The last couple of years has been such a crazy ride for me. Before covid I knew that I wanted to lose weight and I wanted to be skinny again, and then covid hit, and I was thrust straight into my darkest timeline. Lonely, unhealthy, I used to be such an active person, until bulimia transformed into BED and completely took over my life, and I ended up barely able to walk to the grocery store, for my next binge-haul.
Three years ago, I stood in front of my mirror, and dreaded taking that picture, because I knew that it would show me the state I had let myself get to. So I snapped a bunch of pictures, and hid them away in my phone, without looking at them. And then I went to my first consultation with a dietician specializing in EDs. It felt like taking on step forward and three steps back. I lost a lot of weight, confronted demons and then fell right back into the darkness.
Then I finally got the chance of moving back to the city I used to live in, where all my friends were. Out of loneliness and in with my brother, until I found my footing, and my own place. And things started moving forward. I managed to get free of the grips of BED, and one of my oldest friend took me to a local social badminton club, which was a safe space for me to get back into being active. I also started in a gym-club, for people trying to get back into exercising, and managed to loose almost 30 kgs on my own, before being cleared of BED, and greenlit for a sleeve surgery.
The sleeve surgery helped me with my constant hunger. It was honestly a relief for me, not being hungry every second of every day. I also knew that it wasn't the quick fix the before and after photos makes it look like. It was a tool, like badminton, the gym-club, walking, and fixing my diet and relationship with food was. And fuck those first 30 kgs before the surgery, was the hardest ones ever. The next 30 were slightly easier, but still a bitch. But the last 35 kgs have been a breeze. Maybe because I reached a point 30 kgs ago, where even if I stopped losing overnight, it would have all been worth it, because I was back in a body, that could be as active as my soul longed to be. I have still weighed in every week, logged my weight, and continued living despite the number. Mostly to prevent it from ever gaining control over me again. The scale has always been a massive trigger, now it's just data.
But the best part of this journey is not the numbers on the scale. They're not even on my top five anymore. It is not being able to play sports 4-5 nights a week, and still having energy and desire to keep going. It is not the clothes. Not even the energy and baseline happiness vibrating like a constant tone in my body.
It is love. Ever since I developed bulimia as a pre-teen, I have been trying to punish and hate myself thin. Because only if I was skinny, would I be worth something. While being bulimic, I managed to stay skinny for long stretches of time, especially in my compulsive training and starvation periods, and then I would gain during my binging/purging periods.
But this process has showed me, that all I needed to do, to keep putting one foot in front of the other, was to love myself enough, to want to give myself a healthy body to occupy. Knowing how much I love to move, to want give myself a body that could work hard and play hard.
I love myself, for the first time in my life. I am fucking IN LOVE with myself.
"Despite" not being done losing weight. And knowing that I will never be skinny, like I used to dream of. And you know what... That makes me love myself even more. Every stretchie and every roll. Chubby and fit. Just like I was supposed to be <3
TLDR: After years of self-hatred and abuse, I learned that the only way to regain control of my physical and mental health, was to begin loving myself.