I Suffer From a Body Image Disorder. This is What a Bad Day is Like For Me.
The following article is an account of how I feel when I’m having a difficult day dealing with my body image and eating issues. My thoughts and behaviors are specific to my own struggle, and while I hope this encourages conversations, it is not meant to be used as a tool for diagnosing the severity of my, or anyone else’s, illness. If you’d like to learn more about body image and eating disorders, please visit the NEDA website at www.NationalEatingDisorders.org. Their site is an excellent resource for those suffering from eating and body image disorders, as well as those wishing to learn how to better support those who are suffering.
I know within moments of waking whether I’m going to have a good day or a bad day. And when I say good or bad, I’m not referring to how stressful my impending workday looks or whether the morning sun is cloaked in clouds. My well-being and perception of happiness is tied to my reflection and my strength in fighting the voices intent on destroying it. Some days I’m a warrior, and some days I’m weak.
On this particular day, I was broken.
My trigger was the number on the scale, something that I have been taught to avoid by every counselor I have ever had. Yet there I was, tapping on the top of the scale with my ruby red toes, waiting for the numbers to zero out so that I could step on and gloat in my progress. I’d worked out every day for a week, sometimes for hours at a time. I shunned carbs and sugar and most things that tasted remotely delicious. I felt confident that those pulsing digital numbers were going to drop in my favor, giving me license to ride a euphoric high incomparable to any drug.
Except the numbers didn’t drop. They were exactly the same as the week before — when I didn’t work out as hard or eat as clean. So I spiraled, and this is where my bad day begins.
Bad days start with long showers. I contemplate calling in sick to work because I don’t want anyone to see my body. I turn the water to cold so I can feel the drops as they sting my skin. It wakes me up, and I become stubbornly defiant. I decide that today is going to be a fasting day. I’ll drink water and coffee. Tonight I will exercise for twice as long.
I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel, taking careful notice of how tightly I can pull it around me. I stare in the mirror. I only look from the shoulders up. I try to focus on the parts of me that I like: my eyes, my lips, the shape of my face. Then I hear my own voice tell me that I am nowhere near as beautiful as I think I am. I’m fat. I’m ugly. I’m forgettable.
Getting dressed is exhausting. I use a lot of long layers to distract from my torso. My legs are always covered. I stick to solid colors, typically black. I inch myself into the frame of my mirror so that I can brace myself for what I’m about to see. Facing frontward is always the most heartbreaking, but I force myself to look so that I don’t overeat during the day. That is how disgusted I am with my own reflection.
I spend a lot of time looking in the mirror, which is odd for someone who hates their body. I search for any possible sign of progress. Do my legs look slimmer? Is my stomach any flatter? Do I look even the slightest bit attractive? For a moment, I linger on my curves. They’re soft and feminine and sexy. I want to love them so badly.
I do my hair and makeup. I have naturally wavy hair, the kind of beachy curls that some women spend hours trying to master. But on bad days, I always straighten my hair. I feel that straight, silky hair makes my face look slimmer. I’ve never been one for a lot of makeup. Out of all of my flaws, I’ve been the most accepting of my face. However, the moment I gain a bit of confidence, the quiet voice in my head whispers a reminder that if I was thinner, I’d be perfect.
I won’t eat breakfast, even if I’m hungry. I do my best not to eat on bad days. That feeling of hunger is my cue that I’m losing weight.
Once I get to work, I turn on my personality. I need to be cheerful, funny, and accommodating. If I’m overly nice to everyone, then they’ll forgive my appearance in favor of my charm. I take frequent breaks to the bathroom so I can see how I look. If I’m having an especially bad day, I will cry. I don’t lose control. It’s a quiet, gentle cry. A few tears slide down my cheeks and pool in my collarbone, and thoughts that started as a whisper swell into a scream.
“You’re ugly.”
“You’re fat.”
“No one thinks you’re pretty.”
“Every girl that comes in that office is more beautiful than you.”
“You should exercise more.”
“You eat too much.”
When I get home, I fix dinner for my family and then head upstairs to exercise. Depending on how much energy I have, I’ll workout between 30 minutes to an hour and a half. I take a long shower. I turn the water to cold and shiver. I turn the water off and step out of the shower. I wrap myself in a towel, taking careful notice of how tightly I can pull it around me. I stare at the scale. I don’t step on it, but it takes everything in me not to.
I get dressed and go downstairs to clean up. If I’m hungry, I might allow myself one spoonful or bite of whatever I fixed for them. If I’m still hungry, I’ll fix myself some coffee. I’ll mingle with my husband and son for a while, and then I head up to bed. If I stay up too late, I’ll want to eat.
I crawl into bed and hug my knees to my chest so that I take up as little room in the bed as possible. I turn off the light, and pray that tomorrow I will wake up beautiful.
