I’ve heard people use the phrase, “your body is a temple; you should treat it like one.” A simple platitude. But what kind of temple are these individuals talking about? One that is millennia old, rundown from years of a lack of care and upkeep, due to an emptiness left behind. As a people unbeknownst to us, uninhabited the place eons ago, leaving the temple to crumble to the ruin seen before us today?
I am assuming these people are the ones who are incredibly health conscious — the people who don’t consume any sort of processed junk food or any substance that could be even a tiny bit remotely unhealthy for them. I’m looking at you, health freaks: those raw vegan, or those living in a constant state of ketosis, or those so addicted to the gym their BMI doesn’t even follow the bell curve of what an average BMI should be and rather is a BMI that only makes sense for professional athletes.
I went to the gym for weeks straight, not taking any rest days. I started throwing up my food again, without even binging. I chewed and spit out most of what I ate when people weren’t watching. I mostly just stopped eating. I fasted (aka starved) for almost four days straight (86 hours) one month. I drank multiple liters of water a day, trying to get rid of that “water weight”. could see the pounds dropping off quickly, maybe a little too quickly. My weight was down to something less than 100 pounds, BMI was around 16.7, and a body fat percentage of 16%.
I was so fucking proud of my progress. It was my way of control — my sense of willpower. I didn’t need food. I just wanted to be thin. There was nothing wrong with that. Society tells us we’re supposed be thin to be pretty — that thin is beautiful.
One day, I randomly walked past a mirror and caught a glimpse of myself out of the corner of my eye. I stopped to look at myself; I mean really take a good look at my whole body. All I could see was skin thinly draped over bones, a barren skeleton staring back at me — my collarbones jutting out from my chest all the way to my shoulders; my sternum poking out through my shirts; every single one of my 26 ribs when only in underwear.
I’ve gained back something close to 5 to 7 pounds. But I hate it so much; every added pound is a panic attack waiting to happen. I still check myself, touching different parts of my body to make sure you can still see my bones, that you can still feel them through my clothes.
I am sick. I know I’m sick. I know this is not healthy. But I don’t really care.
So dear body, I’m sorry I made you this way. I’m sorry I don’t care about you the way I should. I’m sorry I’m killing you slowly. I’m sorry I can’t stop. And I’m really sorry I won’t.