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Luckily, I did eventually get help and was given the tools to save my own life, but it took a long time and a lot of missteps.
I used to think that losing weight would be my key to happiness — my cure-all. I learned very quickly that this was not reality. When I think back to when I was at my lowest weight, all I can remember is how much hate and shame I still felt about my body. I blamed it on the excess skin, an awful side effect of extreme weight loss. In some ways, the sagging skin was more humiliating to me than having been a morbidly obese teenager.
To remove the skin required an expensive and invasive surgery called a lower-body lift. I didn’t care. After everything I had been through, I would do whatever it took to get rid of it. I quickly started to think of the surgery as a cure-all, my new key to happiness.
When I got the lower-body lift and removed the worst of my sagging skin, the skin around my midsection, I remember looking in the mirror and crying. I still didn’t feel good enough. Traumatizing my body — albeit for a surgery I was grateful to have gone through and will never regret, despite any complications I’ve dealt with — wasn’t enough. I saw the skin on my arms, I saw the skin on my legs, and all I could think was: No one will love me; I will always be gross until I get the rest of this removed.
But then someone did love me. Not just me, but my body. And he loved it just the way it was, skin and all.
And yet that didn’t change the way I felt about myself. No matter how much my husband told me I was beautiful or hot or sexy (words that make me cringe, even when writing them now), I still did not believe him. I thought eye of the beholder, and all of that shit, or he must be out of his goddamned mind.
I continued to hide. I dressed a little more confidently than when I was in my sweatpants-and-giant-T-shirt days, but I still hid my arms and most of my legs. Dresses had to be to the knee, shirts had to be three-quarter-length or worn with a cardigan, and I wouldn't wear a bathing suit unless I was alone with select family members or my husband.
I would suffer all through summer, sweating my fucking ass off, but in my convoluted head, it was better than the alternative: being seen.
The year after I got married, I gained about 50 pounds, and for the life of me, couldn’t lose that weight again. I did everything from going vegan to paleo. I did yoga like it was my fucking job. Then, I made it my job and spent five years working in yoga studios. Nothing. Brief moments of losses, but immediate gains. And each time I gained, it was because I started bingeing again.
Then, my body broke. My pelvis started to go out every month around my period, and left me bedridden for seven days at a time. Yoga got taken away from me. Hiking got taken away from me. Walking, at times, even got taken away from me. I was once again stagnant and didn’t know how to eat without freaking out.
Then, an intuitive healer I had been working with said to me the thing I needed to hear for years. She told me that all of the restrictions I had been putting on my diet were no longer serving me. While at one time, those restrictions were a way for me to save my own life, they were now only perpetuating the binge-deprivation cycle I had been living in. In order for me to stop, I needed to stop blaming food and putting it into "good" and "bad" categories. I needed to start implementing mindful, affirmative eating practices. And most of all, I needed to start accepting and loving myself and my body as is, without conditions.