Back in elementary I was overweight. I wasn't in the extreme limits though, I was still kind of healthy but I was more chubby than actually healthy, and to be quite honest, I didn't care. At least not until I entered middle school. My mom started to pressure me into losing weight because I wouldn't fit in the girly clothes she wanted me to wear, I even SHARED CLOTHES WITH MY MOM, yes, I was that overweight. But I think the trigger that made do what I did was that this guy I had a crush on rejected me by claiming that I was "a fat, ugly girl", he started spreading things that I was just a stalker and he made fun of my eyebrows calling me Helga (remember that character from Hey! Arnold and her only eyebrow? now you get it) and for those who were wondering how I dealed with this, I did the worst thing possible: I became a bulimic.

I remember the first time I did it, I even remember the food I ate that day. I was hungry, my apetite wouldn't be satiated with the food my mom served me so I got more, and more, and more until I felt my stomach ache. When I went to take a shower it's when I decided. I didn't think. I did it.

I leaned down until my face was few inches closer to the toilet and I put my fingers down my throat and I knew, in that moment, that there was no going back. It may seem too exaggerated of me to say that it was like shaking hands with the devil, but that's how it was.

After I did what I did, I felt clean. I felt light, my sweat couldn't wash away the thoughts of guilt but when I touched my belly and I felt nothing but just an empty stomach, I thought that it wasn't that bad after all. I liked the feeling of not having food inside of me, I liked to feel how my muscles weren't stretching in order to give more space to the food I consumed so I continued doing this like a daily routine.

At some point in my early teenage days, I went from 68 kg to 55 kg in the course of time between April and August.

My father always preached how exercise was good and that it helped you to be healthy and have a good weight, but when you experience this success of losing almost 20 kg in few months, no exercise or physical ability can ever compare to this. So you just keep doing it. I didn't stop, although I already had a good body and a nice face, because the ratio of my waist wasn't the only thing I changed: I got a new haircut, used skin treatments and fixed the outline of my eyebrows. I did everything possible to accept myself.

And before I realized, I was already in High School.

And it was right after I entered High School that I realized: bulimia wouldn't suffice. Throwing up wasn't enough, I had to stop eating so I could stop throwing up. And I thought that because my throat started to feel dry and weird, I thought that my mom would discover my doings if I didn't do something so I started to avoid meals at school, I said that I would eat later but I wouldn't. And the worst part of this is that I didn't realize the gravity of my mistakes at that time. I was stuck in this little world where no voice would ever reach me, it was almost as if a heavy, grey mist was surrounding me and the only thing I could see was a green light, the same way Gatsby reached out to touch the light on the other side of the lake, I reached out to touch that faint dream that was my ideal body image. No matter how much pain it caused me or how bad it was for my well-being, I still wanted what I couldn't attain.

But I was different from him because I did attain that dream, I was "pretty" for few years, I was what I loved the most or so I thought. Because deep down I knew that there was no one who hated me the most than myself. 

And I felt even more proud of what I did when, after years of not seeing my middle school crush, I met him again. He told me I had changed, that he was interested in me and I played along, I gave him wings and let him fly so high so that when I finally rejected him, the fall killed him in the same way he did with me years ago. I was vengeful, I was obsessed with making boys suffer for shaming girls and I wasn't doing it because I thought I was some type of Wonder Woman. I did it because I was seeking reasons to love myself. To balance my hate and love for myself.

In the second year of high school, my mother found out. She wasn't angry, she wasn't sad, she was only worried that I could hurt myself and she apologized for whatever thing she did wrong. And I couldn't really pardon her since the only one at fault was me. That's when it hit me. 

"What have you done?" I told myself when I got back home and looked at myself in the mirror.

"Only the correct." my reflection answered.

And I let it slide.

My mom took me to the doctor, he checked my knuckles and my teeth and I knew exactly why, he was looking for sign of this illness and something inside me was laughing sarcastically. "You won't find what you need, I alread knew you would do this. I healed all the wounds and I did hide everything so you can't find any evidence of this crime." 

Needless to say, I continued doing this. I moved to another city so I could attend University. My parents trusted that I had stopped doing this and I half-did what they expected. I used to vomit 2-3 times in a day, depending on how much food I consumed, and that number dropped to 1. I only went to the bathroom at night, when no one was awake to tell me that I was taking too long in the bathroom. I gained weight again, as expected. I went up to 60 kg but I was still "pretty". My hair got longer, my skin got smoother and my facial features became attractive. In university, a lot of guys tried to hook me up, to have an affair with me or dates. And I liked the attention they gave me, I used them to buy me food (that I would throw up later) and take me to the movies.

I was still stuck in that time in High school in which I was playing the justice thing.

But not too long ago, I went to the church and talked to the priest. You know, I am kind of a religious girl. I believe in God and stuff but not in the same way a crazy catholic or cristian does. The priest talked to me in a way that I had to re evaluate my life. 

And that day, my sister called me on the phone.

She was crying. She told me she had a dream that I was in a coma in the hospital and just wanted to hear my voice to make sure I was alright. It was when it hit me, that if I didn't stop, my future was exactly that.

I stopped doing it. I went to take walks long walks and dance in the night, in my room. But it was useless, given that my stomach wasnt' used to have food inside and it threw up everything even though I didn't want to.

My body rejected the food, my body made me sweat and feel discomfort when I ate, I felt heavy like a cow and it was hard for me to walk. My mind made me see my reflection like an "ugly fat girl" and I saw stretch marks where there was nothing. My clothes still fit me but my brain whispered "no, you are a size larger" and it was unbearable.

So I did it again. 

After that defeat of one week, I fought back again and stopped doing it but I would eventually fall. It was hard. No matter how tall I stood and how tight I held my ideals and goal of not doing it again, that me of middle school who agreed to this contract wouldn't leave me alone. 

That's when I seeked help. 

I went to the church, to find peace in the silent place and sitting on a bench. That sounds like a bad decision, since I know I need professional help, but right now I don't have money or time to spend on a psychologist. It still helped me though.

To this day, I still hear my past self trying to convince me to this again. But luckily, I got a job and school absorbs most of my time, so I don't have any time to go to the bathroom and throw up. 

I will seek help eventually, take that for granted. I'm saving money to pay for the help I obviously need and my point here is:

NEVER MAKE FUN OF SOMEONE'S BODY IMAGE.