Trigger warning: Discussion of eating disorders and behaviors
My struggle with an eating disorder is a hard thing for me to write about. It’s difficult enough to talk about it with the select few who know the whole story, but to write about it on such a huge public scale is something I can say for certain I never thought I would do. My hands are shaking even while I write this. But it needs to be talked about, not just for my sake, but because people need to know the reality of the situation and how our society consistently sends thin privilege messages to people day in and day out. Thin privilege, in essence, is the advantages afforded to people who meet the socially constructed criteria of an acceptable body size. This is my story.
As a kid I was average height and very skinny, probably because I was always moving. You know those kids you see at the grocery store or on the playground who make you wonder to yourself how anyone can have that much energy? That was me. When I entered middle school, a lot of things changed including the fact that I hit puberty at a very early age, 12, years before anyone else I knew. With puberty came facial hair, terrible breakouts, and gaining weight. My metabolism slowed down to what it is today, and the result was that in middle school I was not only the weird kid and the gay kid, I also became the fat kid. I was teased and bullied mercilessly, a fact for which I felt shame for years after. I had next to no friends. While all the cool kids were wearing their Hollister shirts and jeans, I didn’t even dare go into that store because I knew only embarrassment would follow.
High school started off the same way. By the end of freshman year I had hit my heaviest, nearly 200 pounds, which was, as I was told, unacceptable for someone barely 5’8” tall. I had a few friends, but on the whole I was depressed, desperate, and lonely. This continued into sophomore and junior year, and while my exterior looked happier and more sociable, on the inside I was crumbling under the weight of feeling intrinsically wrong and unacceptable. All the popular kids were still oblivious to my existence, which, according to every television show I saw growing up, meant my existence was invalidated. I was anxiously trying to find a cure for whatever was so clearly wrong with me.
In April of 2012, I had a major falling out with a number of friends I had considered very close. I was destroyed. I became so depressed that any energy I had was put toward not having a break down in the middle of class. My appetite vanished, and I went days at a time without eating anywhere close to a proper meal. I felt like my life had spiraled out of control. Then, something remarkable happened; I started losing weight. There was absolutely nothing healthy about what my body was going through, but I didn’t care. I found my answer to how I could regain some control over my life. I decided if I could control my food intake and my weight, my life would stop spiraling and instead reach a steady, socially acceptable path to success.
By the end of junior year, a month after I made this decision, I had already lost 25 pounds. I was astonished at what started happening; people were noticing me. People who I told myself for years I was not good enough for started talking to me, asking to hang out with me, and inviting me to eat lunch at their table. Their table. I was floored. What do they see in me that they didn’t before? At the time, I didn’t really care; I was finally feeling validated, and I was ecstatic. Whatever I was doing was working.
Over the summer, not having school meant I could focus 24/7 on controlling my food intake. I exercised excessively every day of the week. I ate only at dinnertime with my family so no one would suspect anything. And by July I had lost another 30 pounds, bringing me down to the 145 pounds I was told was the right weight for my height. But, in hindsight, it was not the right weight. I was cold all the time and would take two showers almost every day because the hot water provided temporary relief from the shivering. Keep in mind, I lived in Florida; there was absolutely no reason I should be shivering during the summer.
My parents started hounding me to get a job, telling me I was sitting home doing nothing every day. If only they knew what I was actually doing, they would probably be sending me to a rehabilitation center instead of the mall on a job hunt. Two of my new friends from school worked at the Hollister in my mall, and when they heard I was job searching they encouraged me to apply there, so I did. That was my first time in that store, and I was taken aback. Between the dim lighting, fog of cologne, and thumping dance music, I was simultaneously mesmerized and terrified. I put in my application to the assistant manager, a tall slim white man in his mid-twenties with stylish blond hair. A week later, I was called for an interview and dug out the only Hollister shirt I owned. To my delight it fit me for the first time in years. I went to the interview, answered their generic questions as best I could, and was speechless when they called me the next day to tell me I got the job.
Before I started working, I had to go in and buy my uniform. The “look policy” that the company, Abercrombie & Fitch Inc., has in place requires all employees to wear a specific set of the store’s clothing: jeans (shorts are sometimes allowed for a few weeks), specific t-shirts and button-downs, and flip flops.
Trying on Hollister jeans for the first time was every bit as demoralizing as I thought it would be, and any comfort I had for my new slimmer body instantly vanished. Talking to the some of the other employees, I realized that the size I could just barely button, a 33, was considered large among the staff. It didn’t occur to me in that bubble of fragrance and judgment that a 33 was absolutely fine, nor that the Hollister 33 equated to a 30 or 31 in a company not geared toward only the skinniest size of people. All I heard over the booming music was that I still wasn’t good enough.
Simply not eating was no longer enough, and I frantically searched to see what could help me lose more weight. Throwing up was an option, but to be honest trying it once and researching the effects of it online turned me to a different method: laxative abuse. Luckily, my new job was the perfect source of income to fuel this new idea, letting me buy laxatives with my own money instead of having to ask my parents and come up with lies to cover up what I was doing.
By the time my senior year of high school started, I had lost another 20 pounds, and I was getting compliments left and right. About how nice that shirt looked on me. About how much healthier I looked. Out of nowhere, it seemed everyone began going out of their way to be nice to me where before a good portion of them probably didn’t even know my name. The worst part is that most, if not all, of these people had no idea the reason why they were suddenly being so nice to me was greatly influenced by my drastic weight loss.
The irony of my senior year was palpable. People were praising me for being “healthier” and “in such great shape” and “the happiest [I’ve] ever been.” Meanwhile I was suffering the worst anxiety and depression of my life while simultaneously giving myself constant gastrointestinal pain. The cramps were so bad some mornings from taking too many laxatives the night before that I would show up to school an hour or two late and could barely eat anything all day. Yet somehow, no one seemed to notice. It didn’t occur to me until after the fact that this was more than likely due to society’s construction of thin privilege. Everyone was so blinded by my suddenly emaciated form, told by society to be something worth admiring, that they couldn’t see how destroyed and torn up I had become inside in the process of getting to that point.
Fast forward to now. I’m a sophomore in college, studying things I find fascinating and important. I am in a loving, serious relationship with the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and he has helped me overcome so many obstacles I never thought I could face. I’ve gone through therapy, I’m on medication for anxiety and depression, and my life is on track in a healthy way for the first time in a long time.
But I will never forget this part of my past. This has been a hard thing to write about, as I said at the beginning, but it is important that I do. So many people think the idea of sizeism is not as severe as it really is. All too often I hear minimized the impact society has on a person’s mental health in regards to eating, and I hope what I have written serves as a first hand account of how important this issue really is. This is a call to everyone: be conscious of the people around you. Pay attention to them. Don’t let social constructs cloud your vision or blur your judgment, because it’s very likely people are suffering more than you would otherwise think. After all, I was.