I'm one of those girls- the type obsessed with looking "perfect" and having the perfect body. But what is the perfect body to you?
you're 'one of those girls' who I feel so incredibly sorry for, because my fat ass is out enjoying life and getting laid instead of worrying about what somebody I don't know thinks about how fat I am or not when I walk by.
Mostly a question for the gentlemen out here.
aka 'I'm looking for reassurance from guys to tell me that they think I'm hot'......right?
I've noticed two "ideals"- the model, who is extremely thin/fragile looking, usually smaller breasts. Then there's the porn star. Obviously all porn stars look different, but they tend to be "thicker". Still really fit, but curvier hips, bigger (often fake) boobs.
ba! exactly
WHO'S ideals are those?? Certainly not mine. And probably not the majority, either.
If that was the kind of gal that some guy I knew, even as a friend, was his absolute ideal mate? I doubt we'd be hanging around each other much.
And that's not because I don't respect or agree with what they're attracted to or their opinion, but to me, it reads that they are easily swayed by others (the media) and not only do I hate the media, but I generally enjoy people who stick up for themselves and can form their own ideals and opinions, as opposed to those who are just gonna go with the sheep and like what everybody else likes.
... But I find the borderline-anorexic model body type extremely attractive. It annoys the hell out of me that regardless of how much I exercise, I cannot get that body- because that's not the kind of body you get from exercise, but not eating.
I don't cry very often - maybe 2-3 times a year. This statement made tears well up in my eyes - not out of sadness, but anger.
Listen here - anorexia is NOT FUCKING CUTE. It's not something you should EVER strive for, be jealous of, or idealize.
You wanna know how fun and cute anorexia is?
I spent almost TWO YEARS of my younger years LOCKED in an eating disorders ward of a hospital. TWO. FUCKING. YEARS...of my life, wasted...it makes me so damn angry to think about, and sad...
One of my roommates was bulimic, and she brought extra suitcases so she could barf inside them after her meals. Our room smelled like decaying corpses.
I had to have a nurse watch me every single time I urinated. I had to piss in a "hat" (a clear bucket with measurements on it that was in the shape of a top hat to measure how much liquid we were expelling).
If you made a bowel movement, it was like New Year's Eve around the ward; "OMG EVERYONE, SALLY TOOK A SHIT! YAY YAY YAY SALLY!!!!"
...why, you ask?
Because after not eating, your insides start to shut down. You have nothing to shit out, so your digestive tract kinda just goes on strike.
I did not have a bowel movement for
THREE MONTHS.
The first week I entered the hospital, they asked me when my last bowel movement was. I was confused; I think I may have forgotten what those were at that point. I shrugged. Ten minutes later, I was being anally probed by a few nurses (and I was rather young at this time; I was certainly not experienced or had the desire for anyone to be messing with my ass at this point) and thus began a series of 15 or so enemas over the course of 3 or so weeks for the purpose of trying to get me to shit. I was crying, and that shit hurt like hell and was incredibly uncomfortable. The enemas make you cramp, and I laid in bed and cried for weeks, and finally I was able to shit - and I tell you what, I think I'd rather go through childbirth instead of taking a shit like that again. It was so fucking painful, I was bleeding profusely and crying and wasn't able to sit in a chair for days.
Cute, huh? Sexy, even. I bet a bunch of guys just popped boners like popcorn reading that.
Or, like the week when I entered the hospital - oh, they make you eat. Haagen Dazz ice cream (that stuff has a metric fuckton of fat in it), meat, fat, butter...you had to put sugar on your cereal (which I still loathe, to this day...) If it was in front of you, on your tray, you were eating every morsel of it. I thought I was sneaky and smart, and chewed my food up and spit it in my milk container. I tried this the first meal, not knowing that the nurses who were watching me eat (yeah, for a group of 9 of us, there was 7 nurses in the room, eyeballs wide, watching every bite we took; even one nurse sat on the floor so she could see what was going on UNDER the table, for chrissake. Mind you, this is traumatizing for someone like me, who ate only in private; I never let anyone watched me eat, ever.)
The nurses checked our trays after the meal, checked our pockets, checked our cheeks, shoes, anywhere food could be shoved. She shook my milk carton, and everybody gasped. She walked over and dumped the contents into a measuring vile.
"Time for a few cans of Ensure!"
I started bawling and yelling, and literally kicked and screamed, and refused to drink the thick, fatty liquid. There were 4 nurses holding me down, with one trying to pry my mouth open and dump it down my throat. I'll say, I put up a pretty good fight for awhile, and then everything went dark.
I woke later, strapped to the bed by my wrists, waist and ankles. I raised my head to look at myself and noticed I had an IV drip going on. I felt sedated and had no clue what the fuck happened.
A nurse came in after I started yelling, and she told me they knocked me out so they could get the calories in me that I was supposed to eat.
"No use in fighting us," she said. "We're gonna get it in ya one way or another."
I cried at every meal for weeks.
We were weighed every 2 days on a huge industrial scale. I cried every time, because they wouldn't fucking tell me what I weighed. (I was obsessed with the scale; while at home, I'd weigh myself at LEAST once an hour, if not more. My day depended directly upon the number that scale read...if it was lower than it was before, today would be allright - if it was higher than before, it was going to be a hideous fucking day.)
The doctor would come around once or twice a week and go over our charts with us.
"We're going to raise your calories by 350 today, okay hon?"
"THREE HUNDRED AND FUCKING FIFTY CALORIES?!?!??!?!? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
I freaked. I think I was at 1,000 at that point. These mother fuckers were trying to make me fat, I knew it...but no way. I was going to outsmart them.
I would move around as much as possible when nobody was looking. Shake my foot extra fast while I was sitting around (I've always been a 'foot shaker,' I think I got it from my mom, I still do it to this day without even noticing - but then, it was with extra vigor and intent, as to burn every spare calorie I possibly could.) Our movement was severely restricted; we were not allowed to walk too fast, god forbid you skipped or ran anywhere (the ward was not big, it consisted of one long hallway with 5 or so rooms on one side and the other side was a large community room with windows all around and the 'eagles nest,' where all the nurses sat and monitored our every waking (and sleeping) moment.) If you weren't sleeping, in a group session, at a meal, or trying to take a shit, you had to be in the community room.
While sleeping, each of us were roused every 2-3 hours to take our blood pressure and temperature by a nurse. The first two weeks, it was every hour.
Back to me trying to outsmart the doc and his extra calories...
When the nurses weren't in my room at night, I'd do workouts in bed. Leg lifts, push ups - I'd lay there and shake my whole body violently to try and burn calories.
The doc came again for one of the bi weekly chart readings.
"You're not gaining any weight yet, in fact, you've lost 7 pounds."
I could not hold back my delight. I smiled.
He leaned over to one of the nurses and whispered "add 500 more calories and a can of Ensure before bed..."
I attacked the doctor.
I don't remember much after that...don't remember much of the rest of the year that I was there. A series of robotic meals, craft sessions, group sessions, doctors, psychologists, scales, blood pressure cuffs...Specifically regarding that week, I was heavily sedated and strapped to a bed for over a week. I was not allowed to move; my food was all administered via IV, until it was deemed that I might behave myself and shove the food in my gullet (un) willingly like the rest.
I was released from the hospital after 11 months; I was forced to gain 30 pounds. I was doing allright, doing all the recommended meal shit, measured everything out, ate my meals, for awhile...and then everything went to shit.
Cue 12 more months in the hospital...
No school. No dances, no parties, no socializing with friends. No concerts, no soccer, no running. No visiting my grandma in the hospital who I was very close to. I was allowed to be released from the hospital to attend her funeral (reluctantly, mind you). This is one blip on the screen I remember, sickening - I barely remember the funeral, but what I do remember was the fantastic feeling of being able to escape to a bathroom in the funeral parlor to vomit up the Haagen Daaz ice cream they had just fed us for lunch. Don't remember much after that. I just remember how satisfying that was, and looking back, it makes me want to hug myself, then punch myself in the face and ask 'what the fucks wrong with you, kid?'
Still think anorexia is sexy?
Probably. But I really hope not. It's a SICKNESS. It is gross and disgusting and so incredibly lonely and the sadness is deafening. I'm sitting here typing this with tears streaming down my face and shaking, because I haven't thought about that time in my life in awhile, and it is terrifying to remember how removed I was from myself and the rest of the world. It never really completely goes away. But I've grown up, and have tried with all my might to embrace the way my ass jiggles, and accept the fact that I am not the number on the scale (I am not allowed to have a scale in my home, to this day.) I am a woman. I am incredibly generous, kind, and people love to be around me. I have gained weight, I have lost weight, I have been skinny as fuck, and I have been fat - but I have noticed that I still have many friends who've been around for the duration, which indicates to me that it is not how my pants fit (or don't fit at all) that day, but it is me and who I am inside that people stick around for.
Please - don't waste 20 some years of your life like I did, trying to reach some unattainable goal. And the reason I say it's an unattainable goal, is because it ends up being exactly like any drug addiction - "well my goal was to get down to 110 lbs, but now that I'm here, let's make it 100...95...92...87..." kinda like "shit, this [insert drug here] isn't getting me high anymore...gotta do a little more. and a little more...and more...and more...."
sorry for the ridiculously long post, and I don't mean to be so bitchy in the first part - but it obviously hits home to me, and if saying what I've said here could maybe possibly deter you or any other person from an endless path of self-destruction and the ultimate interior hatred of one's self, then the wall of text was worth it. Embrace who you are. There's only one of you.
i could talk about tis for days and days - i have a ton of info, I would love to share moe with you. take care of yourself....
