If you love me for my body, I swear that will make me happy.

It’s 7:49pm and I feel it. A pang of hunger ripples through my belly, questioning the portions I served myself for dinner. They remind me in no uncertain terms that I am indeed still hungry and strongly imply I should eat more.

But I will not eat more. I am elated. The pang of hunger sends my dopamine soaring and I can practically feel my waist size shrinking with each gnawing pang. In this moment nothing makes me happier. My discomfort is my comfort. For I am convinced being thin is the only way I remain relevant.

Or lovable.

At my lowest point, I’m convinced that the only worth I possess is to be attractive to look at. An object of desire so thick it sticks to you with ease, imprinting your memory with my very scent. I want to be something you must have. Not just fun to fuck. But an utter delight to bed me. I want you so infatuated with me that you can’t help but mourn my loss the second I’m not in your line of sight.

If you love me for my body, I swear that will make me happy.

I was 18 when I first dipped my toes into dieting. For a brief interlude of time, I convinced myself it was possible to be a model — not because I thought I was stunningly beautiful — but because for the first time in my life, I began to see my 5’10” frame as an asset. Surely, being “tall enough” + “attractive enough” = model material.

But when I researched the requirements of becoming a model (because, of course, the internet gods are always correct) I was dismayed to find that my 135lb athletic frame wasn’t quite thin enough.

If the internet gods told me I needed to lose 15lbs then I obviously needed to lose 15lbs. It didn’t even cross my mind to question the absurdity of such a notion. Of course I wanted to look as hot as humanly possible. My body — my looks — were my holy grail. And surely the internet gods knew best.

Out of all the foods, pizza was the hardest to restrict. Every Friday, I looked forward to the homemade pizza, picking up a just cooled-enough-to-eat slice and biting into pure ecstasy. It was one of my chores to make all of the bread, rolls, and pizza crust for my family of 9. Every week or two, I would make huge batches of dough from scratch, starting with wheat berries, grinding them in the mill, and adding the rest of the ingredients until the dough was formed.

It was my favorite meal of the week. That is, until it came between me and my obsession with losing 15lbs. I vividly remember eating only 2 and a half slices of the thin crust, small squared slices, knowing I’d go over my daily calorie limit if I consumed more.

It was around this time I’d bought my first official smartphone, an antiquated Android device in today’s world. I downloaded and used the My Fitness Pal app religiously. On it, I could track everything I parted my lips for. Everything I slurped, sucked and swallowed went into the app. For the first time in my life, I found the taste of purpose and worthiness within my grasp.

If I could have a career as a model? It would change everything.

Growing up, my parents forbade me from working outside the home in a traditional job. The expectation was that I would grow up, court a man, become married and settle into my role as devoted wife and mother to as many children as God would bless me with. Deviation from that plan was akin to blasphemy in the circles my family associated with, and I felt chained to a future I had no control over. That is, until the summer I turned 18.

What started as a small spark of ‘what if…’ quickly turned into hope that engulfed me. Maybe it was possible to take my love of theatre and acting, combined with my 5’ 10” height and rapidly approaching 120lb frame as a model… and carve out a different path for myself. Maybe I could escape the path I was on.

And if it took starving myself as the cost of admission? I was willing to pay.

When my mom wasn’t around, I would enter her bedroom, slink past my parents’ bed and sneak into their bathroom, carefully stepping on the scale with anxious anticipation. What number would I find blinking back at me? Every day I dutifully logged every calorie I consumed, and week by week the ounces and pounds shrank until I reached 125lbs. I’m pretty sure I even got to 119 lbs on the scale at one point.

I never did follow my theatre or model career dreams. But I did find a man that loved me for my body, but I swear it didn’t make me happy. I married him, and I pay the price of those scars every single day.

-M

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