Censure
TW: Eating Disorders. Please do not read this post if you are actively (silently) battling an eating disorder. I do not condone, support, or idolize the notion of starving, purging, or binging on food. Please take care of yourself first, and skip this week’s essay if this hits a little too close to home.
Billy G. Thorne
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I have a very love/hate relationship with food. 9 times out of ten if anyone were to ask me what I regret doing last week, it is eating out. I am actively losing weight. I stopped counting calories, taking laxatives, hopping on the scale after a bowel movement, and most importantly purging. Outside of me no longer monitoring the food that I put in my body, I am still noticing changes in my body. Yes, I could notice a lot more drastic changes if I did not enjoy food so much, but fuck me. My clothes look better on me, and I look great naked, which is what matters the most to me, unfortunately. I also had to accept the reality of my height. Since I am 5’8, I will never be 115 pounds. If I am, I would be dead, and I cannot sit here and lie and say that, that does not sound appealing at times.
Growing up, I had a slight eating disorder for a short period. I lost a great deal of weight by purging my food. I wish I could say it did not work, but I lost a great amount of weight in a short amount of time. I was very beautiful, curvy, and skinny, too bad I wasn’t able to see it at the time. It is also important to note that I was a teenager during the “thigh gap” era. Where “Thinspiration” and “Pro-anna” were major hot topics. I never quite gave up eating though. I just never kept it in my body long enough to digest. If I had a choice between purging or starving. I would choose to starve because of its sustainability. It is a discreet and sustainable skill to maintain rather than suspiciously running to the bathroom after every meal.
But, to tell you the truth, I love vomiting. It feels like the ultimate detox. Cleanse. I wish our bodies threw up more naturally than pooping. I do not have a fetish for vomiting, but I also do not feel the need to shower and scrub my ass hole raw after I vomit. When I vomit, a nice nap is warranted and expected. When you poop at work, no one is going to rub your back and tell you to take the rest of the day off. I wish that vomiting was not the last resort of food extraction. I attributed the onset of my ED to my mom. My mom was not skinny herself. She attributed her massive weight gain to her pregnancy with me. With my brother who is 8 years my senior, “the weight came right off”, but with me? As often reported by her, I am the reason why she is big now. 24 years later, I am the reason why she is still not eating healthy, exercising, or living a fulfilling life, but that is a story for another day.
On a random summer break day — I think I remember it raining this summer, which is pretty abnormal in California.
My mother’s coworker, Mrs. Alvarez, came over to drop something off for my mother. What exactly? Who the fuck knows. I thought it was pretty weird too because we seldom ever had people come over. When Mrs. Alvarez saw me, she said to my mom unprovoked, “Oh! She is not fat. That is just baby weight. What are you talking about; saying that she is fat?” All I could do was look at my mom. Looking for her to defend me while also wondering why my weight was a subject of conversation for her and Mrs. Alvarez. When I looked over at my mom, she looked like a deer in front of headlights, with her usual superficial smile painted on her face. Mrs. Alvarez made this sentiment right before I was going to eat. I then said goodbye to Mrs. Alvarez, transported my food onto my brother’s plate, and laid down for the rest of the night. I do not remember if I cried or not. All I remember was feeling empty, which I then sadly equated to feeling feminine. When I confronted my mom about the ordeal, she played stupid. But are you surprised? I looked for my brother to defend me and all he did was continue to uncomfortably play his video game. In silence, like a deer caught in headlights.
My ED started when I was either a freshman or sophomore in high school. I remember that I was so gravely depressed at the time. I remember I tried therapy for the first time when I picked up the habit of purging my food. I remember filling out the questionnaire that your General Practitioner gives you to scale how your mental health currently is. It was evident that they did not read the questionnaire until it was time for me to check out. The GP came in to my room as my mom and I were ready to leave and mentioned “I did not look at this until now, did you want to talk to someone? You filled this out for a reason.” I remember feeling so scared, and my blood turning cold. Like I was caught for something I wanted to take the blame for. They ended up setting me up in a room with either a psychiatrist or counselor. Where she asked how I was feeling. I remember I told her that I was sad and could not explain why. I fought back tears as I was explaining and eventually let it go. It was sad that I knew that if it was not going to come out then, it never was. Or at least not for a while, and I was right too. As I was crying, it was obvious that she felt uncomfortable in my presence. I am not sure what about me was off-putting to her. My shoulders were rounded and my head was bowed. However, she had a grimace on her face that I would never forget. As we wrapped up the impromptu session, she concluded, “The next time you come back maybe we can work on you not crying so much.” I wish that was a lie and I never returned.
I remember very vividly feeling skinny that day. What essentially got me to stop purging was when I read a random, non-scholarly, non-peer-reviewed article that mentioned that purging your food can contribute to the early loss of your teeth. I never stopped something so cold turkey, so fast. Losing my teeth is a silent fear of mine, understandably not understandably so. I do not have the prettiest smile. It is keeping me from being a solid 10/10. I have a gap in my teeth, well multiple gaps, and they are all present in the front of my mouth, right in the center. My teeth have never prevented me from getting any guy that I want, but as stupid as it sounds, I think it is what keeps me from being someone's girlfriend. Who wants to be the guy with a girlfriend with fucked up teeth? No one has really made fun of my teeth. I think that is how I know that they are fucked. Similar to how it is bad character to make fun of someone in a wheelchair. It is the reason why I hate meeting new people; showing them my teeth. I have even thought about living in the United Kingdom, to fit in with the stereotype of the UK not having good teeth or dental insurance. At least there, I will not stick out like a sore thumb.
I also thought about saving up for veneers. But they are not a permanent solution to my permanent problem. You have to dispense $925 to $2,500 per tooth and I need to get from canine to canine fixed, so I am looking at $5,550 to 15,000 every 5-7 years. I am sorry, I do not think my pride or ego will allow me to pimp myself out on OnlyFans for a new set of teeth, if it ain't broken, do not fix it. Yet.
I have a baby tooth waiting to fall out at any minute. There is no adult tooth to follow, but I am only one person. I will cross that bridge when I get there. I do not like the idea of plastic surgery. I think it is dishonest, and I feel like plastic surgery shows where we as a society have failed. Who gives a fuck if your tits are not sitting high near your chin? But on the same boat, holy fuck does the idea of small, perky breasts sound enchanting. The number of times I have thought, asked, prayed, and wished for a breast reduction and lift are borderline intrusive thoughts. I gave up the idea of having sexy, perky cleavage, probably in high school. Yeah, my breast began to sag in middle school. At the time, I did not know that was abnormal; for fucks sake, I was a kid. But I can thank my ED for the premature sagging; the quick and massive weight loss caused my body to keep the skin for the once “overweight” figure I possessed. However, depending on the day, I can ascribe my insecurity in my chest to my group of high school friends, who all circled me and made fun of me for having brown nipples instead of pink. That is a trauma dump for another day, and unfortunately, I do not think I have enough shit left in me.
I did not realize until later that cellulite was a genetic phenomenon. I thought it was always equated to being healthy and athletic until I saw girls with the body shape of an apple with jiggle-free, toned legs. If only I could go back and prevent myself from hating my young, tighter-than-now, teenie bopper self and tell her that the cellulite is here to stay. And most chiefly, to turn that hate from myself to my mom. I was never able to go through a “booty shorts” or short skirt era due to my cellulite. And I believe I am too old to partake in it now. The notion of stretch marks itches my soul. I mean, why are they so permanent? Forever. Finito. And on top of that, they come so easily. Is that a horrible reason not to have children? As I am writing this, I wanted to let you know that I finished two servings of dinner, a side sourdough sandwich, and half of a strawberry shower cake with rainbow sherbet. I am doing okay. I'll go to the gym in the morning. But perhaps not.
Update: I absolutely did not.