My body was a battleground for many years.
A beast to be tamed. Something to be punished and shamed when it didn’t look the way I had been taught to think it should, when I couldn’t successfully tame the hunger and compulsion. Something to apologize for, to be overcome.
After my mom died when I was 19, I went on an intentional weight-loss journey, and I praised widely for it. It made me feel victorious and powerful and in control. I had done it the “healthy” way, too, or so I thought. So when I quickly gained back triple (then quadruple, then quintuple) what I had lost, I felt like a failure. I was deeply, deeply ashamed.
Being in my body felt like torture. I spent hours a day thinking about food, trying to control myself into compliance with what I thought I was supposed to be eating. I wanted to curl up and wither away every time I binged.
Somedays, the weight I had gained felt like something I couldn't imagine bearing any longer.
As a kid, I had spent hours a day moving my body just because it was fun. But after high school, exercise had become a “should”. A punishment for eating more than MyFitnessPal told me I should. My body resisted it more and more, until it began to feel impossible to get myself to go do anything active. Another example of my failed willpower, I thought.
I tried nearly everything to lose weight again. Nothing worked. I was desperate - surely something was wrong with me if I couldn’t make myself lose weight? I began to feel like a failure. I began to think of myself as a lazy, immoral person. I began daydreaming about being able to afford the most extreme methods of “fixing” this “problem”, like weight loss surgery. I knew I wasn't technically in the range that doctors started recommended it, but I couldn't imagine how else I could stop spinning out of control. I still spent hours a day thinking about food.
I was endlessly knowledgeable about food, nutrition, exercise, and weight... and yet, I eventually got to a point where I couldn't even do the whole "healthy lifestyle change" (read: diet) for more than 3 meals without binging for days or weeks after.
I fought my body every single step of the way. And yet, each step felt harder than the last. I became more and more mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted. It became almost impossible for me to do anything but binge, to get myself to move my body beyond what was required for whatever I had to do that day.
Failure. Lazy. No willpower. Not working hard enough. These thoughts spun around in my head daily, and rooted themselves into my being, colored everything I did.
But what I saw as a failure of willpower at the time, I've come to find, was actually my beautiful, resilient body protecting me from the harm I was unknowingly trying to cause.