I am

I am an infant, forming my first memory.  My father puts me down gently in my crib.

I am loved.

I am three years old, grabbing my parents’ hands and asking them to swing me onto the sidewalk.  They reply that I’m too big for that now.

I am devastated.

I am six, and I’m weighed by the school nurse.  She gives me a piece of paper with my weight on it, which I fold up and hide so nobody can see how bad I am.  If my teacher saw that number, she’d hate me.

I am mortified.

I am seven, and my best friend points out that I’m bigger than he is.

I am embarrassed.

I am eight, and I ask my mom if I’m fat.  She responds that I’m a kid, and kids are supposed to look how I look.

I am confused.

I am eleven, and my favorite teacher congratulates me for losing weight.  “What’s your secret?” she asks, but I know she’s just mistaken.  My clothes are too big because I’m so fat that I’m stretching them out.

I am influenced.

I am fourteen, and I pass out from lack of food.  My dad insists that I’m fine, so I get back up and pass out again a few steps later.

I am hurting.

I am sixteen, and I’ve been put on medication that has caused some weight gain.  I’m still underweight, but not by as much.  I pretend I don’t mind.

I am afraid.

I am eighteen, and I sit out for half my karate class each session because I don’t have the stamina or energy to continue.

I am conflicted.

I am twenty, and with support from friends I have ‘recovered’ and earned my black belt.  My weight is the highest it’s ever been.  A doctor comments that it’s the same weight as my sister, who is an inch taller than I am.

I am ashamed.

I am twenty-one and ask a doctor if I could lose weight “to help my knees”.  He says I should lose no more than eight pounds.  I respond by losing twice that as quickly as possible.

I am determined.

I am twenty-two and have lost some weight, and a school official asks if I’m sick.  Things are back to ‘normal’.

I am relieved.

I am in my mid-twenties and continue to struggle.  I finally admit my issues to a therapist, something I was afraid to do before.

I am trying.

I am twenty-eight and completely break down at the rheumatologist’s office because my weight was two pounds higher than I expected.  I have been feeling suicidal, and I admit it. She calms me down and talks to me, telling me both that my weight is fine and that I don’t need to be weighed by anyone. As the last appointment of the day, she spends an hour with me, just talking. She gives me her personal cell phone number in case I need it.

I am comforted.

I am in my late twenties and we adopt two children.  After protesting that I was given too much to eat one too many times, my two-year-old begins to do the same.

I am observed.

I am in my early thirties, and I reach out to friends and family.  With a lot of support, I agree to contact an eating disorder center.

I am nervous.

I am in my mid-thirties, with a supportive group of friends, family, and medical professionals who help me as I struggle.

I am loved.