I'm putting on weight. And Anu's wedding is to blame.
The most annoying thing about putting on weight is that everyone tells me 'Good, you need to...' which is utter rubbish. I am (or was, until a month ago... I can feel an extra couple of kilos these days) at a medically-acceptable 54 kilos.
I especially resent it when family members tell me to eat up. For me, this weight issue has long been a delicate balancing act. I've come very close to the brink of getting all psyched and disordered.
Correction (take deep breath, remember, you're anonymous...) I DID get disordered. I still cringe to think of it. But yes, I went through a phase of yoyo-ing between anorexia and bulimia. I see my cousin sis, M, walking the same path, starving herself to death. I want to scream out to her and tell her to stop this madness but somehow I do not have the courage to tell her what dieting did to me.
This dates back to my college days. I was eating so little then that it amazes me now. Back then, all the girls competed with each other. Who could eat the least? I took to the sports-field with a vengeance. Not team-sports - I couldn't stand the 'discipline'. At any rate - our goals would be different. I didn't care about scoring goals. I wanted inches off my frame. So I worked out.
Erratic eating started taking it's toll. I began waking up exhausted. I began feeling breathless. But by the time I graduated, I was... well, close to 'sexy'. That's what they called me. Perhaps not beautiful. Perhaps not skinny. But sexy. Flat-sexy. Small-sexy. Sexy... how much it mattered, back then!
I thought I was okay. But once I let up on the workouts, I found myself throwing up. And I found myself reaching for food in scary, unstoppable ways. A pattern began to set in.... I started blacking out. I frightened myself, back then. I wouldn't tell anyone. My own family didn't know (They still don't). But I needed to sort myself out.
One day I managed to finish a half-kilo of jalebis all by myself (I had bought it for the family but finished it alone.) That was when I knew I needed help. I went up to my mother and told her that I felt the compulsive need to eat. Anything in sight. She gave me a book on eating disorders and asked me to check for other corresponding symptoms. I told her, no... Just this need to eat. I told her I was fine. I lied.
Eventually, I went to the doctor. Low Immunity. Low hemoglobin. Megloblastic Anemia. I was put on the usual tonics, but I knew the problem wasn't minerals and vitamins. Besides, I had had enough. Enough of competing with the skinny girls. Enough psychosis.
I'm done with the skinny-ambitions now. But the fear remains. And so, I watch myself... all the time. I don't let myself stray from the medically-approved 52 kilos. No less, no more. And I resent it when people push me into eating more. If only they knew what hell one goes through to lose it...
The most annoying thing about putting on weight is that everyone tells me 'Good, you need to...' which is utter rubbish. I am (or was, until a month ago... I can feel an extra couple of kilos these days) at a medically-acceptable 54 kilos.
I especially resent it when family members tell me to eat up. For me, this weight issue has long been a delicate balancing act. I've come very close to the brink of getting all psyched and disordered.
Correction (take deep breath, remember, you're anonymous...) I DID get disordered. I still cringe to think of it. But yes, I went through a phase of yoyo-ing between anorexia and bulimia. I see my cousin sis, M, walking the same path, starving herself to death. I want to scream out to her and tell her to stop this madness but somehow I do not have the courage to tell her what dieting did to me.
This dates back to my college days. I was eating so little then that it amazes me now. Back then, all the girls competed with each other. Who could eat the least? I took to the sports-field with a vengeance. Not team-sports - I couldn't stand the 'discipline'. At any rate - our goals would be different. I didn't care about scoring goals. I wanted inches off my frame. So I worked out.
Erratic eating started taking it's toll. I began waking up exhausted. I began feeling breathless. But by the time I graduated, I was... well, close to 'sexy'. That's what they called me. Perhaps not beautiful. Perhaps not skinny. But sexy. Flat-sexy. Small-sexy. Sexy... how much it mattered, back then!
I thought I was okay. But once I let up on the workouts, I found myself throwing up. And I found myself reaching for food in scary, unstoppable ways. A pattern began to set in.... I started blacking out. I frightened myself, back then. I wouldn't tell anyone. My own family didn't know (They still don't). But I needed to sort myself out.
One day I managed to finish a half-kilo of jalebis all by myself (I had bought it for the family but finished it alone.) That was when I knew I needed help. I went up to my mother and told her that I felt the compulsive need to eat. Anything in sight. She gave me a book on eating disorders and asked me to check for other corresponding symptoms. I told her, no... Just this need to eat. I told her I was fine. I lied.
Eventually, I went to the doctor. Low Immunity. Low hemoglobin. Megloblastic Anemia. I was put on the usual tonics, but I knew the problem wasn't minerals and vitamins. Besides, I had had enough. Enough of competing with the skinny girls. Enough psychosis.
I'm done with the skinny-ambitions now. But the fear remains. And so, I watch myself... all the time. I don't let myself stray from the medically-approved 52 kilos. No less, no more. And I resent it when people push me into eating more. If only they knew what hell one goes through to lose it...
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