Too Skinny, Too Heavy

From a young age society implants an image in our heads of how we should behave, or what we should look like. But the thing about society is that it only portrays one side of things, a side that is often wrong, yet so many people still believe that it is right. Teenagers are flooded with images of models who are paper thin, with long, beautifully flowing hair, but what they don't realize is that this perception of perfection doesn't exist. Beauty is based on perception, and everyone, regardless of what pant size they wear, is beautiful in their own unique way. Just because you may not see it doesn't mean that everyone around doesn't.

Up until middle school I was considered someone that was unhealthily underweight. For a while I didn’t think too much of it, mostly because I was too young to truly understand what people meant when they said I needed to “put some meat on my bones”. I’d always get comments from family saying that I was “all skin and bone” or that I needed to eat more in order to gain weight. By the time I entered junior high, I hated the way that I looked, and all I wanted was to gain weight so my family wouldn’t look down on me so much.

I had grown faster than most of my friends, being the tallest one in our circle. I became insanely self conscious, always trying to adjust the way I appeared. I’d look in the mirror at my dance classes and wince at how bony my ankles were, or how long my legs were. Through years of dance classes I found a love for gymnastics, and after years of pleading and attempting flips in my backyard, my parents had finally agreed to let me join a team. I spent hours each week training, and over time I was able to add some muscle to my bony figure.

I wasn’t a serious gymnast, I participated purely for my own enjoyment, and I loved the high I got from learning new skills. However, the pressure to stay tiny still lodged its way into my head. I was too tall in the world of gymnastics, which made my skills sloppier, and threw off my center of balance constantly.

As I got older my body was starting to develop more, and even though I was still considered tiny, I hated the direction my body was going. I started to live in baggy Aeropostale sweatpants and oversized sweatshirts. All I wanted was to hide from the comments, to hide from how I saw myself. I would rather people comment on the clothes that I wore rather than the build of my body.

In the winter of seventh grade, I was faced with two of my biggest fears at once. Puberty, and injury. My body was changing, I was gaining weight near my hips, and couldn't get away with wearing thin training bras anymore. My hours spent at the gym training turned into hours spent sitting on my couch, due to the first of my many knee injuries. When my parents weren’t around me, I’d do core or arm workouts, anything I could to make sure I didn’t gain any unwanted weight in my time away from gymnastics. I fought hard against my body, and I lost. I would look in the mirror, and all I would think of was how I wasn’t good enough, and that if I kept gaining weight, I wouldn’t be thin enough either. I began to self destruct. I distanced myself from my friends, and lost interest in some of my favorite things. After a few weeks, my best friend was a pair of scissors, and I had scars and cuts lining my arms and stomach.

When I finally made my return to gymnastics just before the spring, I was limited to wearing one black long sleeve leotard in order to mask what was underneath. My coaches eventually noticed, and so did my friends, which lead to a meeting with the school counselor, and a home visit from social services. I was required to see a therapist once a week for the next six months, and have periodic check ins with the guidance department at school. My parents asked me why, and I’d shrug it off. At the time I thought I deserved it, that I was a waste of space and I deserved to hurt. I hated every part of myself, both physically and mentally. It was my only outlet, and all the hate and disgust I felt toward myself went into each cut.

I finished my six months worth of weekly therapy sessions, and was back in the gym full time. Things were starting to look up for me, and I didn’t have the same hatred toward myself. I was still riddled with insecurities, but those were a walk in the park compared to the constant nagging I had become accustomed to. I had gained back most of the skills I had lost after the knee injury, and I was finally reconnecting with my friends again. I felt as if I was a “normal” pre-teen, but I was so far from it.

At the end of eighth grade I was out of gymnastics once again due to another knee injury, this one much worse than the last. I hobbled around school on crutches for the last two months of the year, barely getting off of them in time for my eighth grade formal or class beach trip. I was strong enough to attend the year's end festivities, but wasn't able to return to gymnastics until mid July.

Returning was harder than I had thought it would be, and I walked into the gym with a massive lump in my throat. I spent weeks trying to gain back the skills I had put so much time and effort into, but my body wasn’t the same. I weighed more, I was weak. I cringed in pain with every dismount, and every time I’d lose balance or fall on beam I’d be terrified of getting hurt again. I’d spend my nights after the gym with ice and Advil. Bruises lined my body, and my hands were often bloody and covered in blisters. Eventually my parents got fed up with the toll the sport was taking on my body, and right before my freshman year of high school they pulled me out of gymnastics, for good.

At first I was okay, I occupied myself by joining my school’s theatre production, and spent as much time as possible with my friends as I became accustomed to high school. But as the fall came to a close, and the theatre production was over, I had a plethora of time on my hands. I’d go right home every day after school, and spend most of my time watching videos on the internet, while eating whatever junk food was in sight. I spent most of the winter months trapped in my room alone in front of a computer screen, and eventually started to fall back into old habits.

I had gained almost 25 pounds between August and the end of January, and I hated every pound. I went back to wearing baggy clothes, and I started trying to burn the weight through exercise. I was less than pleased with the little results I was getting, and needed to find other ways to get rid of the excess weight. I was disgusted with myself, and once again turned the hatred into scars and cuts that marked my upper arms, stomach and thighs. It wasn’t enough. I still hated every ounce of my being. I started a structured and intense exercise routine, and every week I’d make it progressively more difficult. I started counting the calories that I would consume, and made it a goal to burn more that that in every workout.

Over time cutting down on calories turned into skipping meals completely. I’d purposely sleep through my alarm every day as an excuse to miss breakfast, and would purchase a lunch at school every day, only to later throw it away. My only meal for a while was dinner, which eventually vanished along with the others. The thought of eating made me sick, and most nights I ended up locked in my bathroom after dinner, getting rid of the only food I had consumed through the day. Some days I managed to keep dinner down, but only to wake up in the middle of the night with an extra workout.

I grew weak, and could barely walk up the stairs without feeling dizzy, or being completely out of breath. My hands were as cold as ice, and I was rapidly losing weight. My friends started questioning why I never ate lunch anymore, so I ended up spending that period in the library doing homework to escape the nagging.

My biggest struggle became gym class, and once I came close to passing out, one of my closest friends sat me down with all of the questions I had never wanted to face. I had a complete breakdown in the locker room, revealing the scars that lined my arms as she held my fragile, weak, and shaking body in her arms.

My parents didn’t have any idea what was going on, and to this day they still don’t know the struggles I faced freshman year. I believe I am incredibly lucky to have had my friend through that time, or things could have gotten a lot worse. She helped me get the help I needed in order to get healthy again, and every day after that I became a stronger, healthier and better version of myself.

It wasn’t easy, but over time I was able to maintain a healthy weight and diet, and even though some days or even months are hard, I have always come out on top, and have climbed over the mountains that my insecurities have made.

So many people are wrapped up in this unrealistic idea of perfection, but in reality it is our imperfections that make us perfect. You have to focus on the things that you love about yourself rather than the things that you hate. Even if there is only one feature of yourself that you love, you have to take that in and embrace it in every aspect of your life. You might not see yourself as society’s idea of beautiful, but I promise you, no one sees you in the way that you see yourself. We are our own biggest critics, and we are harder on ourselves than most other people ever will be.

You are beautiful; don’t listen to anyone who ever tells you anything differently. There is someone out there who loves the length of your hair, the scars that line your arms, and the stretch marks on your thighs. The pain isn’t worth it. It’s hard trying to turn your view around, but if you spent half the amount of energy used hating yourself on loving yourself, you’d be much more at peace. I never thought that I would be able to embrace my body in the ways that I have, but through hard work and dedication, I have learned to truly love myself. I have learned to lean on the people who care about me through the times that I struggle, and instead of pushing away compliments, I have finally been able to accept them.

You are good enough. You always have been, and you always will be.