I stared at my fourteen-year-old self in the mirror, traced my fingers across my defined ribs, my flat, almost sunken stomach, my jutting hipbones. I did not have an eating disorder. I was not afraid of food. I was just skinny — and I hated it.
I didn’t always hate it — in fact, there was a time when I didn’t even mind it. I used to never think about food, often skipped meals out of laziness or an unwillingness to eat, and was never very active or healthy. Besides for being betrayed by fast metabolism, I simply never liked eating. I didn’t find it enjoyable, and I’d eat out of a sense of duty — I was fueling my body. Then, I’d run off and do things I actually wanted to do.
When I was in seventh grade, I was in the 0.5th percentile for weight. My doctor told me that I needed to get my weight up or my bones would start breaking. “If you continue to be this skinny until your twenties,” he said, “your bones will be fragile for the rest of your life.”
My mom took this more seriously than I did. She loaded me up with repulsive “Ensure shakes,” tiny bottles of thick, disgusting “chocolate-milk-tasting” liquid that boasted protein and 350+ calories. She sent me to school with these and I had to eat them for lunch (they were very filling, especially because my stomach was so small, so I had to choose between an Ensure shake or real food). I decided…
