They always ask me why don't I share my weight.
I answer: "I'm ashamed"
"Ashamed of what?"
My answer to that depends on the person who asks me that question but in general, I excuse myself and run away.
It's not that I don't want to answer it, it is that I am ashamed of myself so much that I am unable to form a coherent answer to such question.
In my five years of life people started making fun of me because of my weight.
At twelve years old I was in front of my classmates who were commenting on the way my belly was just so big. They were laughing and praying to never have a body like that.
That day any confidence I had left withered away just like how I planned to do. Since then, I've lost weight and I've gained weight and I've changed my style and the way I talk and walk and still... nobody wants me.
I've starved to the point of passing out and I've binged to the point I had to throw up.
I've worked out for hours and I haven't worked out in months.
I've tried to heal and I've tried to die.
I've pampered myself and I've hurt myself.
I've stopped myself from breaking down and I've let myself crumble down all at once while ugly crying in my father's and mother's arms.
And still... I am not enough, I am not pretty, I am not thin, I am not happy, I am not whole.
In my thirteen years of life I started working out and living off of water and air, only to last for about four days where I would empty a whole fridge.
At sixteen my mother begged me eat more because of my constant migraines but still I was far from being underweight.
At seventeen my mother begged me to have more control over what I eat and to stop eating like that because I was starting to get fat and she was right. I was, starting to get fat, if I wasn't that already.
At eighteen I am studying chemistry in the biggest university of the country.
Author:
Ivy here.
I'll be uploading one chapter per week.
I hope you'll find the story interesting!
Thank you for reading.
