I have spent every day of my life, as far back as I can remember, wanting just one thing. To be thin. It would be the greatest thing that could ever happen to me. I would give up ten years of my life to just be thin and to never have to think about my body and why it wasn’t right, ever again. That was all I wanted.
But, four years ago my husband and I became pregnant with our much wanted beautiful baby girl and my body exploded. Everything was huge. Bloated. Sore. Unreachable.
9 months later and here she was. The reason for living that I didn’t know I was waiting for. In the midst of the happiest time of my life while I wandered around drinking coffee with all the other mums grinning from ear to ear with pride my husband was screwing his work colleague.
My life fell apart. My family was gone. My happiness was gone. I was gone. I stopped eating. I stopped caring. I would cater to my baby girl's needs every single waking second and in the brief quiet moments, I would quietly hate myself for never being good enough.
In the space of six weeks, I lost 38 pounds and my life goal was achieved. I was thin! Hurrah! I was also ill. In all honesty, I think I could have cried away those 38 pounds in those few weeks. I could barely muster the energy to put one foot in front of the other. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I breastfed and I cried and I clung on to the hope that maybe I would wake up from this nightmare.
I didn’t wake up from the nightmare. But every day got a tiny bit easier. Two years on. I am a single mum to a beautiful (nearly) three-year-old girl. I have a new loving partner who treats my body like it’s some kind of temple to be worshipped. I have gained weight. I have realised that if the only time my body looks the way I want it to is when I am going through the most traumatic period in my life, that maybe, just maybe, my body isn’t meant to look like that. I am happy and I am healthy.
My body gave me the greatest gift in the world. The least I can do is celebrate it for that.
But, four years ago my husband and I became pregnant with our much wanted beautiful baby girl and my body exploded. Everything was huge. Bloated. Sore. Unreachable.
9 months later and here she was. The reason for living that I didn’t know I was waiting for. In the midst of the happiest time of my life while I wandered around drinking coffee with all the other mums grinning from ear to ear with pride my husband was screwing his work colleague.
My life fell apart. My family was gone. My happiness was gone. I was gone. I stopped eating. I stopped caring. I would cater to my baby girl's needs every single waking second and in the brief quiet moments, I would quietly hate myself for never being good enough.
In the space of six weeks, I lost 38 pounds and my life goal was achieved. I was thin! Hurrah! I was also ill. In all honesty, I think I could have cried away those 38 pounds in those few weeks. I could barely muster the energy to put one foot in front of the other. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I breastfed and I cried and I clung on to the hope that maybe I would wake up from this nightmare.
I didn’t wake up from the nightmare. But every day got a tiny bit easier. Two years on. I am a single mum to a beautiful (nearly) three-year-old girl. I have a new loving partner who treats my body like it’s some kind of temple to be worshipped. I have gained weight. I have realised that if the only time my body looks the way I want it to is when I am going through the most traumatic period in my life, that maybe, just maybe, my body isn’t meant to look like that. I am happy and I am healthy.
My body gave me the greatest gift in the world. The least I can do is celebrate it for that.