I wake up feeling disgusting. After a night of heavy drinking, regret, and bruises, I am not at my best. I manage to drag myself out of bed and stand in front of the mirror. I hate the creature that stares back at me, but I force myself to keep looking. I take the remainder of last night’s clothes off and stand completely naked. My eyes go straight to my bulging stomach, bloated with alcohol and 3AM pizza. I try sucking it in, but I don’t have the energy. Then I move to my thighs: huge tree trunks where all my weight seems to stick. I will never have a thigh gap. I have stretch marks on the inside of my legs. I turn around to examine my bum. It wobbles as I move, and I quickly turn back around. I have the beginning of a double chin, although if I move my head in different positions it disappears slightly. I clench my arm and despite having a reasonable amount of muscle, there is just as much stubborn fat hanging underneath. I hate everything about my body. I would do anything to change myself. That’s it, I just won’t eat for the next few days.

 

After lying in bed all day nursing my hangover with black coffee, I manage not to eat anything. At around 5PM I cave and make some toast, but only one slice, and with only a scraping of butter. I get back into bed and try to distract myself from thinking about food.

 

I wake up the next morning feeling reasonably good about myself. I went to bed hungry, and I feel hopeful about my weight. I get out of bed and go straight to my scales – special Weight Watchers ones that show your exact weight to the 1/4lb. I always weigh myself first thing in the morning, never at night, and always completely naked. I strip off and move the scales to a flat part of the floor to ensure their accuracy. I remove absolutely everything: hair ties, earrings, socks. I also try to go to the toilet before I step on. I play guessing games in my mind as to how much I will weigh, depending on what I’ve eaten the day before and how active I’ve been. I like to pretend that I could have gained 5 or 6lbs, which I know is impossible overnight, so I can then tell myself gaining 1lb isn't that bad. I try to downplay it and convince myself it could be worse. Although this doesn’t usually work, and if the scales tell me I’ve put on weight or even stayed the same, I can instantly see the excess fat clinging to my body.

 

My weight determines how I see myself that day. Once I’ve built up the courage to read the dreaded little numbers, I then stand in front of my full-length mirror and scan my body all over. My day of starvation has paid off, and I’ve lost 2lbs. I look at myself more forgivingly today. My stomach is no longer bloated and almost looks flat when I suck it in. My ribs stick out, and I can feel my hipbones. I relish the feeling of them protruding from my skin. My legs still look huge, but not quite as flabby as before, and my double chin is nowhere to be seen. I put on my gym wear and head off to a Body Combat class with my friend.

 

After the workout I’m on top of the world; I’m proud of how my body performed and I think that maybe I should give it more credit. I feel as though I deserve a treat for all my hard work, so I get a large Starbucks coffee. I was going to get a medium, but my friend convinced me otherwise.

 

“You deserve it,” she’d said as we stood in the queue. “One little coffee won’t do anything.” Yet I knew she wouldn’t eat anything else for the rest of the day either.

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Although the coffee fills me up for a few hours, I start to get hungry at around 7pm and I don’t think I can make it through another night without any food. I go to the supermarket around the corner from my apartment and plan to buy something small to eat. I deliberately don’t pick up a basket so that I’m limited to what I can carry. However, when I walk down the confectionary aisle, I can’t resist picking up a bag of Haribo. I look at the calories: about 600 in the whole bag. Not too bad if that’s all I have. But then I think I might prefer chocolate, so I pick up a big bar of Milka. 500 calories for the bar. Or maybe I should get a packet of chocolate digestives, so I can dip them in a cup of tea? But if I get something sweet, I’ll then want something salty, so I’ll need a bag of crisps. Nice, salted, crinkle cut Lays, or cheese Doritos with dip? Overwhelmed with choices, I put everything down and walk away from the aisle. I don’t want any of that stuff, I can see the fat piling on before I’ve even eaten it. I go towards the pasta and buy a bag of penne and a jar of sauce. I get fresh vegetables to put in it, as well as a small block of cheddar cheese to grate on top.

 

I manage to make it to the checkout without picking up anything else unhealthy, and I get out of the store as quickly as possible so that I don’t have time to go back. As soon as I get home, I make my pasta and, as I’m famished, I end up cooking half the bag because the recommended portion size doesn’t look anywhere near enough. I end up with a mountain of pasta that I wolf down like a starved animal. I can’t move. I feel disgusting for allowing myself to eat that much food in one go, especially as I was doing so well. I lay down to try and ease the bloating.

 

An hour or so later, I’m craving something sweet. It’s too late to go back to the shop now. I raid my cupboards for something nice to eat. There’s nothing exciting, but then I realise I have all the ingredients for a mug cake. I add flour, sugar, butter, an egg, almond milk, and some cocoa powder to a mug and microwave it for 2 minutes. It’s overcooked on the top and raw in the middle, and there is some flour left at the bottom. It doesn’t satisfy my craving and I’ve probably consumed several hundred extra calories, on top of the pasta. I feel sick.

 

I go into the bathroom and get my toothbrush. I tie my hair back, sit down on the floor with my legs wrapped around the toilet, and stick the handle of my toothbrush down my throat. I retch and gag for a while, but all I manage to produce is spit. I’m crying, and I’m exhausted from all the self-hatred and the torment I’ve subjected myself to. I wash my face and drag myself into bed. I fall asleep thinking of all the ways I can look good without having to stop eating. Everything seems too hard and takes too long. I want results now, I’m sick of being fat.