Dinosaur

Part I

     Once upon a time, I attended a coed, catholic middle school, silently ingesting a whole lot of darkness candy wrapped in sunshine paper. Everything I ever learned in middle school, all the advice I ever received about growing up, it was all said with smiling faces. But none of it ever ended up being as good as it sounded.

     You can't fake genuinely hating yourself. You can put up a front, you can make other people think you're miserable, you can do it all for attention and you can maybe get a few compliments out of it. But you can't fake absolutely, utterly, undeniably despising yourself. Some people argue that it's something you choose to do, that people choose to look at themselves in the mirror and outline every dip, curve and protrusion their body has to offer with scathing, hateful eyes.

     I, on the other hand, beg to goddamn differ.

     It's not even a matter of "if you have a mental illness or not" anymore. It's the mindset of the entire human race, one that is ever changing. In ancient Greece, the epitome of both male and female beauty was a strong and well fed figure- a few extra lumps here and there was a symbol of greatness. In 1990 America, if you could count all your ribs, you were doing pretty good. Why we as a society cannot seem to decide if having love handles is more "attractive" than protruding hipbones is beyond me.

     That being said, I feel that our current society is at a critical stage of development. Right now we have recognized our indecisive nature and have put both options on the table. There are people loving their extra pounds, there are people preaching body positivity, and there are organizations popping up constantly to offer help for people infected by societal norms. There are of course, still the extremists on both sides—people who preach that skinny is bad, and people that preach larger people are lazy. But the fact that we as a community have somewhat come to realize that something obviously isn't right, that gives me hope. I haven't been able to use the "h" word in a while.

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     Eating disorders aren't talked about enough, and that pisses me off. They've become a sort of "taboo topic", and are only talked about when someone dies, or when someone complains about period bloating or eating an extra slice of pizza. I appreciate the media drawing attention to it- it is being recognized more than ever and for that, I could not be happier. But why, why, if any time there is an ad, or it is mentioned in a magazine or on a talk show, why is it always glorified? Why is it always portrayed with happy music in the background and women standing in front of the camera proclaiming they "are finally at peace with their bodies"? By no means do I wish them not to be happy with themselves, but why is that the only aspect of eating disorders that is talked about?

     Why do we automatically fast forward through the late nights staring at the ceiling, the thoughts of starvation and the hours spent hanging over the toilet, and straight to the "I love myself" stage? Why are we trying to start at the end?

     We need to convey a sense of hope, one that's not clouded. One that's straightforward and shows the nitty gritty. We need raw data.

     It was February 2008 that I took an Oreo out of its blue casing, like a normal kid. It was that same night that that Oreo ended up drowning in toilet water, much like my hopes and dreams at that time.

     Eating was totally fine, as long as you didn't let it sit in your stomach for too long! I remember smiling to myself when I was nine years old, when I'd realized I could eat whatever the hell I wanted, and never have to worry about gaining weight again. Absolute bliss, right?

     It had become a routine as far as I knew, and soon enough it became a normalcy. Though, one Thursday in particular helped me realize just how normal it had become to me and the people around me.