(tw: suicide, eating disorders, self-harm)

The other night, I finally opened up to my mother about the several mental issues I felt like I was having. I had attempted suicide a few months ago in the middle of the night via medication (only to have a panic attack and throw up immediately) and I admitted it to her after a long, long shouting and crying match of “You never listen to me!” and “That computer has taken you away from me!” As expected, she went silent as I explained everything I had been feeling for the past two years; how I’m “ugly” and “stupid” and–of course–“fat”, and how I felt like I was a waste of space and just wanted a way out.

Everything seemed to go well. We cried a lot, and she decided she would take me to the doctor and get a recommendation for a therapist as soon as possible, because she’d noticed how depressed I was getting and was scared of the idea of me hurting myself like this. I’ve never liked therapists, but I feel like this might help give me an outlet other than the cuts on my wrists or the “no thank yous” I give every day at lunch. Even if it is just talking with a stranger about my problems for an hour a week, and maybe even a stupid pill, I’m trying to be an optimist.

But there was only one thing she said to me that really hit me hard, and not in the good way.

“Maybe once we fix up the gym, we can spend a couple nights a week working out. I know you’re so self-conscious about your weight, so maybe this could help you love yourself a bit more.”

My mom has done the best she could in taking care of me, but it certainly doesn’t help the fact that even though she tells me from time to time that I’m beautiful and should love myself, I could “love myself a little bit more if I just made my body a bit more lovable”.

Thin privilege is that, even when you’re so deep in depression that even you want to try and dig a way out, others think that changing your entire lifestyle to accommodate weight-loss will “fix all your problems”.