For the past four years, I could easily be called anorexic, due to eating not nearly enough for what I was supposed to. I’d have maybe a glass of milk for breakfast, possibly a slice of toast. I’d then either skip lunch, which happened more often than not, or I’d have a tortilla just plain. After school, I might have a small snack, yet nothing much, and then I’d eat something with dinner to hide my lack of eating around my parents. This was after 14 years of being teased for being fat, especially when my whole class of 1st graders were weighed in the midst of major PE testing. Despite being the most flexible person there, and being one of the most flexible people the teacher had ever seen, as well as the best rock climber, I was teased relentlessly when it was revealed that I was already somewhere around the 200 lbs range. I don’t remember exactly what it was, except that I thought the scale was broken. Needless to say, after being forced to tell my class, I got teased, beat up, and teachers always turned a blind eye, despite my mom being a very highly ranked faculty member.

Now, in Uni, I’ve started to eat actual meals. Something small for breakfast, then a meal for lunch, and then a dinner. Actual food. And I’ve finally had my weight start to drop (or, rather, I’m finally dropping pant sizes. From a 24 to a 20, 22). However, I still get into very depressed and self-destructive spins where I don’t eat.

One day, I was feeling up to eating something for the first time in nearly a week. Up until that day, it was a chore to shove even one meal down my throat. That day, food looked good, i thought I was looking nice for once, and I was feeling really good about my body and my body image. I got two dinner plates full, one with a large-ish salad, and the other with some chicken, potatoes, veggies, and dessert. Oh, and some fruit.

That all changed when I went to the cashier.

“Oh, why do you need all that food? It’s not like you need it.”

World comes crashing down, and I hand him my card, pay for it, and wait for my friend. He’s just as heavy as I am, yet he’s got it in his more masculine, muscular frame. He also got a third plate, along with two drinks.

“Going to work out tonight? You’ll need that energy. Hopefully the food tastes better than normal.”

My world is even more shattered, and I walk to my dorm’s lounge, plates in hand, and throw away one of the plates, leaving just the pathetic salad. And I’m barely even able to shove that down my obviously fat, worthless throat.

It took two weeks to get out of that depressed spin. And I don’t even want to go to some sort of doctor to help with my chronic depression, because I’m fat, so i can’t be happy.

Thin privilege is simply not having to worry about people making snide comments about how much you eat.