Weight Loss and the Baggage That Comes With: Musings From a Girl That Stayed “Healthy” But Still Suffered Aky Follow Aug 17, 2018 · 22 min read

I would probably say that, in recent memory, I was at my happiest twice in high school: some time during freshman year, when I had a lot of new friends and was talking to people I don’t usually talk to, and towards the end of senior year, when I felt comfortable amongst a solid group of friends that had, for the most part, been present for a large part of my academic career thus far. In fact, the end of senior year — those last three months — consisted of some of my best memories. I had friends in almost all my classes that I constantly messed around with: disrupting AP Stats by snickering to one another in the back of a quiet room, knowing our teacher was too nice to speak up about it, or joking excessively in Spanish 4 and not getting in trouble because we were still talking in Spanish, or popping in each others’ headphones in AP Physics because the class relied on students teaching themselves just enough for us to favor our pop-punk ballads over our packet of past FRQs on magnetism.

To be fair, the year wasn’t by any means perfect — I was suffering a lot without even knowing it — but what I did know was that I was confident in my own skin and I felt comfortable with my surroundings and where I was at in life.

I believe it was that comfort that at least partially contributed to my lack of acknowledgement that my weight had ballooned to the highest it had ever been.

I’m 5'3". I never particularly considered that short (until maybe when I first met my boyfriend and it was one of the things he would tease me about). Sure, I was shorter than everyone in my “squad”, but I was also taller than my mom and all her sisters and nieces. Plus, I’d looked it up: the US average female height is definitively 5'4", making me basically average (a normal for my life, I would argue.) Despite that averageness, I’ve come to learn that small amounts of weight gain is no joke for someone at this height compared to other, taller folks.

What my heighest weight was, I can’t say for sure. Any time a friend asked how much I weighed, I always contorted my refusal to step on a scale into a joke that I’m just too lazy to check. Or too forgetful, as if I somehow stepped on a scale and the memory of that number leaked from my mind so severely that I couldn’t even provide a general ballpark for it. (Side note, but who asks their overweight friends how much they weigh? Especially coming from a skinny person… it’s just not a good look all around.)

I want to say I have no idea why I never checked my weight. It’s not like I couldn’t have kept it to myself and lied to others about not knowing it. It’s not like the number that would stare back up at me would make any difference in reality. I’d still be just as fat as I was before stepping on the scale. But I suppose my aversion was similar to women buying pant sizes too small simply for the comfort and familiarity of storing a smaller number in their mind. I didn’t step on a scale because the saying is true: ignorance is bliss. The less I knew about it, the less accountable I could hold myself to it. If I don’t know exactly how fat I’ve gotten, then I don’t have to do anything about it. I mean, I have ADHD for christ’s sake. Avoiding my problems is my thing!

So, to no one’s surprise, when did I decide to start losing weight? When I went to see a doctor for a general checkup the summer after senior year of high school, and I was asked to step on a scale.

Usually, my mom goes to the doctor with me. When she does, and I have to weigh myself (something that I hadn’t had to do for years before this), she, someone whose weight fluctuates around 110 lb, but never passes 120, often joked about that number. But, y’know, in the way Pakistanis generally joke about weight. Never with any ill intentions, it’s just something that’s not off the table to joke about. (Is anything off the table to joke about for Pakistanis? That’s a question for another day.) However, despite how well intentioned those jokes may be, how the receiver will take them isn’t by any means a guaranteed positive. Unpredictably, my extremely fragile self took them personally. As a result, I never liked getting weighed because I would anticipate her opening her mouth just as the nurse assisting me would announce it as they scribbled it down on their clipboard.

But this time was different. I was 18. I had just turned 18 about two months prior, actually. My mom was busy, so I went by myself. And because of that, when the kind nurse asked me to step on the scale, I thought nothing of it.

That is, until I saw the number blinking back tauntingly 3 inches away from my face. I was 160.0 lb.

Okay, I need to pause for a moment. I have to admit that I wish I had stepped on a scale before this point, largely to serve no other purpose beyond my own selfish reasons of wanting to compare my current weight to my past. (It’s nice that I can tell people I lost over 30 lbs.. but it would be even nicer if I could say an even bigger number!) But, at the end of the day, I hadn’t stepped on a scale in years prior to this.

That being said, I do vaguely remember a conversation with some (similarly overweight) internet friends in maybe freshman year of high school (give or take a year) in which I confided my weight to be around 150, and that it had been for a long time. That’s quite literally my only recollection of a time I’ve known my weight (not counting the doctors visits with my mom, which were when I was around 120–125, but that may have very well occurred during early middle school or even prior). So, when I saw 160, the only thing that was ringing in my ears was the memory of me telling my friends I weighed ~150.

That’s when I decided to lose weight.

It’s funny, because that’s only, what? A 10 lb difference? Probably even less, since my 150 figure was a generous number I was willing to give my friends. But there were lots of reasons why that was my breaking point.

Part of it was because I had always told myself I would get around to losing weight. (Did I mention I have ADHD?) Part of it was because college was fast approaching in just under two months, aka a great time to start making lifestyle changes. Part of it was because my brother, a former obese man turned gym rat, told me women who lost weight around age 18–19 tended to keep it off. Part of it was because an old internet friend of mine — one that I would probably consider to be one of my best friends, but don’t ever tell her that— had recently embarked on her own weight loss journey. And part of it was honestly just because I thought it would help me find a man.

And so I did it. I began losing weight.

Sure, I guess it was hard at first. It’s hard for literally everyone to be hungrier than usual. But that first summer was a walk in the park in retrospect. I blasted through the 150s. Plateud a little in the 140s, but eventually made it to about 141 when it was time to move into my dorm.

I did it with nothing but my own motivation for a lifestyle change. The only person I felt it necessary to tell was my aforementioned internet friend, Orange. My parents and relatives did catch on that I was dieting, and any time I crawled out of my cave to quickly prepare dinner and was hit with a barrage of “you’re starving yourself” or “why do you care about the way you look, you already look beautiful!” from them, I would rant to her about it. But other than my small musings to her here or there, I largely kept to myself. I did post on /r/1200isplenty from time to time and was fairly active in the community for someone who generally sticks to herself on Reddit, but, even then, my discourse began and ended with the sharing of recipes amongst others on similar journeys.

Of course, then college started. I did try to stay on 1200, I swear I did! But my dorm had no calorie counts and the food was so good that I eventually decided that maintaining my weight and focusing on my academics would make me infinitely happier than attempting to keep up the diet and dealing with the inevitable failings that would accompany the lack of an environment to continue my old habits with ease. I didn’t experience the cursed “Freshman 15”, thankfully. My weight may have gone up to around 144, but eventually got back to 140 by the time first semester was over.

Now, during first semester, I had met my boyfriend. We were in a group project based class together. I developed a crush on him because he was really intelligent (I’d honestly get down on my knees for any guy that can make me feel as dumb as a bag of nails), but it wasn’t anything serious since I was a thirsty girl that developed feelings for basically any guy that was even vaguely kind to me. That changed, of course, when one day we ended up in my room talking all night, and I realized this could actually become something more than a fantasy to live out in my head for brief moments at a time.

We became good friends from around thanksgiving until around when winter break was about to start. Such good friends that he earned some insight into my weight loss — how I was 160 lbs and had recently lost 20. How I wanted to lose more, but the start of school had stunted my progress. How I insisted and insisted how I swear I’m capable of losing weight, I just need to be home to do it.

For the record, he didn’t care about my weight. I was still very much self motivated at this point. But I’m sure attempting to convince him on more than one occasion that I would lose weight when at home definitely added inspiration that led to me losing 5 more pounds over winter break.

He had returned to his town in New Jersey, me to my suburb of Chicago. This was about the time when he claims to have begun catching feelings for me (the only time he’s ever been the ‘slow’ one in the relationship!), and we were talking every moment of every day possible. A combination of that and my compulsive nature to over share every detail of my life led to him becoming the #1 insider on my weight loss.

He was very encouraging of me to lose weight. Again, he didn’t care what I looked like, but, in his words, he knew this was something I wanted to do and that I’d be happier if I’d do it. So, every day, he’d ask me for weight loss updates. And if it was lower than the day before, he would say I’m doing amazing and shower me with nothing but comments that boosted my self confidence incredibly.

Long story short, we returned from winter break and started dating that first week back. We began spending an incredible amount of time together. Don’t get me wrong, we were already attached to the hip just a month prior, but this was new territory. Now, we were sleeping in the same bed every night. We barely went to our classes, and shared a few of our own, so we’d often times spend about three days straight together, sometimes even longer. It quickly reached the point where spending a couple hours apart for anything other than attending weekly required classes felt terribly depressing. (The unhealthiness of this part of the relationship is something for another day.)

Let me clue anyone in who hasn’t ever dated a man as a woman themselves: it’s incredibly painful to watch them eat. And for women who are trying to lose weight? Forget about it! Being two peas in a codependent pod, we predictably ate every meal together, too. Now, let’s me sprinkle some introspection on the combination I was dealing with here: I’m looking to stick to an under 1200 calorie diet (one that is hard to maintain even when closely monitoring my food alone at home), I’m living in a dorm that is known for having the best dining hall food, there are no calorie counts to accompany my dining hall food, I’m dating a man who vacuums up snacks like it’s nobody’s business, I’m someone who’s never truly learned self control, and my mans can eat an entire meal more than me and can (and will!) still lose weight.

Given those circumstances, I refuse to take the blame for the 5 lb I gained back.

Okay, fine, it was definitely my fault, but it was hard, okay!

Regardless, I ended second semester back at 140.

Looking back now, I honestly feel no shame about it. It’s college. Everyone gains a little weight. I finished my freshman year with a net gain of zero, and I think, if anything, that should be applauded.

But, at the time, it didn’t feel that way. I wasn’t particularly emotional about it, but I would feel a fair bit of shame when my boyfriend would make me step on the scale to face my inevitable spike in weight every few weeks. He meant well, he really did. I even told him to tell me no to snacks and keep me away from high caloric things. But, similar to my mother not meaning any harm in joking about my weight at the doctor’s, it’s always going to be shameful having anyone see you not succeeding, even if you know deep down that they truly, in their core, do not care or judge your character over it.

I think that was probably the start of my problems: just in general having someone witness my journey and the inevitable ups and downs that come with. It was something I’m not at all used to, (mostly because I’ve never experienced anything of this sort) so I never learned how to deal with it.

There’s this YouTuber that I’ve liked my whole life. His name is Shane Dawson, and I began watching his videos nearly ten years ago. He used to be 400 lb and lost weight when he was 18, and he’s always said something that I never forgot: don’t assume you’ll be happier when you lose weight. I have the memory of a goldfish, but I’ve always remembered that, since far before I began dieting. However, the funny thing is, I always sort of laughed at that to myself, because I knew when I would decide to lose weight, that’s exactly what I would do. Like, I heard his plea to not set yourself up to crash and burn, but I knew enough about myself to know that there’s no way I wouldn’t do exactly that.

So, Shane, I’m sorry for not listening to your advice.

I’m not exactly sure when the loathing of my body image first bud into fruition, but I’m inclined to say it was at some point during Ramadan. Ramadan was incredibly difficult for me. Similar to my determination to lose weight during winter break, I was determined to keep shedding weight despite the added annoyance of eating breakfast at the bright and early time of 3 a.m. and dinner — filled with a multitude of assorted fried goodies — at 8 p.m. every single day for an entire month.

I struggled to get back on track. Hard. I lost less than 4 lbs that month, and by the time Eid rolled around, all I could think about was how I still wasn’t at my lowest weight during winter break. How did I easily lose 5 lbs before in less than a month, but struggled to do that again?

And that was just the beginning of my mental anguish.

If you’ve never put much thought into stepping on a scale, or haven’t done any research on it, first of all, I don’t blame you, but, second, here’s what they advise you to do in order to get the most out of your scale reading:

1. Weigh yourself in the morning.

2. Before you eat.

3. With minimal clothes on.

4. Right after you pee.

For people who follow those steps, they’re probably going to be weighing themselves at least 12 hours after their last meal. The problem is, if I were to do the same during Ramadan, I’d be weighing myself 9 hours after, which, for me, was unacceptable. So, I thought to compensate I would just weigh myself right before eating dinner. It’s basically like my dinner is normal people’s breakfast and vise versa, right?

Okay, so that problem was solved. I would weigh myself around 7:30–8 p.m. before breaking my fast, and as long as I did that every day, it wouldn’t be inaccurate.

Except… I was a college kid home for the summer without a job of any kind. And what little friends I had were all busy most days. And I was without the ability to eat to distract myself. So, sometimes, I’d get a little… bored.

And curious.

I passed the scale every time I needed to pee. So, sometimes, I would close the bathroom door, strip down my pants, and step on the scale at 5 p.m. … and then again at 6 p.m. … and then at 7.

And again at 7:30.

And at 8.

And, sometimes, I’d throw it in at 8:15 as well. For good measure, of course.

I believe that’s just about when it I started having unhealthy tendencies.

Eventually, Ramadan ended, and I got back into my usual habits. I had also decided at the beginning of summer that I would take progress pictures in my underwear for myself, and keep that up for every 5 lbs dropped. So I took one at 140. And then, when I got to 135, I was excited, both because it was progress pic day and because I was finally back to my lowest weight.

I was feeling good, had taken cute pictures recently, even posted one on my Snapchat story with 3/4 of my body showing (something I rarely do).

I snapped my progress pictures, trying to align them as perfectly as I could, standing in the exact same position as before. People always say just a few pounds can make a huge difference to shorter women, so I was excited to see what great changes I had made.

I opened up a generic photo editing app. I selected the 140 pic, then the 135 one. As I was making small adjustments to the borders, I vaguely took note of the difference. For a second, a thought flashed across my mind that I looked bigger. But that couldn’t be right, I convinced myself. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind, saved the first photo, and went to make the second side-comparison photo. I made a point of not looking at the photos at all this time, wanting to save that experience for when they’re fully done and saved in my gallery. I saved the second photo, opened my gallery, and stared at my new creation. For maybe five minutes.

I was right. I did, in fact, look bigger.

While Ramadan was the red flags, this experience was when sirens started blaring. This was truly when my obsession with my weight became obsessive.

I grew more and more upset with every second as my eyes moved from my before picture to my after and back to my before. How could I have spent an entire month dieting and starving, depriving myself of all the samosas my little heart could desire during Ramadan, and it was all for nothing?

My anger towards my supposed lack of aesthetic improvement blossomed by means of more problems I had with my body bubbling to the surface. I began to really examine the way my body is structured. My big arms. My two fat rolls. My thunder thighs. My non-existent butt. My gigantic calves. I was never not aware of these things, but it felt as if I had finally grown an understanding of the sheer weight (pun intended) that these parts of myself that I’ve disliked on occasion all together for the very first time.

It was my two fat rolls that I had the biggest problem with.

Picture a snowman. How its head sits upon larger and larger round globes beneath it. That was essentially the upper half of the front of my body, my boobs being the head.

I had never seen anyone else with this exact problem, bar some relatives on my mom’s side of the family and on extremely obese women. (Reminder that I was no longer at an overweight BMI at this point!)

I’m someone who compares herself to others a lot. I mean, everyone is, right? But I do it… a lot. So in my new obsession with my stomach, I went on a venture to find women who were at my point in their weight journey, to see if anyone else had this same body type. I stalked subreddits like /r/loseit. I tried scouring Google Images. I even found a website meant to make women feel better, where you can sort by height, weight, body shape, among other things. I put in my height, and chose 140 for weight since 135 was not an option. I picked a random body shape, and clicked search with much anticipation. I looked through every single photo and wasn’t satisfied with any of them. All those women looked better than me. I picked a different body type. The same thing. I toyed around with different settings, and spent an hour on that website, maybe. I never once found a single woman that looked anywhere near as bad as I did, let alone had those “rolls” I was seeking solace in.

I made a rant post about my feelings on /r/1200isfineIGUESSugh. I didn’t specify in detail what exactly I disliked about my body, just that I felt my stomach was bigger than most women’s. I got a rush of comments from women who self described as “apple shaped”. They said things like they acknowledge that they have nice legs, but they were on the same page as me with their shame over their upper halves. But I didn’t feel any better after reading through all 45 comments. I’m not apple shaped. My legs are not nice. The only socially acceptable part of my body is that my waist goes in if you look at me head on. I appreciated these women for their support and solidarity, but I still felt alien in my experiences. Even their “problem area” of their tummies in my eyes was far more attractive than my “rolls”.

So I grew even more obsessive. I couldn’t stop thinking about my stomach. I kept imagining myself seeing my boyfriend for the first time all summer, taking my shirt off in front of him, and having him see me still fat as ever. Still with a gigantic stomach and these damn. Weird. Rolls.

I even developed the habit of randomly lifting my shirt up in front of a mirror to see what my tummy looks like, even though I know doing so will just make me more upset.

Despite my frustration with myself, I kept going. My diet stayed strong. I took another month to lose another 5 lbs.

I have a tendency to do this thing where I try to be pessimistic when predicting things because I know it would make me happier when I see results, but it’s never truly authentic. So, as I was snapping my progress pics and making my before/after pics, I did my absolute darndest to keep my hopes low, telling myself it would be just like last time. But, I think if I had to choose between the two, I’m an optimist at heart. Even as I was telling myself that, I had hope and trust in the back of my mind that I would see results. I mean, I had to, right? I was now 10 lbs down since the start of summer. The weight had to drop from somewhere.

Before anyone gets excited, I have to say up front that my body shape remained the exact same. I still had all the parts I hate. Yes, even the rolls. But, that being said, I did see a difference. As foreshadowed previously, my middle roll had deflated a little, albeit still round and present as ever. My tummy appeared to be smaller as well, compared to myself at 140.

That day, I felt a mix of emotions. I was happy to see results, but still angry that my body still looked terrible as ever.

first pics taken in the dress

It was around this time that my interest in before/after pics really piqued. There’s this rosewood colored dress that my mom once insisted I get years ago despite my insistence that it wouldn’t fit. I always had the same problem with it — that my damn middle roll was so incredibly round and apparent in it that if you just saw me from the front, you’d think I was defying the laws of physics with my perfect sphere of fat. I tried it on at around 133 lbs, and took “progress pictures” in that as well. And then again at 130. I even took ones where I was sucking in as much as I could, to signify my goal for looking in that dress.

The other day, I woke up, and I don’t know how I knew something was different, but I felt it. I tried on the dress again, and surprise! My orb was no longer sticking out when standing straight.

left is me sucking in as much as possible / right is me naturally 2 weeks later

I have no idea what happened. It had been 2 lbs since the last time I had tried it. My orb still sticks out, it just resembles the top half of a car drawn by a kindergartner more than a snow globe now. It still doesn’t look amazing as I walk or sit down, but I made progress.

I was feeling so good about myself that day that I even took pictures in my bra in the mirror without any prompt from my boyfriend or any urgency to send them to him. I just did it because I felt good about myself.

That’s the funny thing about me. I hate myself a lot of the time, but I also love myself a lot as well. Like I said, I didn’t particularly notice or care when I was at my highest weight. I’ve always been able to point out things I love about myself. I tell everyone I’m the most photogenic person. I tell people I’m not a terrible writer. It’s not like I’m lying and convincing myself that there’s flaws to me that aren’t there. I think I’m just hyper-aware. And I believe that’s what’s made this whole experience bitter sweet.

I’m in a weird phase right now. I have been all summer, actually. That thing I was talking about, how I was feeling really good about myself — that happened about a week ago today. I’ve made so many progress pictures since then. In fact, there’s a total of 38 before/after pictures saved to my phone currently that I’ve made in the last month and a half. I’ve been so happy lately looking at how my face has changed since the past. I look so much better, there’s no argument about that.

But my self-hatred still hasn’t gone away. I still think about my rolls constantly. I tried on pants today, and, naturally, the jeans I liked pushed my stomach in, which is universally nice in theory, but it makes my top roll look gigantic. My weight’s also been stagnant for a week now. I’m incredibly frustrated with my progress. I had no problem with losing 20 lbs in under two months last summer, but likely won’t cross the 15 lb mark after a full three months.

I must admit that I feel a bit silly, reflecting on what I’ve wrote here. I’ve spent over four hours writing this across two days, and I barely even wrote about anything. Others suffering from eating disorders — I feel like they have a pass to write this much about their journey. Not me.

But I suppose this long drawl of nothingness is for anyone like me. For anyone who is losing weight more or less in a healthy manner, and is still unhappy. I rarely read about people being upset over their weight loss, but that’s how I’ve felt all summer.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret it all. Obviously I look a lot better now than I did before. But I do sometimes wonder… would I be happier if I was still 160? I mean, I rarely cared about anything related to my physical appearance before, but now everything bothers me. Not just the fat all over my body, but everything. The small dots on my arms that make it look like I have goosebumps all the time, or how big my nose is, or how ugly my boobs look.

People are always really dramatic when they talk about their weightloss, I think. They say things like how they have so much energy now. How they feel like a whole new person. I don’t feel that. I have just as much energy now as before. Literally the only thing that’s changed on me is my physical appearance, and that’s made me miserable.

I’m still not at the end of my journey though. School is about to start again. I’m no longer living in a dorm and will be in control of my food all the same. So, who knows? Maybe my diet won’t stop this time. If it does, I’ve accepted it already. Even my boyfriend assured me that it’s okay if I don’t. I don’t need his assurance, but it’s always nice to have it.

I’ve feared for a long time that I’m still going to look terrible at my current goal weight of 120. I have a strong inkling that I’ll keep going to 115, maybe even more. I’m not sure. I guess only time will tell whether I’ll ever be happy with how I look.

Sometimes I’ll post on my Tumblr about how disgusting my body makes me feel, and strangers will once in a while send me messages assuring me that my body is beautiful and to not worry. I know they mean well, I truly down to my core do. I thank them both then in my replies and now, because it’s a sweet thing to reach out like that.

But I don’t feel it. The self love about my body, I don’t feel that at all.

Maybe one day I will.

I truly hope I do.