There was a time when I would wake up in the morning and immediately set to doing thirty minutes of cardio. Before anything else was done in the day, I was on my DDR mat or out jogging the neighborhood–swimming, biking, anything to start my day off with at least three hundred calories down.

I would then write down every last thing that passed through my lips including beverages and measured out condiments.

I totaled my calories for the day at mid afternoon, divide them in half. I would then do another bout of cardio to make sure I annihilated that half from my system. I drank nothing but water. I made sure that I had three meals a day, but they were broken up into tiny snack sized portions. I ate no more than 800 calories after exercise. For an entire summer I did this, every single day and was applauded. I managed to drop into a size ten pair of pants, down to about 130 at my thinnest.

It has been the only way I have ever lost substantial weight.

I recognize my disordered eating, I was never completely anorexic–the headaches, the crushing migraines kept me from it–but I wanted to be that thin. Bones and skin and beauty all wrapped into a neat, minute package. The fatosphere and all it’s comfort and support won’t rid me of that underlying self hatred.

I can’t say that I no longer want that ideal. I know I will be healthier, happier at my Betty Paige goal. But sometimes I honestly believe I deserve to starve.