It's so much easier to push on when armed with the belief that fixing one little aspect of our lives will make us happy.
For me, that little aspect has almost always been physical appearance. Whether it's mastering make up, investing in fashion, or shedding that extra 2 kilos, the outcome would - I imagined - be the same. Having finally attained attractiveness, my confidence would blossom and I would immediately become charming, sophisticated and generally brilliant.
In reality, that idea is obviously ludicrous. And it's not easy to live with, either - monitoring everything you eat, dodging calories from this home made cake that mum wants you to try, and that jug of sangria the girls ordered while you were all out for dinner. At the same time, it's impossible not to be aware of how shallow it is, and how much time and energy I'm investing into one of the areas I should care about the least.
What makes this obsession so insidious is that no matter how awful it can be at times, it's still easier to deal with than the truth: it takes a multitude of people, activities, and circumstances - some of which may be outside your control - to make you happy. It's not as simple as going down a jean size, it's about being in healthy relationships with family and friends, doing things you're passionate about, and being in touch with yourself. It's about figuring out what you want out of this day, or this week, or your entire life, and just going for it. And all of that is a lot harder than just putting down a piece of cake every now and then.
I've recently gained some weight after returning from a trip overseas, and the temptation to retreat back into my comfortable weight loss phase is very present. Surely I'll feel much better about the other concerns in my life when I'm a size six again, after all - never mind that when I was that size, I was actually severely underweight for my height. I'm realising now, though, that last year when I was at that weight I was just as insecure about my body as I am now. I still avoided jeans on days when I felt "fat", I still feared that when people glanced at me they were judging me by the size of my thighs. There's no freedom from the endless chore of trying to convince other people that you're beautiful. But now I'm just left with the uncomfortable task of figuring out what it takes to make me feel like my life is fulfilling and worthwhile, such a huge question that I'm not surprised that me and the many other people with eating disorders hide from it so thoroughly:
What do you want to live for?
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