forks are f*cking everywhere

13.09.2022

Song: Guitar Songs (EP) – Billie Eilish

(TW: mention of disordered eating)

Around the time I was 7, my parents – especially my dad, for some reason – started worrying about the way my body was looking. I had check-ups every three months, and the practitioner would always weigh me, measure my height, and give a paper full of graphs to my parents showing how much the average boy my age would weigh or how tall he should be. I was always under the average. While driving me to my swimming lessons, my dad would promise me that I would be a lean, tall guy when I grew up, and he just thought that I was a late bloomer. It seems a little weird how much he cared about that, now that I come to think of it. I was the shortest and the skinniest guy in my class throughout elementary and middle school, some snarky comments were made. Still, to be completely honest, I never really cared for it.

On the first day of high school, I was clearly the odd one out. I was around 5 feet (152 cm), and I weighed about 45 kg which ended up dropping down to 37kg by the end of the term due to excessive bullying. Most boys were just gigantic; they were tall and muscular. Some of them were not so much taller than me, thankfully. The rest of my high school life was relatively uneventful in that department. I gained and lost some weight at certain times, which never really bothered me – except for my senior year, where I gained about 10 kg for no apparent reason –; I had reached 5'7" (170 cm) and weighed about 54kg by the time I was graduating.

When I turned 19 and moved to Cologne the same fall, I noticed that some guys around me in lectures looked like they were working out, they were showing up to tutorials with their sports bags and seemed like "taking good care of their bodies" which seemed unfamiliar, yet it didn't faze me at all. I was content with how my body looked; every now and then, I would see someone around my height having a more muscular body, and I would have this envious feeling over me. Still, I was eager to let those feelings go away, and they did.

Fast forward to when Covid hit, I had moved back to my parent's house. It was the first time after high school that I had to live with them for – now seems like – a long time. My parents love to cook, our living room is right next to our kitchen, and when I now think about what they might be doing, I always imagine mom lying on the couch in the living room telling dad what kind of seasoning she thinks the food needs while my dad is tasting the food, as he is cooking away. Living on my own for a year and a half made me forget how controlling my parents got when it came to what I ate.

I don't like causing scenes in the kitchen cause that's the only time where four of us are all in the same room. Yet almost every time, we end up fighting anyway. During one of those days, at dinner, the conversation took us to my eating habits, and my mom made a snarky comment about how much I was eating; and she bets that I had quite the belly now and that maybe I should go out for walks now and then if I want to get rid of it. I think I told her to mind her business which must've hurt her because that started another fight that I don't remember the details of. Around that time, I had also dropped out of university. I was severely depressed, which resulted in me seeing a therapist. That was the first time in my life where I would describe my relationship with food as follows: "eating my feelings away". No matter how miserable my life became or how excruciating the agony, I always made room for seconds. About two weeks after that unnecessary conversation with mom, one of my close friends started a heavy diet. She was working out and eating healthy, and I was there to support her because It just felt right. She lost 10 kg in a month, I started looking at my body in the mirror more; She lost 15 kg, I told mom to stop cooking for lunch, telling her that I woke up late anyway. I hated myself for being jealous of a friend that I cared deeply about, but not as much as I hated my body. She lost another 10kg. I was starving, but this light bulb went out in my head, and I had a moment of clarity. I had stopped eating; therefore, my body was changing. But the process was so slow that it made me miserable. So, I started working out four times a week. I picked up random hobbies just to forget the constant craving for food. I started playing the guitar, learned how to skate. After working out, I would go out, skate by the beach, and then come home telling my mom I ate outside. My mother's worry increased to the point where she would leave me food on the kitchen table. When she saw that I hadn't touched my plate the next day, she'd start yelling at me. And I would just crank up the music till my sister would barge in my room to tell me to keep it down. 3 months went by, June came around, and we moved to our summerhouse. I had stopped weighing myself at that point cause one morning, as I was getting naked in the bathroom to weigh myself, I realized the scale wasn't there, and when I asked mom, she told me It stopped working, so she threw it out. I knew what was going on, but I didn't want to pry.

The idea of moving to our summerhouse was terrifying. It was hot outside; my friends suggested we splash around in the sea or sunbathe by the pool. I did my best to insist on playing card games or watching movies, even made them watch "Purge: Anarchy" – if you have no clue what it is, it's the worst movie from the whole franchise – So I kept my shirt on. Told them I was busy when they were going to the pool. Went home and worked out a bit more. I was exhausted, my hair was getting thinner, and my bones were numbly frigid, so I started wearing pants when it was 30 degrees outside. Summer was almost over, and I had gone to the pool twice when nobody was around. I never kept this problem a secret, and neither have I talked it about openly, but people caught up quickly. Some of my friends' worries started to turn into resentment. I would show up to outings looking tired and would stroll around in a trance, barely able to say anything. I would feel too faint to talk to anyone, just sit and watch my friends eat their food, and make an excuse to leave early.

Not much had changed when I moved to Sheffield. I downloaded Tinder and Grindr again. Put up pictures of my torso on my profile. The number of matches I got was shocking compared to my one-year younger self. I started hooking up with random men to feel better about myself. Before going to their houses, I worked out and didn't eat. When I got naked with a stranger, I wanted to apologize for what I had to offer. But their approval of my body fed me like lunch. Every step of the way, it felt like society was praising me for the suffering I had caused myself. I had a perception that having a good set of abs was the most significant sign of beauty, and to my horror, this notion was constantly reinforced.

And then… I fell for a boy. A stupid boy. My love life had never existed. It wasn't a topic of discussion ever. Growing up where I did, I didn't really have the chance to dip my toes in the water. Don't get it twisted; this is not some kind of a love story that saved me. This boy did not like me back at all. It was clear he wanted the attention I was giving him; I got nothing in return, so he kept me in his back pocket, and the head-over-heels guy I was, I let him. I pitied myself for still wanting to talk to him. This guy was a total piece of shit. He ignored me, avoided my calls, and messaged me whenever he felt lonely. One of those nights when, my then flatmate, Elly and I were talking about him and what kind of conversations we were having, I noticed something. He never mentioned the way my body looked unless I did. Even when I did, he said I was looking good and kept it going. To this day, I still don't know why that little of a detail was so important to me. Maybe because since I’ve lost weight, no guy could keep a conversation without mentioning my body – even when it was a compliment – So many reasons come to mind now; maybe he was insecure about his own body (just like how I was) or maybe he just wasn't interested in me. I’d like to think it was the latter. Whatever it was, back then, somehow, It was enough of a push to mention this stupid boy and this specific thing to my therapist. Can you believe that? I never once mentioned my eating problem to my therapist for about 8 months. It took him about 20 minutes to notice I had a very disordered eating.

My therapy sessions were entirely about my relationship with food now. It felt like we put every other problem of mine on a shelf to make room for this new unknown territory, but I did not mind. I went to therapy more frequently and started reading the right books. My weight began to creep back on very gradually. Over time, I adjusted to a typical eating schedule. I kept working out as I kept eating whatever I wanted; I had found the balance. In other words, I got well again. Both baking and eating have become new passions for me. After a few months, I flew back to Turkey, and my mum complimented my appearance, saying that I now looked "healthy" again. I tried to ignore the thought that this meant I was gaining too much weight. This war was coming to an end; the recovery began. I felt like I got my life back.

It's been a year since then. As I look back and realize how precious it is to have a healthy working body, I feel so ashamed that I treated mine so poorly. To say that I will be entirely free of what happened in that time would be a bunch of bull, which is something no one ever really tells you. Your physical health might be preserved, and you can form healthy daily routines like exercising as well as this rational, caring attitude toward weight. But I doubt I can forget how many calories a slice of cheese contains or how many calories are burned by one mile of walking.

On one of those bad days, it just feels like I'll never be as clueless and elated as my 12-year-old self, licking popcorn salt off my fingers; at least I think that's so.

-M