Why I Refuse to Talk To My Children About 'Fat' and 'Thin'

Once upon a time, I was epically thin. Think runway model thin. I wore size zero jeans held up by a belt. Initially, my thinness evoked compliments about how great I looked. But as the weight melted off my five-foot, seven-inch frame, the compliments gave way to glances of pity and insults. One afternoon, I was at my local gym after a day of college classes, excited to lift weights and let the stress of grad school give way to strength. A man walked by me, gave me a quick up-and-down glance, and said, "Eat a hamburger." I had more than one friend follow me into the bathroom between classes, later confessing that they were making sure I wasn't sneaking off to purge my afternoon snack. During my first semester of teaching college composition, I overheard a few students talking about me, one young man chuckling, "Does she ever eat?" The truth was, I did eat. A lot. And I wasn't throwing up my meals. For a year and a half, my body was at war with itself. I had an unquenchable hunger and thirst, I felt incredibly weak, I was battling chronic sinus infections and extreme fatigue and eventually, I faced numbness in my legs and feet, bed wetting and depression. Despite visiting five different medical professionals, I was still sick without a diagnosis. My general practitioner sighed and declared me anorexic despite me swearing I was eating and drinking non-stop. It was on a mild March day nine years ago when I took a turn for the worst. Unable to catch my breath and exhausted...
Source: Healthy Living - The Huffington Post - Category: Consumer Health News Source Type: news