I wrote this for the launch of GULP, a new zine telling the stories of LGBTQ+ people with eating disorders. You can download it for free here.

This the first time I have been this honest, open and raw about my own disordered eating. Tangled. Complicated. Confusing. Hidden. Normal. Still figuring it out.

content warning: disordered eating, mention of purging, internalised fatphobia

 

 

 

 

 

 

I think I hated being fat before I hated being a girl.

It started when I was a child (doesn’t it always). before I knew what gender was, I knew was fat was. I knew what hair was.

I was always fat. I was diagnosed as obese. Before I knew what gender I was or wanted to be, I wanted to be skinny. I wanted to be hairless, straight up-and-down and skinny. I have been looking at my body in the mirror for decades willing it to shrink, to fall apart, to disappear. My body has been loyal, staring back.

I ate and ate and ate. I feel like it was the only thing I knew how to do well. And in South Asian culture, it’s something you get praised for. Food is a gift, eating well is a privilege, and cooking brings us all together. When you eat, you’re family. And I was lonely and unhappy. Trapped in this fat brown hairy body.

I used to binge on eating disorder stories, sensationalist articles, and documentaries, consuming as much as I could with desperate hope that my body can change. And then I started purging. I don’t think much changed (would I have let myself see it if it had) but I did have more control (control, how predictable) over my fat, my food, my body, my gender.

I hate to admit this but my dad gave me That Voice. It’s always been him. I know he was just making sure that we were healthy and well. For him, being fat equals unhealthy, for most of society fat equals unwell. For girls like me, fat equals undesirable, another unfair expectation. When I was a teenager and started getting praise for losing weight, I started to try harder. My dad was obsessed with losing weight, he wasn’t paying attention to anything except for the numbers on the scales. Oh yes he weighed me regularly.

It took me a while to realise the body I wanted to transition to was not just male, but white. It took me a while to realise how many other bodies I have occupied, in gender and size. I have now come to terms with the fact that my body will always be in transition, (maybe it always was). I mourn a body that I can call home, a feeling of being comfortable and happy with who I physically am.

I scroll body positive pages, accounts for soft queer bellies, threads of dark hairy bodies. I look down, I lift up my shirt. I think about taking a photo because I’m jealous. I grab at my fat and my skin. I’m disgusted and disappointed and I don’t need to say why. I scroll my discover page and my algorithms show me why. I scroll fitness pics, before/after transitions, muscles and smooth skin. I’m jealous. I’m disgusted but I’m determined instead.

That Voice says keep going but in the worst tone possible.

Where is the line between becoming the gender I want to be instead of the disordered eating that drives me? How do I know what’s authentic for me? What does gender euphoria feel like liberated from disordered eating? What is my gender outside of oppressive body standards?

That Voice tells me don’t get comfortable here, it’s easier to not question why.

Gender dysphoria cloaks my body dysmorphia but who can I trust to see clearly what body I’m in, when I’m navigating a white cisnormative gaze? The only person I trust with my body is myself.

That Voice in lockdown is my housemate, my coach and my best frenemy.