Three and a half years ago, I wanted to kill myself.

Another relationship had ended and had sucked the last bit of life that was left out of me. I didn’t even love him; he didn’t love me. I knew he was only the tip of the iceberg, the last one my body and my mind were able to handle. The relationship I had before that guy was a rather healthy one. It lasted two years and was long distance for the most part, which meant we only saw each other on the weekends. Toward the end, I was bored and lonely during the week. I needed excitement and someone who was physically close. I looked in my group of friends, picked the guy I knew nothing about and cheated on my boyfriend with him. We broke up, and two weeks later, I pressured the other guy into starting a relationship with me. I literally had to convince him. I could not have broken up with this relatively nice guy for nothing, was what I was thinking. The new guy was fun — he went to parties, studied music and had a lot of friends. After three weeks I was ready to tell him that I loved him. We were laying in bed, my heart was beating really fast. I was just about to say it, but he opened his mouth first. I can’t remember exactly what he said, but it changed everything for me. It was something like “This is going too fast,” and “I am not completely comfortable in this relationship.” I have never felt so insecure in my life. I was just about to tell him I loved him (even though I didn’t, but love was a fuzzy concept for me at the time). For the next eight months I tried to convince him that he loved me. I played along with the kinky sex, always came over to his place, watched him for hours working on his music while he completely ignored me. I even peed on him one time because I knew he was into it. I, on the other hand, felt completely uncomfortable and pathetic.

For the next eight months I tried to convince him that he loved me.

This was also the time I stopped eating. I had to be perfect for him, so he could finally love me and we could live happily ever after. It was going along perfectly with the way my mom raised me. In sum, this meant that being fat is the worst thing that can happen to you as a woman. I don’t think I would have ever gone through with killing myself. At least I didn’t want to die, really, it would have been a cry for help. There was no one there for me. Most of my friends had turned their backs on me because my behavior had started to affect their lives negatively, too. Or, as I am aware now, I didn’t have any true friends at the time. But as I said, this is only the tip of the iceberg. The abuse started when I was twelve years old. It took me three years of therapy to even call it abuse and to openly talk about it. Because when it happens in the family, how are you supposed to live under one roof with your abuser? You repress the fact that he is your abuser; you repress the fact that mom knew about it and didn’t act on it. You repress the fear that something could happen to your little sister, too. You visit this house, this family, every year on Christmas and accept their toxic behavior toward you, until all your relationships turn to crap and you think about cutting your wrists. After I set foot into my therapists practice, my life completely changed. This time, for the better.