All my teenage years I’ve been suffering with body dysmorphia. I hated the way I look, the size of my jeans, the lack of a proper thigh gap and all these skinny Russian girls around me who genetically had the body I’ve always wanted.

So I started starving myself. And once starving stopped working, I started throwing up. More than a meal a day? Throw up. Carbs or sugar? Throw up. Weight on the scale stopped? Throw up even more. In just a few months my weight came close to 50 kg (which is not okay for my height). I have convinced myself during this journey that once I get skinny enough, I will find love and become popular. What ended up happening is: I got temporary stomach issues, stopped enjoying life and I started hating myself even more. Luckily, I had girls around me going through the same problem and their health struggles were the first wake up call.

So I gained all my weight back. In 2014 I had an appendicitis surgery, which made me lose all this weight again in less than 3 months. I was much more relaxed about my eating disorder, but I would occasionally remember old habits and punish myself for eating. Following the surgery I’ve had my first burnout from the crazy working-hours and graduation, and this is how I ended up in a mental institution. My roommate there was a very intelligent, funny girl with one major problem: she was 33kgs with the height of 170cm+.

And every single day I’ve watched her struggle to do any physical activities. I watched her change into baggy clothes to hide her bones. I watched her suffer with a major depression in addition to her health issues. I watched her hair fall out when she’d brush it too hard. I heard her stories. Her stories how she would enter any supermarket and then black out, just to be found by the security somewhere in the shop, eating all the food from the shelves. How her mother was forced to buy food with an earlier expiration date for her, because it was cheaper and because she would eat everything in the house otherwise, leaving nothing to her family. 
I’ve spent several weeks in that institution and watched girls bounce their mental disorders to each other. Those who entered the institution with anxieties would end up having bulimia or anorexia and vice versa. I watched the girls going in groups to the bathrooms every time we’d share a cake over the tea, just so they can get rid of the ‘enemy’. This was my second wake up call.

Shortly after that I’ve left the country and moved to Lebanon, where I found love, I found joy, I found peace and I found +12kgs over the years. I never questioned my body, I never hated my reflection. I’ve embraced my curves and every single stretch mark. Up until one day, when my love told me that I am not attractive anymore. That I don’t look the same way I was when we first started dating. And this hurt. This hurt really bad. And instead of going to the gym and getting back in shape, I got depressed. I started drinking, smoking and partying my life away. I hated seeing my body when having sex, I hated going to the beach. And this was the third wake up call. 

It took me years to find self-love. It took me years to understand my body. It took me years to overcome the trauma of being rejected by someone I love. And it took me years to understand that I will never be loved for my weight but for who I am.
Today I am nowhere close to that ‘ideal weight’ and even further from that girl that cried over her body. From that girl who was seeking validation from others and punished herself for the unhealthy beauty standards. My family up until today has no idea what I’ve went through or how much I hated being a curvy arab teenage girl. Perhaps they’ve suspected, but I have suffered in silence for years and this was the biggest mistake.

Why am I writing this? To share my story for the first time.
Be vulnerable. Be open. Exorcise your demons by speaking out and ask for help when you are not fine. You’re not alone in this.