My eating problems began when I was 4 years old. I suffered trauma and abuse as a young child, and as a result I was very VERY anxious. My anxiety manifested itself as stomach aches and throwing up. When I would get anxious I would get sick. It seemed like I constantly had a stomach bug, although I didn't. It would just take minutes. I'd be perfectly fine, and then my parents would say something to me, or a friend would say something, and I'd get sick within minutes. I remember nights of sleeping on the bathroom floor, sick to my stomach, wondering what was wrong with me. I went to the doctor and they ran some tests, but they all came back negative. My parents started to call me a hypochondriac because they doctor said I was fine. But my stomach aches persisted.
My mom assumed I was intolerant to some kind of food. So I cut out all dairy from my diet. No milk, no cheese, no ice cream. My stomach aches did not get better. I started to fear eating because I was afraid it would make me sick. I ate ok, but I was always worried about getting sick. That's a big worry for a 4-5 year old. When I was about 7, I wanted to become a vegetarian like my mom. So I had cut out all dairy and meat. I ate well what I wasn't afraid of, but I continued to get sick frequently.
Around age 7-8 I started worrying about my body. I was a very tall child, taller than pretty much all the boys and girls in my class. I also wasn't tiny... I was solidly built. And I remember my girl friends comparing their body to mine. I noticed that I was bigger than all my friends (the few that I had) and I wondered why. People assumed I would grow out of my stomach aches, but they just got worse. Any negative interaction with my parents or with friends would bring on a stomach ache and I was sick all the time. To the point where I was used to being sick. I started wondering what was wrong with me, and I developed many physical ailments. Sprained ankles, bruises, cuts. What people didn't know was that I had started to harm myself... cutting myself "accidentally," slamming my hands in doors, purposely trying to get stung by bees. I don't know what drove me to harm myself, I was just so miserable and confused, and I started to hate myself. It makes me so sad that at 8-9 years old I was so destructive and negative, and the only way I could cope with what was going on with my life was by hurting myself. The doctor finally sent me to a therapist, who I refused to open up to.
To be continued.
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