So in the summer of 2013, I was preparing to go into school as an eighth grader.  This would be a year of change for me. I would change my attitude, be a better person, and most importantly—lose weight. I know I know. . . what kind of thirteen-year-old goes on a mission to lose weight? Well, I did. All of my thirteen years had been nothing but over-eating, double chins, excessive fat, and insecurities. It was time for a change.

   I had tried to lose weight before, but never succeeded. In the sixth grade, I weighed one-hundred-sixty-five pounds. That’s a bit much when you think about it, considering most girls in my class were only about a hundred-and-ten pounds or less, and even they thought they were “fat”. Well if they were “fat”, what did that make me? Not “fat”, that’s for sure. I may have had fat, a considerable amount of it actually. But having fat and being fat are two totally different things. You can’t be fat. No matter how much fat you have, you’ll still always have skin, and tissue, and muscle, and bones. Therefore, you’ll never be fat, but you will always be human. So keeping in mind that I wasn’t fat, I set out to lose weight. And it worked—for the first month. I lost five pounds and felt really confident! Then school got out, and over the summer I gained it all back. At that point, my self-esteem took a pretty hard blow.

   So pretty soon it’s the beginning of seventh grade. I try to lose weight again, and I get even further this time—by about one pound. One little pound. I stepped on the scale some time during February break and the number read 159.8. I felt so accomplished that I had finally broken into the 150’s. So how did I celebrate? I sat down with a big bowl of ice cream smothered in chocolate syrup and topped off with chocolate candy. Big mistake. Pretty soon, all my progress was once again lost. Six months later, I’m tipping the scales at a whopping 178.4.  As you can imagine, that number sent me into a mental break-down. I stared down at the scale, scowling in disgust. I picked it up, dropped it into the closet, and stormed out into the hallway in a fit of rage, screaming and stomping my feet the whole way out to the living room where I ¬-began to cry. Needless to say, I was done with this weight struggle. I was tired of feeling like everyone looked at me in disgust because of my extra weight. It was time for a change.

   So, summer ended, and I vowed to myself that my eighth grade year would be different, and I set out on a weight-loss journey that would put me where I am now, a little over a year later. Soccer season started and I worked really hard in practices, running my hardest and putting in my best effort. I wasn’t the greatest runner at first, but in time I got better. Having gym class once-a-week helped, too. I’d run my laps as hard as I could for however long we needed to, over-lapping everyone just to show them I was better at running than they thought. Seems like a good way to lose weight, right. . . exercising and giving my all? Well, it would have been—if I had done things right on the diet side of things.

   They say that you need at least 1,100 calories per day to keep your body from going into starvation mode. I was eating only 1,200—just enough to keep my body out of starvation mode and an extra few calories for good measure. A lonely piece of toast for breakfast, a 200-calorie sandwich for lunch, and then dinner to make up whatever amount of calories I was lacking. I had my brain set on weight-loss mode so heavily, that I didn’t care about eating at all some times. At first I was eating small portions every meal. Pretty soon, I was skipping meals all together. Breakfast consisted of a promise to my mom that I would eat, and guilt after breaking that promise. Lunch consisted of a small sandwich, followed by some shakiness from lack of nutrients. Dinner consisted of eating the remainder of the calories (though I didn’t want them) and putting on a fake smile for my family. It was working fine. I was losing weight, and I was happy with my progress. But that happiness only lasted so long.
   Eventually, I had been in this weight-loss mode for so long that I was frozen there. I started eating less at dinner, too. My parents figured it out pretty quick. One night, we were having sausage, pepper, and onion subs. Mom and Dad watched over my shoulder as I made my sandwich, using miniscule amounts of mustard, one measly sausage, and no peppers or onions. When I finished that one, I decided to skip out on the option of having another. Instantly, it was like a bomb went off in my house.

   My parents went off into another rage of fear, telling me that I was going to develop an eating disorder. . . only this time, their fear was stronger. They had feared that for a while. Things weren’t good. I didn’t want them to know, but I began to think maybe their fears came too late. Maybe I already had an eating disorder. I was addicted to losing weight—I was addicted to eating nothing.

   That continued until about May. That constant battle between eating little or not at all and hiding it from everyone kept raging on until about a month before June when I had pretty much reached my goal. I was 142 pounds by then. Thinking I was done losing weight, everyone backed off. Little did they know, I would lose ten more over the summer, then struggle with maintaining a balance.

So, here I am now, at times a little over 134 pounds, and at other times a little less. I achieved my goal, and I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. But I am not proud of how I’ve accomplished it. If I had to do it again, I’d do it the right way. I’d eat healthy—not less, and exercise more—not as little as needed. I’d save myself the trouble and lies and guilt. Take my story and use it well. Listen to what I have to say. Starvation is not the answer.

Cutting back your calories to the point where you barely eat is not the answer. Don’t get yourself stuck in the mode I was in—the mode I’m still struggling to get out of. Sure, I’m physically healthier now. But mentally and emotionally, I’m worse off than when I started. I’m often unhappy and my emotions about my weight are very conflicting—all because I chose to lose weight the wrong way. I’m mentally stuck in a state where I don’t know how to feel about my body. Would you risk your mental and emotional health, just to look better to others the outside?