I have known pain, I have suffered. being a closeted gay man in a town full of macho men is not the easiest thing in the world to do. I battled anxiety, depression, hate, bigotry over the fear that I would be found out as a gay man… When ever since 7th grade they already branded me as a faggot I never had a choice to be who I was and that is where I will stop talking about me. Pain is something I have seen in my friends eyes constantly. Some are just better at hiding it than others. I know that growing up in a town filled with middle and upper class people isn’t always the worst thing. But we are given white privilege without even asking for it. We are spoon fed, what is “Right and Wrong” when lets fucking face the facts people there is no such thing as as right and wrong. We are raised to believe that skinny is pretty and that love is something you have to be a straight cisgender couple to have. Growing up like this leads my friends to do things that they aren’t proud of they are only doing it because society has told them that they are fucking ugly. When they are probably some of the most stunning people I have ever seen, so here is where I stop talk and here is where I let a dear friend someone who has done things in the name of fashion, beauty, wealth when all along she was stunning:

The first time I remember ever really feeling bad about myself was in fifth grade. I was in a one piece, orange Speedo, sitting on my Dad’s lap. He looked down at me, “Ariana, you have stretch marks,” he must have seen the look on my face because he followed with, “but don’t worry, I won’t tell Mommy.” No of course not, Miss I weighed 92 pounds when I got married could not know that her 10 year old actually had stretch mark on her thighs and was already pushing 86 pounds. I had always been different. As mentioned, I grew up with the fact that my mom weight a mere 92 pounds when she got married drilled into my head. My brother and sister both took after her, thin, almost frail looking. My mother even ate bread with butter and sugar on it, as a teenager to try and gain weight, but couldn’t. I ate a candy bar and seemed to go up a pants size. I wasn’t obese, but I wasn’t the skinniest either. I was a child; children have baby fat, just because I was different though, that didn’t make me wrong. I remember my brother jokingly calling me fat, when I told him how much I weighed I had to reassure him that most kids in my grade were around that weight. My mom always warning, “If you can pinch more than an inch” and reminding me to suck it in. I felt so alone; everyone in my family was thin. Who was I supposed to turn to about my insecurities?

         By 8th grade I was eating lettuce for lunch, I guess that should have been a warning sign that I was headed down such a horrible path. I remember one day at lunch a friend turned to me and said, “wow Ariana, you actually look skinny today.” I wasn’t the only one filling my head with “fat” thoughts; it was others too.  I have a Journal entry from February 24, 2009. I had just begun high school, was meeting all of these new people, making new friends and I was worried about my weight.

         Dear Journal,

… I hate food, I mean and the way people react when I don’t eat it. I sometimes think that they think I do it just for attention and not the fact that I am extremely self-conscious and have low self-esteem. I hate gym so much. And no one understands the real reason I don’t want to do any of the trust activities. No! It is not because I don’t want to be touched! It is because I feel very uncomfortable with people holding me I feel as though they all know my weight. In fact I basically never sit on anyone’s lap unless they are a girl that I am very close with. Otherwise I usually freak out especially if someone decides to randomly pick me up. For example this past weekend, when I was at Matt’s house and Dom decided to pick me up upside down so let’s think: My chub was flailing all over the place, he knew how much I weighed, and he was probably struggling to hold me. Also, yesterday after school when Andrew picked me up over his shoulder twice, he knew how much I weighed. And not to mention when he and Sal lifted me up and dumped me outside.

I used to tell my friends, “don’t touch the chub” I turned it into a joke. It was a defense mechanism, I figured if I made fun of it, maybe they wouldn’t want to, or I could feel better about myself. I didn’t.

By my sophomore year in high school I was eating less than 500 calories a day and had stuck a tooth brush down my throat, eventually I resorted to using my fingers, I found this was easier. People joked when I wouldn’t eat, one time at my friend Matt’s house a whole bunch of guys tied me to a chair and tried force-feeding me ramen noodles; I started to cry. I was so disgusted with myself, but I would secretly binge and purge. I was at war with myself, always comparing myself to others. I was short and stumpy, my friends had long legs, flat stomachs, boobs, butts, and all I had was an okay face.

         I didn’t even make out with a boy until the end of my sophomore year in high school. But once I did, I didn’t stop, it made me feel good about myself; like someone wanted me, when all they really wanted was a hook up and nothing more. I never really “talked” to a guy before, not until my freshman year in college, but we will talk about that later. I have a word document from May of 2010, it reads:


Heaviest: 115



103 5/6/10

100 5/7/10 1:15 PM: with a tampon, earrings, bra, underwear and hair tie.

Lightest: 99 1:30 PM with tampon.

 I would weigh myself over and over again, if I ate something, went to the bathroom, worked out, whatever the case. I felt in control with my eating disorder, ironic isn’t it? So many things in life I had no control over, but I could control what went in and what came out of my body.

         The summer going into my freshman year in college I got really into working out, afraid of gaining the FRESHMAN FIFTEEN. My mom had just competed in a figure competition and only weighed 103 pounds on the day of her show. My mom weighed less than me, could fit into my jeans better than me, and could rock a bathing suit without feeling self-conscious. My mom was 50 and I was 18. I had my brother train me, I was losing weight and getting in shape, I was happy. I continued his workout regiment in college, only it wasn’t enough, I was making myself throw up more often than usual, I would hide it by saying things like “yeah I worked out too hard at the gym” I would even start to “feel sick” on the walk home from the gym so that when I threw up it wouldn’t seem so out of the blue. I was good at hiding it; I had already been hiding it for so long.

Then I met a boy, the first guy to actually talk to me, and eventually my first boyfriend. I came clean to him about my eating disorder, he told me if I wanted to be with him I would have to stop, and I did. He’d lay with me in bed one day, and I pointed out everything I hated about myself, and he told me how beautiful I was, how I had nothing to hate. And I believed him. He was the first person to ever get through to me, the first person to truly make me feel beautiful, and have me believe it. All of the things he said to me though, all of the confidence he gave me, evaporated. He ended things with me, cheated on me, and told me that he never loved me, and he had been using me the whole time. I meant nothing to him, and that every time he was with me, he was thinking of her. The night I found out he cheated on me was the last time I ever made myself throw up, August 9th.  I figured, I must be this disgustingly ugly and fat person if no one wants me, even someone who claimed to love me, was just using me for a hookup like everyone else. Why didn’t anyone want me? It made me question every time he told me I was beautiful, if our relationship was a lie, wasn’t everything he said to me a lie too? After that day, I realized I didn’t want anyone else to be in control of how I felt about myself, screw society. I am beautiful and I am strong. I would like to thank him for putting me in such a low place, and forcing me to be the only person who could take myself out of that mindset for good. The hurt made me realize how much I could accomplish on my own, that I am invincible, beautiful, intelligent, and brave. After 6 years of mutilation, it has been 76 days since I have starved myself, made myself throw up, and hated myself. In that time I have overcome so much, I have learned to love myself, my body, I wake up each morning and tell myself that I am beautiful. If I am having a rough day, I give myself a pep talk about how awesome I am. If my heart is hurting, I remind myself that not everything is meant to be, and that is okay because now I am one step closer to finding my own happy ever after. And I’ll be healthy and alive to see it happen, I won’t let this disease consume me any longer. I am brave and beautiful. I am Ariana Evans and I am a survivor.

We all have our own stories. Feel free to share yours here, on your blog, with your journal, with the public. You are in control, you are loved and you are beautiful!

Do not forget it