2016

I used to be smaller

I can’t tell if this seemingly never-ending post-yourself-in-2016 trend spawns mostly from pre-Trump nostalgia, pre-TikTok nostalgia, PRE-pre COVID nostalgia, or all of the above in equal measure. I hopped on the bandwagon, if only because I have more love for my high school self than I ever have. I was driven, blemish-free, and 90 pounds. In reality, I starved myself but refused to admit it to anyone. From fourth grade on I was slightly chubby and hated myself for it. That spectacular, life-changing emaciation started subtly during the spring of my junior year of high school (2016). I took control of my body without even thinking about it. I was the busiest and happiest I had ever been, so eating wasn’t as important. The results were measurable and immediate, which made it even less important: I was “popular” for the first time. My longtime boyfriend remarked that I used to be “more of a type,” but now I was “universally hot.” I got mad at him for saying it, but I knew he was right. There was a Snapchat filter that enlarged your eyes and reddened your cheeks, which my classmates affectionately nicknamed “the Stella filter.” For all they knew, my glow-up made me bulletproof. I had always worn my heart on my sleeve but desperately tried to project that I didn’t, or no longer needed to. My peers might have noticed I got dizzy upon standing, but I played it off as a manic-pixie-dream-girl quirk. No one needed to know my dad was an abusive alcoholic and all hell was breaking loose behind closed doors. No one needed to know I was hanging onto my newfound desirability by a thread.

I grew thinner the summer between my junior and senior year when my family and I traveled to Cartagena, Colombia, where my Abuelita was born. I ate or drank something that gave me the worst stomach virus of my life, so I spent most of the two-week trip running to the bathroom and substituting delicious Colombian food with powdered packets of broth from the Colombian doctor. My figure, already shrunken from the ego boosts and sleepless nights of junior year, contracted further. From the bathroom I snapped photos in my Hot Topic bikini, thumbing the bottoms to indicate their loose fit on my hips. In old-town Cartagena I posed in front of a mural of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, elated by his largeness and my smallness. I left Colombia looking skeletal wearing sugar-skull earrings. My parents expressed concern for my weight, which just made me feel hotter.

Senior year, my thinness became more of a mission. A missed meal here turned into another missed meal there. I skipped lunch to study and peck at a granola bar in the library. I ate “dinner” sometime between two and four P.M. and cut myself off for the rest of the night. My boyfriend thought it was odd that I refused to eat popcorn at a movie (unless I skipped dinner.) My mom got understandably mad at me for dumping out a Chick-fil-A lemonade (because I refused to drink any calories.) She shuffled me into the pediatrician a week later. The PA explained, in her kindest voice, that I never have to drink lemonade or eat popcorn, but I had to stop skipping meals. “Sometimes,” she said, “we try to control our eating when we feel like other things are out of our control.” I knew this talk was coming and expected to feel like I was in trouble, but I didn’t. I felt relieved.

I had great expectations for the future, but I wouldn’t call myself idealistic. I was more like Reese Witherspoon’s character in Election, relentless and insufferably resilient in the pursuit of whatever I set my mind to. My desires were clearer within the confines of suburbia; I wanted to get into a prestigious college as far away as possible. I earned mostly excellent grades and amassed a list of extracurriculars that would impress Max from Rushmore. Honor cords weighed me down on graduation day. My mom threw a family party with a beautiful cake, which I ate in small bursts throughout May and early June. I moved from “Atlanta” to Los Angeles, where I’ve been for almost nine years. And God, I’m so much happier here. My body is nourished and my home is peaceful. I’ve deleted Snapchat and my desires no longer feel like life or death. I thank my high school self for getting me here and wonder if I could ever work that hard now that I’m comfortable in my skin and environment. I could, of course, and have. My teenage restlessness gave way to young-adult discipline, but it’s become increasingly difficult to maintain as I mellow, if such a thing can even be said about me. My neuroses still help to sustain parts of my existence, but they’re much more intrinsic. The stereotypical vainness of Los Angeles affects me far less than the adolescent self-hatred of 2016. But things just feel better, bills and all.