The first time I even started looking at my weight was when I was fifteen.

Before then... it hadn't really been a focus of mine, not really something that bothered me.  I was relatively happy with my body - or as much as any shy, low-self-esteem filled girl can ever feel about herself.

I was 4' 10', sometimes 4' 11" - depending on where I was, how they measured me.  I still am, and I haven't grown since.

Well, at least not height wise.

When I fifteen, I was just barely over 100lbs.  And I thought was okay.  I didn't really think much about it, I rarely checked my weight.  I mean, I did soccer in the fall, and I swam competitively in the summer and winter.  I was healthy, I was in pretty good shape.

...

And... then it hit me.

I heard other girls talking, talking about how they wished they could gain weight.  I've never really been one to consider it all before.  But I kept hearing more and more of the conversations and I realized... that these girls - easily four, five inches taller - weighted at least 10lbs less.

And that's when it started.

I noticed that I was... stockier than other girls.  And that didn't really bother me, to be frank, because I played soccer - I didn't want to be a twig otherwise I'd break every bone in my body every time I so much as kicked the ball.

But then... it got out of hand.

When I was fifteen I started stopped eating breakfast.  At first, I pretended it was because I was just being lazy and wanted to stay in bed as long as possible - which wasn't entirely untrue.  But then it got to the point where I was skipping not only breakfast, but breakfast and lunch.

And... I wasn't looking at weight.

I would eat just enough to keep people from worrying about me.  But no more, no less.

I actually did make myself puke after dinner once.  But then my stomach started growling soon after and I had to pretend that I had a headache and went to bed early, rather than admit what I had done.

And that went on for a couple of months.

By the time I reached the month of April, this time a couple years ago, I had fallen back into my depression.  I was suicidal.  In fact, it was around this time of year that I did try... an attempt that clearly didn't work.

And then... things got better again.

Not immediately of course, this was no fairytale where the ending and all the problems are solved in my unbelievable swooping motion.  No, this took time...

A lot of time.

And... once August hit, I was back to skipping meals.  Because of my downward spiral, I had ended up gaining weight that I simply couldn't lose, no matter how many meals I skipped.

I was 107 pounds.

I was 107 pounds, and I thought I was fat.

Then I was sixteen and I was skipping breakfast and lunch consistently.  I didn't have friends at lunch so I went to the library instead, trying to drown my hunger through the pages of as many books as I could.  I only ate dinner, as to not worry anyone in my family.

And I felt guilty, as if I had done something wrong.

And I continued that pattern until February.

And things only changed because now I had a group of friends in my lunch, a group of friends that would notice if that didn't eat, a group of friends who could worry about me if I didn't eat.  So then I had to eat lunch, and I always hated it.  I hated it, so much.  Not because of the fact that for the first time in two years I finally had a group of friends to eat lunch with, but because I sat with them meant I had to eat. 

I didn't want them to see what was wrong with, I didn't want anyone to.

By the time summer hit, I was 114, sometimes 115.  I don't do a spring sport and I had started eating so I blamed that instead, promising myself to do better, promising myself not to eat.

After some time... it faded away over the summer.  I still skipped lunch, but at least I would eat twice a day, which was more than I was doing during the first half of the school year.

And then, as always school started again.

And the cycle started again.

Now, lunch was just flat-out expensive, so I tried not to eat a lot.  I would literally go into the bathroom's feeling lightheaded simply because I didn't want to spend the money to eat, but I knew that real reason - whether I would admit it or not.  I didn't want to see that food start attaching to the steadily growing fat on my stomach.

And I can still hard the voices in my head, the girls talking when I was fifteen.  I could hear them saying that they weren't even 100lbs and here I was nearly at 115 and I hated myself.

And it's summer again and I didn't do soccer or swim this fall and keeping my weight steady has been constantly in the back of my mind.  In fact, I am happy when if I get a free hour and I'm at school and I DON'T go to the cafe even though I haven't eaten since dinner the night before because then I am in control, I am in control.

At least... that's what I tell myself.

I was at my grandmother's the other day, possibly Thursday and my grandmother really meant no harm by it so I can't blame her.  She said it in Spanish, but it didn't matter because I knew what she said.  I don't understand a lot, hardly anything to be honest, but I - I understood.

She made comment on my weight, how I had gained -

...

Gosh, what is WRONG with me?

I don't know WHY I'm like this, I can't even IMAGINE - with all the stories I tell - how someone could hate themselves so much?  How I - especially me - can hate myself so much?

Today my Padrino - my godfather - wanted to me to be in his Snapchat story and I constantly kept saying no and they thought it was because I thought it was mean thing they wanted me to do, but no, no:  it was because they had already managed to sneak me in one and I saw and I just hated myself, hated EASY it was to see how much weight I had gained and how ugly my face was and it just - it just -

...

What is WRONG with me?  Why am I the person I hate most in the world?

I didn't think that I could ever hate anyone... that hate was an awful emotion and that I could never hurt someone by hating someone like that.

So why do I do this to myself? I - I don't understand, I want to understand, but no matter how many times I write this, no matter how many times I continue to write as if that will somehow help me find an answer I just -

I hate myself.