feeder, anorexia, suicide attempts

When I was 25, I met J, a muscular, big guy with an incredibly sexy vibe. We were both working out at the gym when he came up to me and asked why I was exercising. "Don't you really need to?" I laughed and said I just wanted to stay in shape. After talking a lot together while working out, we exchanged numbers.

A month and a half later, we started dating, and four months later, we were already living together. I had always noticed that he constantly told me I ate too little and should eat more, but I hadn't realized he was a feeder.

During the time we started living together, I was very busy with my job and could barely exercise at all. So I started gaining a bit of weight, but not noticeably since I weighed very little to begin with (52.5 kg).

J started bringing home fatty foods more often: fries, chips, pizza, candy, kapsalon, and other unhealthy stuff. I didn't really notice that I was gaining weight; I had already reached 60 kg after five months of being together.

Then he proposed, and eight months later we got married (by then I had already reached 70 kg). He kept telling me more and more often that I looked beautiful and had such a nice figure, so I didn't really feel the urge to lose weight.

Soon, it started becoming noticeable in my circle that I had gotten a bit chubby. People said they liked that I had gained some weight because they thought I was too thin before, but now they thought I was a bit too heavy.

It affected me, and I brought it up to J. He said I had only become more beautiful since gaining weight, and I believed him.

Eventually, after 21 months of marriage, I had reached 120 kg. How did it get to this point? No clue. I think I was just too in love.

I was told daily that I was a fat pig and that if I kept going, I'd weigh 200 kg in a year and die.

My mom wanted to help me lose weight, but I saw that I would have to leave J because he caused this. But I didn't want to; I was still too in love. I told J I wanted to lose weight, but he immediately shut it down. He said, "******, you're so beautiful now, you really don't need to lose weight." So I didn't lose weight. I didn't feel good in my body and thought I looked absolutely hideous, but the only thing that mattered was whether my husband thought I was beautiful. How naive I was, looking back.

Five months later, I had gained another 15 kg and ended up in the hospital because of heart problems. The doctors told me that if I didn't lose weight, I would die within 10 years.

My mom then took me away from J and took me in.

She put me in front of the mirror and said, "Look! Look, damn it, now look at yourself. Look what J and you have done to yourself. Does this make you happy?" And so on. I started crying and finally saw it clearly. From that moment on, I started losing weight.

I was still living with my mom, so she put me on a strict diet. After six months, I had lost 40 kg; I weighed 95 kg. Another six months later, I lost another 20 kg, down to 75 kg.

My mom thought it was going so well. She said I still had a little bit of overweight, but it was up to me whether I wanted to keep it or not.

I decided to start living on my own again. The divorce was finalized, and I wanted to make a fresh start. I moved to Milan, the city I had always wanted to live in, and I wanted to grow old there.

Perfect timing for a new beginning, as I saw it.

I worked in the Netherlands as a photographer for models and wanted to continue doing that in Milan. It took a while to get a job, but eventually, I did.

During the time in the Netherlands when I was losing weight, I already found it hard to look at those models, and later at myself, but then it became even harder. I started eating less and less, until I weighed only 50 kg, less than before. My mom took me to the doctor, and I received a certain diagnosis (I forgot the name). It was like I thought someone with anorexia but without extreme underweight, although I was already underweight.

I went to therapy for that, but it didn't help. I kept losing kilos until I weighed only 36 kg, and then I was hospitalized.

After years of moving from hospital to hospital, many hospitalizations, and two suicide attempts, I met M. Through him, I found my will to live again and eventually recovered from my anorexia.

If M hadn't come into my life, I might never have been able to write this message. I might not have been here anymore, or I might still be depressed.

I am now 40 years old, have three beautiful children, and am happily expecting our fourth. Still happy with M, and by now, even married.