I’ve always had a strained relationship with food. I didn’t fit in at school because I was, supposedly, more intelligent (i.o.w.: less focused on boybands, make-up and boys, the things my peers would rave on about). I had extremely bushy hair, I was constantly reading, and I was extremely introverted. I started my high school career as a real-life Hermione Granger — a social outcast. You could say that I was quite the opposite of my two brothers. I was invisible, whereas they were the centre of attention because of their outgoing behaviour and their hyperactivity disorders. Because they required so much attention from my parents, I (wrongly) felt that my parents didn’t pay me much heed, and I slowly but surely turned into a little mouse — a little mouse who only felt comfortable with food, and around her computer.
There comes a time when, suddenly, telling someone your weight or even just weighing yourself feels hurtful, or shameful. I used to think this was nonsense, as even I, an ex-fashion model who was never able to GET the skinny bod, didn’t care about a scale number. I used to battle against those shallow feelings of fear by casually screaming how much I weighed to everyone who was close enough to listen. My way of pretending I didn’t care was ‘shocking’ the world with my enormous stack of pounds, hoping that I could make other girls feel better about themselves. Only the truth was that my shocking numbers weren’t so shocking and it was just my brain being a huge ass.