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《滚蛋吧，节食！》
Resolved:A No-diet New Year Starts Now
“I’ve noticed you’ve gained a little weight,” Mom said as we sat in the car. I was 11 years old and my body was just beginning to hint at hips. She reached over, tugging on the new roll of stomach fat that was hiding under my t-shirt. “Getting a little pudgy1),” she teased.
I’d been too busy feeling awkward that I was morphing into what adults called “busty2)” to specifically zero in on3) what my stomach had been up to—no good4), as it turned out.
I crossed my arms over my stomach, feeling the soft roll of skin and fat that was just above my jeans. I sat up a little straighter, hoping that would flatten things out5) a bit. I tried to suck it in.
Mom talked about how unnecessary weight gain can make parts of your body pudgy, flabby6). “I guess I have noticed that my legs have gotten more jiggly7),” I said, looking down at my legs self-consciously.
“If you start dieting and exercising, you could get attractive, toned legs,” Mom said. She told me how a lot of adult women struggle with weight management, herself included.
She hoped she could save me from the pain of yo-yo dieting8) as an adult by teaching me how to maintain my ideal weight while I was still young. If we’d asked a doctor, they likely would have said dieting for an 11 year old was a health risk. But we didn’t ask a doctor.
My mom’s own body-image demons clouded her ability to determine what was truly best for my body.
After our conversation, Mom put me on a diet. She began monitoring what I ate. “Kelsey,” Mom said disapprovingly, “that’s too much ranch dressing9). You won’t be able to lose weight if you eat your salad like that.” And she made sure I didn’t have seconds10) after dinner.
“But I’m still hungry,” I protested at first.
“You’re not really hungry,” Mom replied. She said I’d stretched my stomach out through overeating, and it would eventually shrink back to its right size. In the meantime, I was going to be haunted by phantom11) hunger pangs.
The fake hunger felt awfully real, and it seemed to only get worse as more time went by. When I saw a celebrity on TV who had had her stomach stapled12), I asked if it was something I could get. When I was told no, I decided that I’d get it the moment I was an adult. Maybe if my stomach was surgically corrected I’d finally feel full again.
When I lost weight, Mom celebrated. She encouraged me to pull out my flatter-stomach clothes that I’d banished to the back of my closet. I’d pull out my white form-fitting polo shirt and smile at my reflection.
Mom would tell me how flattering13) the shirt was on me “now.” But then I’d gain a few more pounds and the moment would be gone.
When I hit middle school I worried about my weight more than I worried about boys. I didn’t understand that curves added weight—healthy weight. As my body began to shift into a curvier mold, I frantically tried to diet the weight that came with boobs and thighs away.
I thought I was trying to manage my weight, but what I was trying to manage was puberty14).
When I was diagnosed with asthma15) and given a daily inhaler16), I didn’t take it. My parents couldn’t figure out why. I let them think I was an absentminded17) and irresponsible pre-teen.
I was too embarrassed to tell them the truth: Being thin was more important than breathing. I didn’t take my meds because I had heard steroids18) could cause weight gain. I knew this wasn’t something other people would understand, so I kept it to myself.
How little I was eating became my biggest secret. And at some point my body and food anxiety crossed the line into abnormal anorexia19). I started secretly skipping meals on a regular basis, cutting my food into tiny bites and then counting to twenty before swallowing so eating would take as long as possible.
I tracked the most minor fluctuations in the numbers on the scale. Eating became more and more complex and anxiety-causing as I continually added self-induced restrictions to my already limited calorie intake. My obsessive eating-disorder20)-induced dieting sucked not only the calories but the joy out of life.
When I was in my early 20s I had a revelation about dieting after being very sick with the flu. I’d dropped several sizes. When I stood in the dressing room I was shocked that I’d lost so much weight. I had been pining21) after my dream size for years, and now I was smaller.
I’d thought about dieting more than anything else for 10 years: This is what I’d been living for. But the gratification from achieving a decade-long goal didn’t last a second. My first thought after realizing the number on the tag: “Maybe I could go even smaller!” Maybe that would be it. Maybe then I’d feel comfortable in my own body. Maybe then I’d feel happy and beautiful and sexy. Maybe …
But then I came to the sad realization that the game was rigged22). The elusive numbers I’d been chasing—pants sizes, dress sizes, numbers on the bathroom scale—would always be replaced by a different, smaller number. When you have an eating disorder, you never reach your goal weight.
A new year is supposedly a time for fresh starts, but it always feels like the same old thing: Everyone is bombarded23) with fat-shaming and promises that we’ll finally feel happy and whole24) in our bodies if only we buy the new latest and greatest dieting or fitness product.
All of the magazine covers at the checkout stand will showcase new diets with claims that these are the magic tricks you’ve been looking for all these years. The local gyms will advertise specials, claiming “New Year, New You!” With all that diet talk, if I’m not careful I could have a relapse25), which is why celebrating how far I’ve come in my eating disorder recovery is a necessary part of surviving January.
This year I’m celebrating that I can now eat a bowl of potato chips without crying afterwards.
I’m celebrating how last summer I wore a bikini for the very first time in my life, and I didn’t go on a diet first.
I’m celebrating that I’ve gotten to the point26) in my recovery that I’m able to work out without weight loss being the goal.
I lived on a diet for years. Dieting has controlled so much of my life. It’s been the haunting, nagging, lying voice in my ear.
This diet season, as others are setting New Year’s resolutions, I’m celebrating recovery goals. I’m celebrating that I learned how to eat again because life didn’t finally start when I reached my goal weight. Life started when I finally told dieting to fuck off.
“我发觉你又长胖了一点。”我们坐在车上时妈妈这么说。我当时11岁，身上的胖刚刚开始在臀部显出来。她把手伸过来，捏了捏T恤下面我肚子上新长出的那圈赘肉。“有点圆润了哟。”她取笑道。
我当时的体型用大人的话说已经变得“丰满”，我只顾着为此尴尬，根本顾不上特别关注我的肚子已经胖到了什么程度─实际情况是，已经很胖。我双臂交叉，放到肚子上，能感觉到牛仔裤上方那圈软软的赘肉。我坐直了一些，希望借此能让肚子变平一点。我还努力吸气，想把肚子收进去。
妈妈跟我说过，不必要的增重如何让身体某些部位变得胖而松弛。“我想我注意到了，我腿上的赘肉都一颤一颤的。”我一边说，一边难为情地低下头看着双腿。
“如果你开始节食和锻炼，你的腿就会变得强健而迷人。”妈妈说道。她告诉我许多成年女性，包括她自己在内，都为了保持体重而奋力挣扎。她教我如何从小保持理想的体重，希望能借此使我免受长大后不断节食又反弹的痛苦。如果当时我们咨询医生的话，他们可能会说，对于一个11岁的孩子来说，节食有害健康。但是我们没有问医生。我妈妈自己执着于体型的心魔蒙蔽了她的判断力，使她无法断定什么对我的身体才是真正最好的。
此次谈话后，妈妈就让我节食，并开始监督我的饮食。“凯尔西，”妈妈反对道，“沙拉酱太多啦。如果像这样吃沙拉，你是不可能瘦下来的。”她决不会让我晚饭过后再加餐。
“但我还是饿啊。”起初，我会抗议。
“你并不是真饿。”妈妈答道。她说我的胃因暴饮暴食给撑大了，但最终它会缩回到正常大小。与此同时，我会被精神性饥饿纠缠。
这种假性饥饿感觉相当真实。随着时间的推移，情况似乎只变得越来越严重。当我在电视上看到一个名人做了缩胃手术时，我就问我是否也能这样做。当被告知不能时，我决定一长大成人就去做这个手术。如果我的胃用手术矫正一下的话，我或许最终会再次有饱腹感的。
我体重减轻时，妈妈欢呼雀跃。她鼓励我把发落到衣柜最里面那些显得小腹平坦的衣服拿出来。我会拿出白色的修身polo衫，冲着镜子中的自己微笑。妈妈会告诉我，“此刻”这件衬衫穿在身上显得我身材非常好。但之后我会再长几磅肉，那一刻将不复存在。
上中学的时候，与关注男生比起来，我更担心的是我的体重。那时我不知道身材曲线会增加体重──健康的体重。由于我的身体变得更加曲线玲珑，我就发疯一样地试图通过节食把因胸部和大腿发育带来的体重减去。我自以为是在努力控制体重，但是我努力控制的其实是我的青春期。
我被诊断出患了哮喘，每天都要用一次吸入器，但是我没有用。我的父母不理解其中的原因。我让他们觉得我是一个心不在焉、没有责任感的孩子。但我实在不好意思告诉他们实情：保持苗条远比呼吸重要得多。我不服药的原因是，我听说类固醇会导致体重增加。我知道这不是其他人能理解的，所以我对此只字不提。
我吃得有多么少成了我最大的秘密。终于有一天，我对身体和食物的焦虑超越正常界限，变成了厌食症。我开始经常偷偷地不吃正餐，把食物切成一口一块的小块，嚼20下再咽下去，这样进食的时间就会尽可能长一些。我记录了体重秤上最细微的数据变化。我摄入的热量本来已经很有限，在此基础上我又不断增加新的限制，于是进食变得越来越复杂，越来越令人焦虑。进食障碍引发我过度节食，不仅减少了热量摄入，也吞噬了我生活的乐趣。
文章摘自：《新东方英语》杂志2017年4月号
