The Sculptor and her Sculpture

At the end of 2022, I made a promise to myself that would create an immense anxiety within me for the following years. I had a weird relationship with this promise; I loved it so much, but I also hated it with my whole heart.

This promise was to exercise more in the following year, a normal and widely accepted New Year's resolution. But that wasn't truly my resolution. I wanted to become skinnier. That was my goal for the new year. And with that, I was going to do whatever it took in order for this to happen, including immense exercise.

An eating disorder changes you completely. I did not recognize myself with it. I never enjoyed intense exercise or using my free time to do so. I loved to read, I loved to organize, and I loved to listen to music. A part of me disappeared with an eating disorder. I would spend my nights in the basement with barbells and a treadmill rather than reading dystopian novels and listening to Lana Del Rey.

I hated the treadmill, but it was the only thing I knew. Every night I put on my sports bra and running shorts, hate filling my body as I looked at myself in the mirror. But I looked at myself like a sculptor looks at their sculpture. I looked at my thighs, wanting them to be fixed. I looked at my stomach, wanting it to be carved. The sculptor inside of me wanted a perfect creation, and the only way to do this was to exercise strenuously, as much as possible. As I went down to the basement, I acted excited telling my parents what I was about to do. But inside, I was screaming for help. I hated running. Everything about it made me uncomfortable. Still, it brought out a euphoria that I could not get with much else.

My thighs rubbing together, music blasting in my ears, the sweat running down my face and onto my chest creating a rash—so much was going on. I wanted every second for it to be over, but I never let it end. My sculpture needed to be perfect, and good things take time. I would always tell myself that. I needed to stay consistent because something good would come out of it, whether it was a smaller belly or a euphoric heart.

I went on doing this for months, missing out on social activities and the opportunity to do pretty much anything else that could expand my brain and heart. I became more upset, more hateful toward the activity. And with this, I started missing out on exercising a bit more. And that killed me. I was losing the "perfect" me. My artistic hand became tired and indolent, the sculpture becoming less and less beautiful. Along with this, my eating disorder took a turn.

Not a bad turn, but rather a good one. I finally told my mother about what was going on and she insisted on going to a professional.

"Do you really enjoy doing this, or is it your disorder that enjoys it?" the specialist asked me. I knew the answer. The disorder worshipped this activity—it was one of the only things keeping it somewhat stable and alive. I told the specialist the opposite, that I loved to run and it was not something that I could give up. She told me that I must stop running for a long time because she knew the truth: the sculptor was going insane. I was not okay. I was ill. Running was triggering something terrible in my head and it fed into the evil of this disorder.

So, I stopped. I refused for a little while but soon enough I found my escape. Along with eating better, I had to give up running. It was a toxic relationship and I knew it. Talking to someone about this relationship only gave me more insight and ended a brutal cycle. The sculpture could've been beautiful, but only to the eyes of an ill sculptor. There was no beauty in this imagined sculpture. There is no beauty in a sick body. You must be a healthy sculptor—your sculpture is begging for it.