So, my fitness journey started when I was seventeen. It was a time when I was in a new environment that was so close to home. It was in a school where for the first time, I had a multi-racial clique and was termed TMBG (The Mega Bitch Gang) by N.
This all happened in a time when I had wanted to do something different for once. When I was in my secondary school, I was in Choir for my first two years, and ended up without any extra-curricular activities in the later two. None of my friends had expected me to pick up Soccer as a CCA of choice. It was in this sport that I had met my team of Soccerettes, and my man.
It was in this sport that I had gone from being a girl who had asked for an umbrella during training, to one who runs eight rounds on the track with her team every morning before assembly. Somewhere along the way, I started to pick at the growing muscles on my arms and thighs, and the increase in numbers on the weighing scale.
To combat these, I decreased my calorie intake to 800 per day even if I were to have soccer trainings for five hours in the afternoon. As time passed, this obsession worsened to a point in which I had two apples throughout the day with a sub or salad from Subway in between. At that point of time, feeding this obsession was like an anchor in my life; 'A' levels were nearing, and my man (with his antics, then) was too much to take at times.
When my weight had plateaued after surviving months on this messed up diet, I picked up Master Cleanse.
It was when the only clothes that did not look
too loose on me were tank tops from Cotton On, and the look of pain that my family and K had on their faces when I had refused to eat properly time and again, that I had decided that it was time to stop.
Slowly, I increased my diet intake and worked out more. Slowly, but surely, I stopped freaking out whenever I stood on the weighing scale at home. It took me four years to shake off the issues of counting the calories of all the foods that I place into my mouth, and mind-fucking myself when I feel as though I eat too much for my own good.
I came out of this a better and healthier person; someone who reads labels and scolds my man for always adding too much condiments to his meals even though he was the one who had pushed through the four years with me, standing by me when I had refused to put anything into my mouth, and avoiding his favourite foods (roti prata, curry chicken, nasi lemak, etc.) because just whispering these words would result in convulsions on my part.
Since then, I have been doing nothing other than the maintenance of my body weight (not that I put much mind to it), by looking into the mirror and being satisfied with what I see. If I were to have a buffet the day before, I will avoid weighing myself the next morning, and refuse to panic if I were to have a not-so-flat stomach.
I could thank my parents for the genes that they have imparted me with, but I would rather pat myself on the back for knowing what I put into my mouth (even if it is Coke and one can of it contains 39g of sugar), knowing what it means to eat in moderation, and cultivating the habit of exercising because I want to, not because I have to.
On a side note, this was how my ankle had looked like when I had sprained it during my younger days!
Magnificent, isn't it?
