Looking out of the window, I saw familiar faces walking across the frosty car park and greeted them with a smile. It was a cold December evening and my Slimming World group was getting underway, but I noticed a car that had been parked up for some time, the driver looking anxious. I gave the woman a big friendly wave, after all it was the season to be merry. There was a pause, and then the car door opened... ‘Come on, I’ll walk in with you,’ I said. ‘The hardest part is getting here.’ I knew what it was like to sit outside a Slimming World group, feeling too scared to go in. I’d been there myself.
My unhappiness with my weight started when I was nine. My parents split up and eating sugary food was a comfort. I ate golden syrup by the spoonful until I felt sick. I lived with Dad, and the freezer was always stocked with pizza, chicken nuggets, and chips. I’d spend my pocket money on doughnuts and sweets, and as I went into my teens I grew self-conscious about my weight, wishing my tummy would magically disappear. At school I was called ‘Big Mac’ – as my surname was McGregor – and I’d eat my packed lunch locked in the toilet to avoid the bullies.
At 16, I left school and started college, but my love-hate relationship with food continued. I’d say I was being good to myself as I opened a packet of biscuits or buttered another round of toast, but afterward I’d feel even lower, and so frustrated. It was like the food was controlling me. I’d cover up my sadness with a big fake smile, but I was breaking inside.
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