This post deal with disordered eating and domestic violence, and could be triggering for some readers.
In my early 20s, I became skinnier than anyone who had ever called me fat.
Four years on, I am still recovering my mind from an eating disorder.
I was a soft, happy and carefree child. My mother tells me that I have always loved food - I've never been a fussy eater and was always excited by mealtimes, new flavours and watching her cook.
She indulged my appetite, because nothing is more satisfying than raising a well-fed toddler, with plenty of squishy rolls to soften the falls and tumbles of childhood games.
At the age of six, I entered primary school, which is when my ordeal began.
The kids around me found nicknames for me and for each other, and I was deemed “the chubby one”. I was at a healthy weight for my age, quite short, with a big, happy belly and round, squishy cheeks, which turned red from even the slightest physical exertion.
I carried my weight and the names I was called with me into secondary school, trying to squeeze my belly into the low-rise flared jeans of the early aughts.
Still the shortest, still the fattest, still the girl with red cheeks and a big appetite.
Comments about my weight followed me from the classroom to my home, where my parents were growing concerned about the possibility of raising an obese teenager - a daughter who they thought would end up fat, lonely and unhappy.