Your Progress Post Is Hurting Me
By: Rachel Drane
Tags: Eating Disorders, Weight Loss, Mental Health, Diet, Instagram

Your Progress Post Is Hurting Me

And it’s probably hurting you too

Photo by Steve Gale on Unsplash

Can you imagine living through a pandemic without the internet? Without endless amounts of digital content? Without instant ways to connect with family, friends, and even coworkers?

It would suck. It would suck far more than it currently — most certainly — does.

But we’re adjusting. We’re doing our best. People are being more intentional with their time, more intentional with reaching out to one another, more intentional with checking in on one another. Because of all this intentionality, I might (ironically) be busier now than before Covid.

Even the less intentional methods of staying connected are helpful. Social media, for instance, has become a wellspring of resources and empathy. Reminders that everyone is living this life right now. That everyone is trying to figure this out.

It’s also a producer of a variety of fitness challenges!!!

Instagram is probably my favorite among the various social media. Wasn’t always. There’s a hulluva lot of content on there that used to bring me down. I don’t think I realized how much it affected me until I read multiple body positive blogs about curating your social media to work for you. So I’ve done my best. I’ve unfollowed (or muted) any accounts that I found were bringing me down. And I’ve followed tons of body diverse and self-care type accounts.

But even with this thoughtful editing, content with negative impact inevitably slip through. And with this lockdown in place and my socializing limited, one could say its impact is amplified.

This was made clear for me the other day as I was making my way through Instagram stories. I was mindlessly tapping along, passively checking in with friends. Until one image stopped me.

It was a familiar face, but one I hadn’t seen in a while. Well, it was a familiar face paired with a less familiar face right next to it. Because it was a before and after post.

I clicked through to the profile to read the caption of this comparison photo.

How is that even the same person?

Oof.

The casual observer might not think twice about that statement. More often than not, they’d use it simply as a prompt to notice the change. But reading her words broke my heart.

They also triggered the shit out of me.

My brain took that photo and ran with it. It slipped back into its destructive programming that I’ve spent so much time and money trying to dismantle. Going down rabbit holes of “I’m not doing enough,” “I’m not skinny enough,” “There’s something that’s wrong with me that I need to fix… immediately!”

I didn’t notice what my brain was doing, however, until I was stepping out for my morning walk, a ritual I’ve adopted since this whole mess began. As I started on my route toward the park, my brain escalated to planning mode. That is, binge planning mode.

Because that’s how I’ve dealt with these feelings most of my life. Feeling lonely? Binge. Feeling out of control? Binge. Feeling broken/unwanted/unhealthy? Binge!

However, planning mode in the time of Corona looks a bit different. It requires more intention, now that the simple act of running to the grocery store for some binge foods is a risk.

Luckily, these roadblocks were enough of a mental impediment to curtail my plans. By the time I got back to my house, I understood what was going on, which nowadays is often enough to stop me from wanting to do destructive behaviors. I realized why I was feeling that way. And what had led me to want to engage in my disordered eating.

It was that post.

That one post that this woman put out into the world to share her progress. To get positive feedback. To help justify whatever sacrifices and hardships she’s taken on. And to shit on the previous version of herself.

How is that even the same person?

As innocuous as those words may seem, that statement is putting self-hatred on display. Because it’s obvious that the previous version was inferior to the current version. Because that’s what all before and afters are. The trope of the Before is always a sad, slouchy depressed person. Whereas the After is always happy, made-up, and fulfilled.

Think I’m reading too much into a simple Instagram caption? Perhaps.

But this is exactly what I put myself through once upon a time.

My weight loss journey… to hell

In one month, it will be exactly 11 years since my eating disorder began. Eleven years since the day I started an extreme diet. A diet with the express purpose to lose weight. Which I was forced myself to do.

I tracked weight and calories obsessively. Sometimes weighing myself multiple times a day. I trained myself to believe that I could only feel good about myself if the number on that piece of plastic below me was lower than the last number I saw. If it wasn’t, I was punished: less food, more exercise.

I was desperate to no longer be the unlovable “Fat” Rachel*. No matter what happened, I couldn’t stay as that person. And, as I started to lose the weight, I swore I could never go back to that person.

All of which was soon validated by the world around me.

My mom’s partner, who is rarely positive about anything, complimented me on my hard work. My friends were so happy to see me, telling me how amazing I looked. More guys were showing interest in me. I even had professors approaching me to offer congratulations or even ask me how I did it.

Message received.

People were happier with this new version of Rachel. They were more excited to see her. More interested in engaging with her. Meaning the version that had gone home for the summer, the version they had all befriended, had been defective.

I had no inkling of the damage I was doing. I was floating on Cloud 9. I loved it. I finally felt like the acceptable, skinny girl. I fit in. I could look in the mirror and be proud. I truly believe everything would be easier.

It wasn’t until the stress of school set back in, an abusive relationship developed, and the weight started to come back did I start to experience the repercussions.

I became more ashamed than ever to show my body. Even though I was still far from my heaviest point. I wore sweats to cover any reemerging bulges. To hide the fact that my pants were digging into my flesh. Because buying new clothes — in a larger size than my smallest — would be defeat.

After I had lost the weight, I would scan through the photos of me on Facebook. It almost physically hurt to see how I used to look. And a disgust would take hold. Fat Rachel was so lazy. Fat Rachel ate junk. Fat Rachel looked disgusting in clothes. I’m so glad I’m not Fat Rachel anymore.

But I was still that person. And when I gained all the weight back, I hated myself with a renewed passion. Because now, not only was I overweight, but I also had failed.

By the end of that first semester back to school, I barely had any clothes that fit and, maybe more importantly, didn’t highlight the weight gain. Leading the only woman on a panel of professors give me the feedback that I looked unprofessional. The only negative feedback I received for that final.

I was soon completely overtaken by an eating disorder. One that was fueled by self-hatred. Self-hatred that I sowed and harvested during that intensive diet. This eating disorder ended up having its hooks in me for the next 7–8 years. And it still pops up now and again, just to let me know it’s thinking of me.

Especially when people start posting before and after shots.

Because before and after shots of weight loss are steeped in judgment. They are a declaration of what is right and what is wrong. How one should be versus how they shouldn’t. A relief from a burdensome previous self. And they only way they’re inspirations is by inspiring the people who see them to think that they’re insufficient.

It’s not about health

The most common rebuttal to being against weight loss discussion or pride is that I’m shitting on their journey to becoming healthier. That it’s about health. Not their appearance. That people are just happy about getting healthy or for their friends/families/acquaintances to get healthy.

First, healthy is a coded word for thin or skinny. Let’s just be honest with ourselves and each other, ‘kay?

Second, it’s impossible to know someone else’s health. Yes, even just by looking at them. So if someone is losing weight, even if they are sharing their weight loss journey/”successes”, it’s impossible to know if what’s happening is healthy. Therefore, you don’t know what you’re encouraging with that comment or double-tap.

Third, we should be just as conscientious — if not more so — about people’s well-being. Which includes mental health.

If I’m honest, certain parts of me did feel better in a slightly smaller body. But I traded that in for constant worry and obsession over what I was putting in my body, how other people were seeing me, how clothes fit me. I was plagued by shame, masked by a fleeting euphoria of being an acceptable, “attractive” size.

I swear I’m not here to shit on people who are trying to make lifestyle changes to help them feel better (physically, emotionally, spiritually). Everyone should do what makes them feel the best as they navigate through this world. And it’s great if you’re making changes and are feeling better.

But — at the very least — can we just get rid of before and after shots, please? Even if you don’t want to acknowledge the harm it’s doing to yourself, you should be able to see how this hurts others. How it makes others feel like they need to be fixed. That they are a “Before.”

They especially have no place in a pandemic. Where our best chances of getting through this involve drastically changing our lifestyles. I get it if fitness is your thing. You can keep doing those push-up challenges, friends, while I push some popcorn in my mouth. But there are more important things than making sure you’ve got a #bathingsuitbody. Because, let’s face it, you might not even have anywhere to go in said bathing suit.