"Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know."

- Ernest Hemingway

A few months ago, I wrote this article about body positivity, and my journey towards self-love. I thought I'd finally made it, ya know? That I finally was able to accept my body in its natural, awkward, unconventional form. I thought that I'd accepted the fact that I will be consistently enduring my nearly-incurable metabolic issue for the rest of my life, and that it is totally ok; it is what makes me unique and strong. I was foolish enough to believe that I was ok with the idea that I would never be perfect; I thought I was finally becoming absolutely fine with that.

Although raised as a Catholic, I don't believe in God, or any gods for that matter -- albeit, I do believe in fate, the overall force of the universe, and nature's effects on one's turnout in life. I thought my fate, as a confident, chunky, somewhat mentally inferior being was inevitable, and I was willing to deal with the consequences and just focus on potentially becoming truly happy. It truly breaks my heart to say that when I wrote that article, when I was having a period of self-love and acceptance, I was feeding myself lies. If I were to say that I managed to continue the path I was moving towards, I can assure you, it would be mistruthful.

Ever since that article was written, I've only become more capable of accepting the toll of people's words on my mental health. I've become aware that I'm the most sensitive I've ever been in my life, that I am currently more emotionally fragile than one could ever fathom. I am fully conscious of the incredibly wretched ailment that this sensitivity is, especially so in the cruel world we live in.

My anxiety is at its worst; not only does it linger throughout the day, often causing at least one panic attack each day for one reason or multiple reasons or no reason whatsoever, but it assists my depression in keeping me up until 4:00 or 5:00 or 9:00 in the morning, even though I crawled into bed willing and ready to sleep no later than 1 A.M.

Ever since I wrote that article, any and every one of my former eating disorders crept up on me at some point. My past bulimic thoughts have recently been taunting my mind every time I eat, be it a cupcake or a bowl of salad. From the week before finals week all the way until Christmas Eve, my inscrutably distorted mind somehow correlated my fear of failure and poor marks with the fat on my body, and therefore I didn't eat nearly as much as I should have.

The only thing I've done in the past few months that I have been proud of was strengthening my wisdom. It has been a blessing to become notably more intelligent and thoughtful of not only the horrible and seemingly insignificant infirmities, which I persevere, but the beauties of the world around me. I have been able to find solitude within the small things that I normally would not pay mind to, and with the mental state that I'm currently enslaved by, becoming enthralled by these small gems is what keeps my going. For example, I've rediscovered my love for painting and drawing, I've developed a new appreciation for photography, I've discovered some unique and amazing musicians, and I'm more interested in J.K. Rowling's enchanting works than ever before.

Unfortunately, I've also become wise enough to make connections between my horrible perception of my own self and the people I have been surrounded by on a day-to-day basis throughout the years. This is the price I've had to pay for having an unnaturally vivid memory. Here are some of the undeniable legitimacies I've had the displeasure of piecing together:

When I was a 90-pound high school freshman, I was drenched in compliments and hugs from people I barely knew. People in my school would Facebook message me and talk to me via Formspring about how small and cute I was. One young man said he wanted to pick me up and spin me around, because I was so pocket-sized that it warmed his heart. In both Phys. Ed. and Project Adventure, I was hugged and complimented for my small waist on a near-daily basis. Nobody knew that I was unhealthy, that I barely ate, and worked out excessively. I was skinny, and skinny is apparently synonymous with healthy, so people found me adorable.

Now, compliments are extremely rare. I'm called cute only if I have a cute outfit on, or if I say something unintentionally self-depreciative. Sometimes I'm complimented on my eyelashes or my the surprising length of my current relationship, but I'm rarely "the cute one" overall anymore.

As a former runner, I've experienced both praise and scrutiny.

When I was 100 pounds, the strangers and other students whom I would pass by on my long runs would cheer me on, telling me how great I was doing. One time, an elderly man on a bike, whom I would often pass on my afternoon jogs told me that I "gave [him] the endurance to keep going."

By 120 pounds, I was catcalled every time I went for a run. I supposedly had beautiful thighs, a nice ass, and incredible "form."

By 130 pounds, I was called a fat-ass, and was told to "keep running," to "keep burning those calories;" I was called a cunt, and told to "please go the fuck home."

By 140 pounds, I stopped running because of the immense and assumedly understandable strain it was putting on my confidence. I also stopped running because no matter how hard I trained, I only got slower, which makes sense: distance runners can't be heavy and good at the sport, unless they're naturally athletically gifted.

The summer after I stopped running -- this past summer -- when I was up to 145 pounds, I was called out several times while walking around with my boyfriend, simply because I'm fatter than him. "[My boyfriend] got himself a chubby one," one man said. "Ya girl got a fat ass," a group of teenage boys yelled at my boyfriend, shortly after literally chucking rocks at me while I was sitting down on a bench with him.

When I was around 150-155 pounds, which is more recent and the closest to my current weight, a young man called me a "fat bitch" after I made a minor mistake in his transaction: I was at work, so I just had to grin and bear it.

Speaking of work, when I began my job in the summer of 2015 -- when I was severely over-working myself in the gym, as well experiencing a minor anorexic relapse -- customers were frequently smiling at me, complimenting me, even hitting on me and asking me out on dates. I was literally given, like, 5 phone numbers in that short period of time that I was back down to 120 pounds. I'm not saying I enjoyed it, nor was it fun; quite frankly, it was very uncomfortable having both older men and young teenage boys trying to make moves. But it was flattering to know that I was respected, simply because I was more tan and more toned.

Now, I'm treated with noticeably less respect than ever by my customers. I know it's not just an unsettling coincidence, because I've only gotten better at my job, and more experienced in how the store works since then. I mean, I barely knew what I was doing that summer; but because I had a "nice smile" and was "incredibly adorable" -- to quote a few -- people treated me kindly.

Now that I'm fat, my boyfriend and I are no longer the cute couple that gets adoring looks and handfuls of compliments everywhere we go. Ever since I became fat, we've become much less relevant to others. We used to be made fun of in high school, for acting too affectionate in such a public display. Now, as I previously stated, were instead made fun of for my weight.

In one of my classes last semester, the young man who sat next to me and occasionally included me in conversation, described how "weird" and "really, really not-cute" a girl in our class and her boyfriend were as a couple. That girl just happened to be very overweight, and her boyfriend just happened to be extremely thin. To say that my deteriorating "cuteness" with my boyfriend is a coincidence, or that I am overthinking this, would be naive: I witnessed unfair shame towards a couple similar to my boyfriend and I, first-hand, thanks to that classmate.

Ever since my thyroid issue became prominent, it takes me a month of strict and extreme dieting to semi-permanently lose a single pound, whereas if anyone normal went to the measures that I did, it would take them about half a week.

Ever since this became the severe problem that it now is, I've only lost weight when I literally starve myself: for example, if I'm too sick or too depressed to keep food down, or simply going through yet another relapse in an eating disorder. The best part is always that I gain back whatever I lost from a week of starving myself after a single day of eating just 1000 calories of veggies and fruits.

I'm sick of seeing people on their weight-loss journeys who are doing much less than myself, but experiencing quick and easy and endorphin-boosting results. I'm obviously happy for them, but I'm incredibly envious that those peoples' bodies allow them to do what they do. Mine just equates 200 calories of kale to 400 calories of nearly-pure fat.

I also break out more than ever: and to quote a girl in one of my classes last semester, "pimples are the 'grossest' things [she's] ever seen." People get praised for weight-loss and clear skin on a daily basis, and I just happen to be developing in the opposite way from which everyone else seems to be.

It really doesn't help that the physical and mental health issues are taking a toll on my aging process. I mean, just last year, I was often mistaken for a 16-year-old. People I didn't know were normally shocked to find that I was over a year into college.

Now, I am called ma'am on a nearly-regular basis. Now, random people assume I have kids, for reasons such as hearing something that was quiet, or giving advice on how to wrap an injured ankle. Because having decent hearing and experience in treating injuries means I must be a mother of "at least, like, 3 kids," to quote one customer I had helped at work.

As I started getting slower at running, as well as more fat, my former friends have slowly stopped talking to me. Maybe I've been unintentionally detaching myself, or maybe they're just so sick of me and I'm not visually appealing anymore and therefore less relevant. I mean, this is a literal fact: I don't have my textbooks anymore for reference, but in my nonverbal communications class and my persuasive theories class, I learned that it is a proven fact that unattractive (which equates to fat, in our society) females are less likable, less easy to listen to, and less "fun" to interact with, as compared to unattractive males.

Like, no one reaches out to talk to me or hang out unless they need something from me. I haven't had plans with anybody except my boyfriend, as well as consistently spoken to anyone besides him, in too long to remember.

In fact, some of these people altogether have been just less respectful of my feelings and harsher and unfriendly towards my attempts to converse.

Once, I had a waist trainer on, and was called "thickems." That same person called me a "chubby girl with chubby feet" another time (I still have yet to understand the relevance of this comment to our conversation). I thought he was my friend, but he knew literally everything about my past with eating disorders and knew just how fragile my confidence is, and completely disregarded it. Similarly, another "friend" who knows about what I've dealt with called someone who was clearly smaller than me "SO chubby!" right in front of me, laughing about this poor girl's apparently "unappealing" appearance.

If you're not bored or depressed enough by now, finally: it's always been my goal to move to England, but if the stigma that Europeans hate Americans is true, I'm fucked. I'm fat, I'm annoying, I'm awkward, and I'm an American. This is the epitome of our country, according to everywhere but here, and it is the reason why so many other countries hate us. I've concluded that, despite it being my dream, I shouldn't go to England.

I got a little out of hand with the self-loathing there, but... do you see what I mean? I just don't understand what's wrong with me. I end each day, laying in bed, probably crying quietly, and wondering this to myself. I reflect on all these negative aspects of my life far too much. Although I've been wise enough to remember all these happenings, and to make distinct connections between my promisingly uncontrollable weight gain and outer appearance to all else, I'm not nearly wise enough to know why I'm so easily hated by everyone around me.

The following questions are obviously rhetorical but I ask myself these things every single day: Am I uglier than I think I am? Am I obnoxious? Am I rude or mean, without any knowledge of knowing that I am? I always aim to treat others better than they would ever treat me, but am I actually doing them harm? Why is it that I can't get through a single day without someone that I do or don't already know breaking my heart, shattering my confidence, and sucking the once pure and peaceful soul out of my body, just to leave me bitter and afraid and perpetually sad? What have I done, honestly?

Some say that the best way to cure a shitty life is to quit surrounding yourself with shitty people. How do I know I'm not actually the shittiest person in my life?

To leave on at least a somewhat positive note, here is a relevant and slightly comical reaction to part of Bo Burnham's closing act in his last tour, Make Happy.