I find it remarkable that others maintain their figure responsibly. They inconspicuously stay within five pounds of a normal weight, as if they committed as babies not to disrupt the progressive, natural process of life.  They live steadily at one size all the way through their thirties, slightly plump up around midlife, then shrivel.

Cut to a still of my wardrobe, ranging in size from 4 to 18.

I was skinny as a child; a redheaded, gangly arrangement of bones. I lived in emaciated indifference until seventh grade, when I simultaneously found the need for a bra, braces and glasses. With a face full of hardware and an atypically mature body, my self-esteem plummeted.

An addict from birth, I abandoned thumb-sucking and took to propelling food into my face, just barely quieting my feelings of gawkiness as I compared myself to the junior high beauty queens like Amanda Lyons. Looking back, Amanda wasn’t exceptionally beautiful. Looking forward, I expect she’ll appear in porn. Both of these insights please me.

With the company of my two best friends – fudge and canned cheese – I lived a chubby, boyfriendless life straight up until my sophomore year of college.  At 175 pounds, it wasn’t lost on me that being a freak was perhaps a more dignified reason to be single than simply being fat. I pierced my nose and tongue and died my hair purple. I became a vegetarian and an animal rights activist, and secretly hoped that I’d lose weight from forfeiting meat. I decided that when I became thin, I’d return to my natural hair color, remove my piercings, and never again be confused for a bull.

Ten months and no weight change later, the gloriously unhealthy Atkins Diet surfaced into collegiate pop culture. My delicate, refined sorority sisters began refusing salads and shoveling pounds of cow down their gullets. “I can do this,” I thought.

I excitedly took a bite of my roommate’s sirloin steak and immediately regurgitated all over myself. I could no longer digest meat after so long in remission, so I placed a five month bulk order of the Atkins brand meal replacement bars and shakes. I stopped drinking beer and elected for straight vodka instead (no sugar!). Within a week I was 11 pounds lighter, and by the beginning of junior year I weighed in at a stable 135 pounds. I removed my piercings, reclaimed my natural redhead, and revealed the new me to boys all over campus.

The Atkins Diet was incredibly hard to maintain, as the basis of the program was meat and I was a vegetarian. While I never entirely enjoyed the taste of protein bars, eventually I wasn’t able to tolerate them at all. I quite literally could not accept them. I tried force-feeding myself, but my mouth would bounce them out like the freshman version of me trying to get into a party. I maintained my weight for the next year by eating nothing but whipped cream and eggs.

I don’t know if it was a categorically true breaking point or a complete lack of resolve that concluded my bootleg adaptation of Atkins, but I eventually lost the capacity to restrict myself. I tore into pasta, cupcakes, loaves of challah bread dipped in Spam. I devoured baked potatoes, mashed potatoes, raw potatoes. Cereal, waffles, muffin-covered pancakes. Cake, pizza, ice cream, scones, brownies, hot dog buns, nachos, chocolate-covered pretzels, French fries, onion rings, deep-fried Twinkies, spoonfuls of butter, and six-foot subs. I ate all of the foods rich with carbs and sugar that I’d missed for two years.

Then I went to bed.

I repeated this the next day. And again the next day. And the next.

In just one summer I packed on 40 pounds. I had glided through my college graduation procession a swan, then waddled into my first adult job a duckling caught in an oil-spill.

My first day at Marrow Public Relations began with the Vice President gazing lovingly at my globular abdomen and asking when I was due. I considered giving her a date, but didn’t know whether I looked more second or third trimester.

“I’m just fat,” I admitted instead. We shared a mutual blush and silently acknowledged that we’d never speak again. Later that night, I wept and polished off a sleeve of Oreos while I dialed the Weight Watchers hotline.

The following day, I armed myself with WW books and a schedule of meetings. The WW plan operates on a point system, wherein every food and beverage imaginable is represented by a point value. Based on my height and weight (once again 175), I was permitted to consume 24 points per day. I never strayed from my points target, ingesting one fat free Jello Pudding pop and 10 Bud Lights daily. I can’t say whether or not WW was effective, both because it was a short-lived endeavor and it was a drunken one that I don’t remember.

As the age-old adage says, “one thing leads to another.” My skyrocketing intake of beer eventually led to my most successful regimen to date: The Drug Cleanse. Which wasn’t so much a cleanse as it was simply not consuming calories and vomiting a lot. With an eighth of an ounce of substances in my bloodstream each day, the urge to eat disappeared entirely. Hunger took a back seat to the impulse to talk nonstop at maximum volume about taboo matters. I effortlessly lost 35% my weight and 95% of my friends.

In addition to the dwindling desire to chew and swallow, The Drug Cleanse eliminated the ability to sleep, show up to work, and feel feelings. I spent my days blowing my nose and making To-Do lists. The only way a task was crossed off was deeming it unimportant when the deadline passed. My eyes appeared to cave in and I lost the incentive to smile. At 115 pounds, I could have raided the closet of a 12 year old and passed for 50 at the same time.

While the plan was effective, it was unsustainable, due to its exorbitant cost. After exhausting eight months of rent money and my entire savings account, there were no funds left to support my habit. I softened the blows of withdrawal by drinking magnums of Yellow Tail Shiraz mixed with 100 proof vodka-soaked pineapples and raving about my homemade “sangria.” I decided that I could give up everything else if I could just keep this. After all, I needed to nurse myself back to health. Sangria was hydrating as well as nutritious. It was virtually fruit salad. I could definitely maintain a low weight on fruit salad.

I started gaining weight instantly. At first I attributed the gain to the sudden absence of drugs, but when I started noticing empty pizza boxes in the garbage and spoons coated with the remnants of peanut butter on my nightstand, it became clear that I was eating in a blackout. I continued to eat in a blackout for the following three years.

At a record 193 pounds, I had reached my breaking point. Literally. My seams were ripping open with each lunge to pet the dog.  As a lifetime subscriber to the emotionally unhealthy mantra of “It’s All or It’s Nothing,” I quit drinking and became a vegan. I swore off dairy and liquor and started eating blanched tempeh and foliage found in my parents’ backyard. When I quit smoking, I’d often eat an entire shrub.

It was difficult to find someone with the patience it required to accompany me to dinner. When the waitress would ask for my order, it took over an hour to explain what the term “vegan” meant, and the entire next evening to dictate my long list of substitutions to the menu’s one vegetarian dish. When my plate came out, it was always wrong, and I’d send it back mainly to be admired for my discipline. While I did drop 45 pounds, it was likely due to the simple shrinking process that follows an alcohol-induced bloat.

Much like The Drug Cleanse was difficult to sustain because of the cost, Veganism was difficult to sustain because of the definition. I decided, out of convenience, that it was unhealthy to deprive myself of calcium and introduced dairy back into my rigid life. I’ve since been on a two year tour of every Pinkberry location in Manhattan.

At the time I’m writing this, I could afford to lose 15 pounds. At the time you’re reading this, my stats will likely have changed.