I remember being a child and never worrying about my body.
I mean, sometimes I might ask my mother why I had a belly, but she would just tell me it was baby fat and would come off when I was older. I believed her.
However... the fat only "came off when I was older" when I developed an eating disorder. I was close to overweight, and as I tapered my caloric intake from 2000+ to less than 600, I lost the weight quickly.
Anyhow, I remember being a kid and waking up in the morning a little hungry. I would jump out of the bed, rush downstairs, and start making chocolate chip pancakes with maple syrup and whipped cream. I would eat it with a tall class of milk and smile like I'd just won a million dollars. I had ice cream bars from the freezer and yogurt and popsicals throughout the day. I treated to myself to whatever I wanted, and never, not once, did my parents tell me to "eat, there are starving children in Africa."
No, as a child I was not overweight.
But when I grew up and no one stopped me from continuing these habits, (my parents were too drunk and stoned to notice much of anything about my sister and I), I got fat. My highest weight was probably around 10 years old, which, by chance or not, was when I found out about my parents' habits, but I don't remember being an emotional eater.
(Don't worry, they've quit now, and things in my house are getting a lot better.... minus the constant yelling/screaming/carping)
Now there are no pancakes I would ever think to run to when I wake up in the morning. I can't jump out of bed anymore-I sit up slowly and drag myself across the sheets, stand up, and breathe huge, slow breaths being careful not to faint from the black stars bursting in front of my eyes. I either stay in my room until the bus comes and hope that nearly being late is an excuse to miss breakfast, or saunter over to the scale and check my weight before consuming anything. I trace the outline of my ribs and hold the hole between them, not wanting to destroy it by eating much of anything. There are no sweet treats, no bowls of slimy mac & cheese. There is only a goal. A reason. A way to prove to the world that I am sufficient.