BODY TALK 2025

I’ve noticed a number of articles popping up, weighing in on the body sizes of the stars of Wicked: For Good. According to a CNN article, “’Wicked: For Good’ revives an uncomfortable debate about bodies and images,” it’s been considered taboo over the past decade to comment on or critique celebrities’ bodies which, frankly, is news to me. In our Insta world, stars often post thirst trap photos of their bodies, the intention being to get “likes” and build a following. To me, a “like” is itself a comment on someone’s body or how they generally look in a pic. For better or for worse, celebrities who are frequently in the public eye are often subject to scrutiny about what they wear and how they look.

 

In the case of Wicked, the concern is people are commenting that its stars look too thin and the counter-response is that a person’s thinness is none of their business. This is not new. As someone diagnosed with anorexia nervosa, I have been acutely aware of when a fashion model or a D-list celebrity is considered too thin. I struggle with this notion that people should not comment on what is perceived to be extreme thinness. I would agree that some bodies are just naturally thin. But usually the comments arise when the person’s body has gone through some sort of transformation, from larger to thinner or from thin to even thinner. 

 

I don’t read the comments but I’m sure there are many that are needlessly—and intentionally—harsh. Still, I feel certain that, when it comes to thinness, many comments are expressed out of concern. I don’t feel a strong sense that these comments should be discouraged. Speaking up when concerned—even if the concern is ultimately misplaced—may be better than saying nothing at all. 

 

Too often weight loss generates all sorts of compliments which may, in turn, encourage the person to work at shedding more pounds. Positive feedback fosters further “positive” action. But I think it’s fair for someone in earnest to vocalize a sense of caution at some point. “Hey. Are you okay? Are you checking in with a professional about your weight loss?”

 

“Invasive!” many will scream. “That’s crossing a line.” Yes. Likely. It’s tricky with people we know on a personal level while so much easier on social media. The personal level is, of course, where an expression of concern can have more of an effect… both positive and negative.

 

For myself, the eating disorder part of me loves when I start losing more weight. Looking in the mirror, I see pesky body parts become trimmer, maybe even acceptable. I carry a suspicion that, hmm, maybe my face is getting too thin but I tell myself it’s worth it to have a six-pack and tamed love handles. Weight never comes off evenly throughout the body. So often, it seems the body part I’m most bothered by is the last to show any change from heightened food restriction and increased exercise. 

 

Once, in college, a group of friends had an intervention with me. I had stumbled on a way of eating that resulted in pounds dropping off with ease to the point where I was fifty pounds lighter than I am today. I was gleeful. This was a game and I was winning. 

 

It was during the ’80s when baggy clothes were in fashion so I figured no one could see my body changes. It was all for me, not anybody else. I suppose, however, my fashionably baggy clothes reached a point of becoming unfashionably baggy. “You’ve gotten too thin,” they said. “Your face is gaunt.” The way they said it sounded harsh. They were viewing my face negatively. It was a problem.

 

It was also a jolt. To myself, everything was great. How could weight loss not be a positive thing? Society celebrated dieting success. And I was succeeding exceptionally. I did not see a doctor. I did not receive an eating disorder diagnosis. That wouldn’t come for another thirty-six years. But their talk scared me—enough for me to abandon my weight loss routine and gradually gain back some weight. 

 

Commenting made a difference.

 

I know that others will double down and assert that the commenter is out of line. The reaction will be some form of How dare you?! If there truly is an eating disorder at play—diagnosed or undiagnosed—that part of the person will fight. It will dismiss and deny. The incident may even cost a friendship. Hopefully, it doesn’t come to that. But difficult conversations are just that. Sometimes it’s better to have them no matter what the stakes are.

 

I often think of Karen Carpenter who died from an eating disorder in 1983 at the age of 32. Any Google Image search of her shows a person who is objectively on the thin side. In some photos, she looks hauntingly thin. Did people close to her wait too long to speak up? Did they not speak up at all? To this day, her death is the most tragic celebrity death I can think of. 

 

Once again, when I was thirty, some other friends called me on my weight loss. At the time, I was struggling financially and I brushed off their concerns until one of them showed up at my door with a loaf of bread from a bakery. I was deeply embarrassed. I could buy my own basic foods. Was I that thin? 

 

One friend talked to me about seeing a doctor. I’d recently moved back to Canada and didn’t have a medical practitioner. Back in the days of Yellow Pages, I didn’t have a clue how to go about picking a doctor. My friend gave me a couple of recommendations. All this concern jolted me again. I went to a doctor. Through tears, I asked him if I had an eating disorder. (Did men even get eating disorders?) He went with the empathy card instead of playing the curiosity card. He quickly said, “You don’t have an eating disorder. You’re just extremely fit.” In my gut, this didn’t sit right. It offered no relief. Normally, I’d have been giddy from the “extremely fit” remark. I knew deep down I had a problem. I knew my routines were exhausting me. I needed a professional to tell me to stop. Whether I stopped or not was another matter, but it would have helped to have even the possibility of an eating disorder acknowledged. That still wouldn’t come for another twenty-three years.[1]

 

All this is to say that I don’t think commenting on social media about a celebrity losing perhaps too much weight is going to make a difference, even when well-intentioned. Many celebs are extremely image-conscious. Their profession makes this so. It is possible that a strong wave of remarks about possibly being “too thin” might make them consider talking to a doctor, a psychiatrist or a dietitian. I suspect the public comments might instead provide an impetus for friends, family or even an agent to have a frank, caring conversation. “Well…now that it’s out there…” Again, getting a professional opinion to make sure they haven’t gone too far can be a good thing, assuming the professional proves to be more knowledgeable and curious than mine was all those years ago.

 

Eating disorders thrive on secrecy. Mine certainly does. When it is finally “out there” with others noticing and wondering, there is at least the possibility for consultation and, with professional support, slow change. Honestly, when it comes to conversation about someone you know possibly being too thin, I think it’s better to err on the side of concern. Have a talk, one where you say what you think should be said, but listen even more, assuming the topic isn’t outright shut down as it may well be. Eating disorders are fierce. They are destructive but, while a person clings to one, the disorder is also doing something perceived as positive. One person expressing concern may not be enough to affect change. 

 

Tricky stuff. I know it all too well.

   

 

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[1] Interestingly, my prior blog post titled BODY TALK and written in 2014 speaks as though I have an eating disorder even though it would still not be diagnosed for three more years. The body and brain knew. Professionals just weren’t picking up on it.

IS IT BACK?

The question in the title popped in my head but it’s wrong. “Is it worse?” is far more accurate. The answer: “Of course.”

 

Talking about my eating disorder again. I have nine hours until I eat. I’m telling myself I’m just dieting, but I don’t think people with eating disorders know how to just diet. As someone with anorexia, my restriction is significant in the best of times, extreme under other circumstances.

 

Sitting here in a café, I perked up when the barista asked if I wanted water: “Regular or sparkling?” I chose the latter, cheered that the bubbles will trick my stomach into thinking I’m consuming something more substantial. 

 

Club soda is now on my shopping list.

 

I recently spent two weeks at the cottage and that “vacation,” a trip intended for relaxation has triggered me. Driving from the airport, I stopped at the grocery store and stocked up on my “safe” foods. I tend to treat myself to a few scones on vacation and I needed to know the fridge supplies had things that would somewhat offset my intake. This is what I always do when I go to the cottage.

 

The problem was this wasn’t a regular cottage stay. Normally it’s almost all downtime, just me and the deck, the beach below offering an inviting morning walk, the river suggesting a quick swim (when no one could possibly be watching). 

 

Throughout the fortnight, however, I only had two dinners on my own. Friends and relatives were around me the rest of the time. It was all lovely. These are wonderful people. But, as is often the case, food is a central conduit for social activity. My eating disorder slithers on the sidelines in social situations. I don’t like to be a spectacle. I don’t want people seeing my small portions and pushing more food on me. When poked and prodded, the eating disorder gets worse. It doubles down. I eat even less. I refuse social invitations. I isolate.

 

I truly thought I was doing well. I ate “normally.” I socialized as best I could. I enjoyed the conversations. I appreciated the food. 

 

The eating disorder was left to sit back and stew. It waited patiently for the visits to end, for the time to take over, guilting me and sending me into severe restriction mode. The opportunity came as soon as I drove to the airport. No farewell donut, no mixed berry scone. Not even that little baggy of pretzels on the plane. 

 

I didn’t stand a chance in trying to dismiss the eating disorder. I was worn out. As an introvert, all the socializing left me exhausted. I was ignoring hunger pangs before I’d even landed back in Vancouver. 

 

People talk about being too tired to eat. For me, it’s the other way around. Not eating makes me too tired. My afternoons are write-offs. No writing. It doesn’t seem to make sense—not much makes sense with an eating disorder—but the only “productive” thing I can do midafternoon is exercise. I never think about food when I’m working out. The exercise is another part of my disorder. It demands full attention. There are no excuses permitted. 

 

I have several friends I’m supposed to contact now that I’m back. It’s been a week and I don’t have the energy to make any attempt to reach out. My social exhaustion is both separate from and woven into the eating disorder. The isolation helps me stick to my disordered behaviours.

 

As I’m sixty now, I wear the weight on my body differently. Even a year ago, some of the weight I perceive as gaining from pastries and full meals would have already dropped off. Only a little weight loss typically shows. Less than ten pounds under my standard weight and I start to look scary—gaunt face, protruding ribs, loss of muscle. The weight insists on lingering this time around. This will make my heightened eating disorder behaviours more established, perhaps even more drastic.

 

Yes, I’m thinking of club soda as a meal.

 

I’m telling myself this is just a rough patch. Some temporary tweaking. I should be so lucky.

 

 

 

 

 

A WORK IN PROGRESS (STILL)

There’s a stereotype of a cantankerous, old man who no longer gives a shit. Ebenezer Scrooge. Statler and Waldorf, the two crankpot Muppets who criticize everything from the audience. Donald Trump? Not only does the seventy-eight-year-old not care but he is totally settled on who he is. He isn’t going to change.

 

I’m sixty and happy to say I’m not there yet. No shrugging. No humbugging. No all-caps Tweets at 3 a.m.

 

I’m neither cranky—even before my first coffee of the day—nor settled with who I am. I still have work to do. Or attempt, at least. 

 

I remain a work in progress. I am relieved I still care. Some of my greatest still-pending self-improvement pertains to my body and my mindset regarding it.

 

My dang eating disorder is an unwanted guest that arrived forty-three years ago and has never left. Sure, there’ve been times when it’s hung out in the attic or basement or even the condo storage locker, out of sight, mostly out of mind, but my messed up thinking and body dysmorphia have always been with me…even when my weight appeared healthy…occasionally several pounds “beyond” healthy. 

 

More often than being an attic dweller, the eating disorder has been in the same room with me, wherever I go, right by my side. It hangs around, defiant. 

Just try to ignore me. You can’t take two steps without bumping into me. 

 

The eating disorder harps. 

You sure you want to eat that? Seriously…ALL that? 

 

It’s bound to put a pound on you. How you gonna

work that off?

 

Why haven’t you exercised yet? It’s not your day off, 

you know. You only get one a week…even if you’ve

got a fractured rib. 

 

You think  you’ve only gained half a pound? It’s a 

slippery slope, you know. You can’t take chances.

 

Many of the eating disorder programs in which I’ve taken part refer to the eating disorder as one’s guilty conscience, an inner voice or, often, a separate character: ED. He befriends and acts like he’s got your best interests in mind. Ed’s a supporter. Rah rah, be your best self.

 

And, clearly, that self has half a pound to lose. So unacceptable!

 

It would be easier—maybe even better—if I continued to keep my eating disorder a secret. But I’m very open about the fact ED hangs around. I lived alone with my eating disorder for thirty-six years. It was undiagnosed. When I’d finally summoned the courage to consult my family doctor thirteen years into the disorder, he shook off the possibility. “You’re just very fit,” he said. A good thing in general. A bad thing though for someone feeling messed up, for a person constantly exhausted from working so hard to eat so little and to exercise so much.

 

The diagnosis came twenty-three years after that consultation. At first, it was only known to me and the person who had done the assessment. Then, it was public info for anyone else in my first eating disorder group. It was confirmed again by a psychiatrist who did another assessment. I’ve been assessed and reassessed several times, formalities to continue receiving services. The result is never in question. 

 

My family knows I have an eating disorder. My close friends know. My partner knows. Strangers know as well. I’ve been contacted by a few people after CBC published an essay I wrote about my eating disorder and after I participated in a CBC podcast. A researcher from a major Canadian university reached out to me via Instagram to invite me to be a patient-contributor in creating a new eating disorder assessment tool. I’ve also been the living-and-breathing patient participant alongside a professor and a social worker on a panel to enlighten nursing majors at another Canadian university. 

 

Being public has a few benefits. It’s a load off me. I’m still a work in progress but the burden feels lighter knowing I’m not fully in hiding. My food restriction still happens in private, but I have the sense I’m no longer fooling anyone. I also hope that my openness may help others—friends and family of someone who may have and eating disorder or, even better, a person who is going through the struggle, diagnosed or not. I continue to believe that the earlier people get support, the better the chances they will see some progress in their own recovery. 

 

Practically speaking, being public about my eating disorder helps me continue to qualify for services and supports. I was re-diagnosed and referred for programming last April as my eating disorder habits spiked. (Another assessment came in August.) My behaviors have evened out on their own since last April—still well within the zone of a diagnosable condition but less alarming. I’m currently accessing outpatient support though I went through a lengthy intake session last week for the possibility of being re-hospitalized and/or being readmitted to a group home for persons with eating disorders. I’m on the fence about these more intensive programs. They didn’t change me at all when I went through both in 2019. I wonder if I might be more receptive this time. What has changed for that to be a possibility?

 

Yes, I am a work in progress. Sometimes, however, progress is especially hard to quantify.

STILL GOT IT

I’m teary today. It comes with being scared. I’ve just past the five-month marker for severe food restriction. 

 

Funny, I used to count months in terms of being in a relationship. With that kaput, it’s about months of food deprivation. Segued smoothly from one to the other, with one month of numbing and hoping for a change of heart in between. 

 

I’ve gotten myself into a troubling spot. It could all be fine. I’ve been restricting food for decades. I’ve been at this level—and worse—before but never this long. 

 

This past week, I went for a reassessment of my eating disorder. I’d gone undiagnosed for so many years and then in 2017, I was finally told I had anorexia nervosa. I cried. It was a strange relief to finally hear that something I’d long felt was “off” with me was indeed an issue. I felt seen, understood. The label mattered. I could receive support from psychiatrists, counsellors, dietitians, nurses and occupational therapists. I could finally be present with others who had eating disorders, hear their stories, nod along. They could listen to me and nod back. I was with compassionate people who understood the struggle.

 

Throughout 2018 and 2019, I tried everything available—outpatient support, hospitalization, a group home. I was connected but neither my behaviours nor my mindset changed. Due to funding issues and the high demand for support for persons with eating disorders, my access to support was cut off after two years as a matter of course. I left the program knowing I officially had a problem and realizing I was stuck. I could sit out for six months and then seek service again, but I didn’t see the point. Without progress, I was taking someone else’s spot. 

 

I was fine. My life was different than others. Not as carefree; more rules of my own making. But it was an existence I could live with. 

 

In my two-year relationship, I was open about my eating disorder. I invited questions and answered honestly when the occasional discussion came up. I did everything I could to try to minimize the impact of my rules during our shared experiences. I exercised when it would have the least impact. I restricted but also ate regular meals, full portions. I even questioned which of us was the more disordered eater. His intake always seemed less. 

 

In the end, my rules were cited during the breakup. I’d been open about my mental health challenges, including those beyond the eating disorder. I don’t think he ever truly understood. I had unpacked all my “baggage” within the first week of us being together. I really wish he’d said his “No thank you” then and shown me the door. An early exit would have been more humane.

 

My reassessment took two hours. (There were already two updated blood tests and three ECGs on file.) As things shifted to talk about programming available to me, I interrupted and said, “So…I still have an eating disorder?”

 

“Yes. Severe. Anorexia nervosa.”

 

The “severe” was new. I knew this but hearing a professional say it was difficult. I wanted to break down but fought it off. With a hand, I was able to wipe away the few tears that welled up and finally trickled down my cheeks. 

 

Early on during the appointment, she told me I needed to cancel my upcoming travel plans. I am scheduled to be away for six weeks and this is delaying my cardiology appointments as well as access to eating disorder programming. I shook my head. Part of my trip is about building on social connections that are vital to me since, in Vancouver, I am rather isolated from deep relationships. I also managed to convey over the rest of my appointment how travel lifts me and how I even eat more when my routine has to adapt to different environments. I treat myself more. I allow things that are no-gos on home turf. 

 

So, yes, travel before treatment. The interventions have to wait. My decision. Still, it is scary. There are more what-ifs about my physical health now. I’ve heard a couple of frightening things from my family doctor and my psychiatrist. The remarks shook me so much I knew not to ask any follow-up questions. I was too startled and I couldn’t handle any more detailed information. I most certainly won’t be Googling.

 

Make it go away.

 

The information. The eating disorder.

 

The problem, however, is just what I said during my reassessment. “I can’t stop.” It was another teary moment. She nodded. We both knew this. That’s an inherent part of having an eating disorder, especially one that is severe.

 

I don’t sleep well. I don’t exercise well. Basically, I don’t function well right now. Nightmare scenarios play out in my head. I’m hoping travel will offer the distraction it always does. Let my mind and body rest. 

 

Let me be ready when I return to will some sort of change for the better.

 

  

DOUBLY DISORDERED

Sometimes you get towed in with an ignition problem only to be told you need a whole new engine. Or something like that. I really shouldn’t use car analogies. I’m not even sure I know how to put air in the tires for the one I’m driving these days.

Last fall, I was admitted to hospital for acute depression. I went in voluntarily but they immediately certified me as involuntary. An unnecessary and highly unappreciated step, as you might imagine. I was already there and I wasn’t going anywhere. But that maneuver by some presumably well-intentioned doctor after a five-minute conversation with me made my eighteen-day stay so much more complicated. To say I was being admitted involuntarily when I’d gone to see my psychiatrist, discussed the decision to admit myself, waited for him to type a supporting letter, then stopped back home to pack for my stay and walked into ER,…well, that was rubbish.

I already knew this wasn’t going to be anything like those sojourns in lovely white mansions with grand porches surrounded by fields of green grass where patients dance about waving butterfly nets. I’d seen that in old movies. That kind of place would’ve made me feel better (as long as I didn’t get tangled in the butterfly nets too often).

No, this would be unpleasant. This would be an ongoing battle to regain my rights…and a writing pad…and my clothes. I could go into extreme detail about everything wrong with the experience. I journaled what I could, first with crayon because it was all I could find, then with one of those stubby mini golf pencils because it’s all they’d offer when I begged, all on scraps of paper—the backs of the menu sheet that accompanied each food tray meal, a torn out magazine page with an abnormally large amount of white space. It’ll make a memoir one day. Or maybe not.

Feeling like I had no control over my environment, I did what I always do when I am overwhelmed. I began to starve myself. I ate and drank nothing during my first day in a holding pen of sorts, the Acute Behavioural Stabilization Unit, where patients are expected to calm down as the heavy locked doors constantly slam while hospital employees use the room as a shortcut corridor from one place in the hospital to another. Zero food, zero sleep.

Once transferred to a “regular” psychiatric unit, I first refused food because it wasn’t vegan. Then, I refused what I deemed as being too high in sugar and fat. Then, what was too discolored to actually be an edible version of the food they said it was. (That’s why the tray came with a coveted sheet of paper listing of what was on it: to clue you in that a mini tray of sliced something was actually zucchini.) The expectation was that all of us had to report to the “dining room”, a sad open area with bright florescent lights, to eat at the same time. That didn’t work for me. I didn’t want to socialize. I didn’t want people seeing what I ate or didn’t eat. As I took my tray to my room, a nurse stopped me and said it was against the rule. My shoulders tensed. Rules. Fine. I left the tray and headed back to my room, stomach empty, the growing gurgles strangely satisfying as a sound of defiance.

As I had a different psychiatrist each day, I had to constantly rehash my cycle downward and explain my food issues. A doctor overrode nurses’ objections to me eating in my room and I faced icy looks from Food Traffic Nurse for the rest of my stay. There was a mouse problem in the unit. Indeed, I saw several during my stay. Cute critters. And smart. Based on my observations, many psychiatric patients are too highly medicated to really care about keeping food on the tray. The dining room surfaces areas were regularly a sticky, crumb-strewn mess.

I still refused to eat most of what was served. A dietician became a daily visitor. Nurses were instructed to do daily calorie counts regarding my intake. Once I was allowed to wear my own clothes and I got passes to leave the hospital, I was permitted to buy my own food—nonfat cottage cheese, nonfat yogurt—and keep it in a locked fridge that I could only access when my assigned nurse was available.

I was a problem patient. Depressed with too many extras. I rapidly lost significant muscle mass just as I did during my previous hospitalization. But this time something different happened. As part of my discharge, they referred me to an eating disorders program. I cried when the dietician asked if I’d be amenable to that. I’d struggled with disordered eating for at least thirty-five years, mentioned it to doctors and, being as I was a guy, nothing ever happened. Finally, an opening!

After an ECG, bloodwork and a two-hour assessment and my diagnosis as being anorexic was official. Add it to my résumé. I cried again. Relief. Even triumph. I’d lived with this for so long on my own, its intensity varying during various periods in my life but it’s presence always there, always taking up so much thought and time each and every day.

Help maybe. A new motor perhaps.

I’ve been going to weekly courses and meetings for five months now. No change in my behaviour. I still restrict food and occasionally binge. I still over-exercise. I still spend an inordinate amount of my time thinking about what will and won’t be my next snack or meal. I wonder if, after all this time, thoughts and habits are too entrenched. I’ve created a warped version of a safe, controlled environment for myself.

For now, it’s a victory that medical professionals have identified another male as having an eating disorder. I’m convinced this is still woefully underreported amongst men and, particularly, with gay men. Eating disorders can look different for men, with the obsessions over protein and muscle gain. I witness the same guys at the gym going to extremes with their bodies and talking to strangers ad nauseam about tuna and oatmeal consumption as they log hours doing dumbbell curls and stealing glances of themselves in the mirrors. Is it healthy? Can they stop?

For now the focus is more confined: Can I?