TRAVEL WITH AN EATING DISORDER

I pack my laptop, my hiking boots and, yes, my eating disorder when I travel. Really, it would be nice if I forgot that last thing but it insists on tagging along everywhere I go. This time, I’m in Canada’s Maritime provinces: Nova Scotia, New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island. 

 

Usually when I’m visiting other places, food is not a highlight. Being a vegetarian, I won’t be sampling the local seafood on this trip. I probably won’t be hitting restaurants at all. The first half of my adventure, I’ll be on my own and, although I prefer solo travel, I’m not a fan of solo dining. I tell myself I don’t mind the spectacle of appearing like some lonely soul. That’s an extrovert’s POV. As an introvert, it’s nice not having to respond to small talk about how big my meal is. A seemingly innocuous comment about portion sizing is dangerous territory for people with eating disorders. An offhand remark about my meal (e.g., “Are you gonna eat all that?”) means I’ll feel obliged to eat even less than I intended. Any joy in eating will be lost. 

 

My hangup over eating alone in a restaurant is that I intone judgment from the server. I’m taking up a two-top so the check will only come to half of what a couple orders—less since I don’t order alcohol, an appetizer or dessert. I’ve eaten enough times on my own in restaurants and the server consistently offers minimal service. Maybe they sense I want to be left alone. The weird thing is that, rather than try to rush me out so a couple will be seated in their section, it’s almost always a chore to flag down the server so I can pay and leave.

 

When I book my hotel, I always ensure there’s a mini fridge. I’m good with picking up yogurt and cold brew coffee at the grocery store. I like eating in the room while surfing on my laptop to get directions to activities I want to do during my stay. I like that eating takes five minutes and then I can move on to more exciting things.

 

My eating disorder is a bigger focus on this particular trip. I’m attending a conference put on by the Eating Disorders Association of Canada (EDAC). For two days, I am sitting in on keynote speeches and breakout sessions from academics talking about what they are learning from professional studies about People Like Me. 

 

My fear is that the presentations and discussions will mostly be about People Like Me Who Are Happen to Be Women. (Yes, so far, that is the case.) Although I’ve read that men make up 25-40% of those with eating disorders, that has not been my experience in hospital or in outpatient treatment. Often, I am the only guy in the room. Where is everyone else?

 

When going to a conference, I seek to be validated and to connect. Regrettably, that doesn’t seem to be happening. Whether I am in the ballroom for keynote speeches or in smaller rooms for breakout sessions, men are an underrepresented minority. To emphasize, the conference is targeted to researchers and service providers, not people with lived experiences in having an eating disorder. Most of the therapists, dietitians, nurses, occupational therapist and other professionals who have worked with me in the past nine years since my official diagnosis for anorexia nervosa have been women and the vast majority of the people in group sessions have been women. I wonder how many men have backed away from support after continually walking into rooms and not seeing themselves represented.

 

I feel it is important for me to be a participant…a face. I want to remind academics and service providers that, yes, there are men with eating disorders and, yes, there is a greater likelihood they are not seeking treatment. This trip has me feeling more agitated about being a guy with an eating disorder. It’s unexpectedly triggered more food restriction and a sense of disillusionment. What’s wrong with me? Indeed, sometimes I wonder if that 25-40% figure about the proportion of people having eating disorders being men is inflated. Sometimes it’s another reason for me to wonder, Why can’t I be more like other guys? If I could, I might deal with feelings of anxiety and alienation by hitting up a convenience store and washing down a family sized bag of Doritos with an extra-large cup of Coke but, no, that’s just not me. Most of the time travelling solo just means I’m on my own but, on this occasion, it does feel lonely. 

IN A RELATIONSHIP, TRAVELING SOLO

A dear friend of mine is a seasoned international traveler. She and her husband are both teachers and they take every fifth year off to see the world. (Oh, what a luxury: job security!) Her adventures are documented through professional-caliber photos and enchanting blog entries. She has a way about her that allows her to connect with virtually anyone. Even close to home, an ordinary stop in a bookstore becomes a meant-to-be interaction with a stranger, both of them clearly benefiting from the experience. We could visit the same place in the world, one of us starting out five minutes ahead of the other and we’d have entirely different experiences, mine fun but ordinary, hers a captivating tale. (I keep telling her she’s got what it takes to be published as a travel writer, but she’s a humble soul, quick dismiss my praise.) 

 

One of the things I admire most about her and her husband’s travels is that they spend much of their travel year apart. One year she chose to see India while he headed for Peru. At some point, they met up in Costa Rica. I’ve always loved that they can be happily married—which has always been apparent—and yet they can maintain an individuality, nourishing their own curiosities, continuing to grow alone while ultimately thriving together.

 

I want that.

 

At least, that’s what I’ve always told myself. 

 

The biggest obstacle has been obvious. Oftentimes, I haven’t had a partner with whom to travel separately. Hey, fictional boyfriend (who, as a fictional image, I’ll say is a doppelgänger for Ryan Reynolds), enjoy your three months in South Korea while I’m in Slovenia. Meet me in Morocco. Alas, I waited and waited for days in Marrakesh. My Ryan was a no-show.

 

Another obstacle has been that travel has never gone well when I’ve had a partner. Weekend in San Francisco? Disaster. Nostalgic visit to Dallas and Fort Worth where I lived for eight years? Our “special” dinner after hours of bickering in the rental car which didn’t seem to have functioning headlights? Subway sandwiches, for god’s sake. Road trip to L.A.? He wanted to head home without me.

 

So, yeah, maybe just the travel alone while in a relationship. I’ll “like” each of your Facebook pics from Cleveland, Doppelgänger Ryan, if you “like” each of mine from Budapest. (Yes, I’m damn well going to have a better trip than Ryan.)

 

I’m in a relationship now. (Hallelujah!) Evan and I have traveled well together so far. Our second date was an entire weekend in a quaint rural part of northwestern Washington. We’ve spent another fabulous weekend together in central Washington and had a romantic four days in New York City. The blips have been few. One, maybe two. I swear I cannot even recall what they were about.

 

At the moment, we’re both traveling but in separate places, an ocean between us. He’s visiting parents and friends at his Airstream trailer in Taos, New Mexico while I’m spending two weeks in Iceland and Sweden. His trip had been planned months before we met. His parents duly booked a nearby Airbnb. He likes schedules and looking far ahead. Evan’s joked about merging our calendars—okay, I don’t really think he’s joking—but I keep saying my calendar is always blank. I’m perhaps an anti-planner. Whims work. I didn’t start looking into my trip until two weeks beforehand and was still making reservations while at the airport in Vancouver.    

 

So there it is. I got what I asked for. A guy in my life and a trip on my own. Healthy. Enlightened. Far from codependent.  

 

And yet it’s glitchy. We’ve only been together three months. It should be merely a slight extension of the reality of our relationship. Time apart is something we deal with on a weekly basis. We live in different cities. There is already an international border between us. That sounds more dramatic than it is. Seattle and Vancouver are three hours apart when the traffic flow is good and the border wait isn’t so bad. Things have evolved into us having long weekends together such that we see each other four days a week. 

 

The gayest part of my trip has 
been taking a photo of Rainbow
Street (which is not much more
than a crosswalk) in Reykjavik.

Instead of three days apart, it will be nineteen. That’s a big chunk in a new relationship. I think we feel as secure as we can be with this early test of time and distance. Still, there are what ifs. We’ve given each other plenty of reassurances. For my part, I’ve made it clear that dashing to a city’s gay bar or cruising locals on my phone has never been my thing. When I travel, I go to art museums, I map out scenic runs and bike rides, I search for quirky local color and I set out to find the best pour over coffee. Basically, I seek solitude. I love the fact that everyone is a complete stranger and the introvert in me recalls what my parents and teachers instilled in me when I was five: Don’t talk to strangers. Yes, I know I’m missing out on fascinating interactions that my teacher friend falls into but, even if I were to engage in talk, it would only make me break out in a sweat and I’m already stressed over the fact that public laundromats are nonexistent in Iceland and Sweden. The most engaging conversation I had during my six days in Iceland was with a couple of sheep that wanted their picture taken. (Apparently, they haven’t mastered the selfie.) 

 

View from walking along the crater
of Hverfjall in northern Iceland.

I’m still enjoying my adventures. I’m thankful that no one is saying, “How ’bout sleeping in tomorrow?” or “Let’s make today all about Vikings” or, gasp, “ABBA is overrated.” I only have myself to blame over getting sick immediately after eating the dal plate at that vegan restaurant in Reykjavik and no one had to bear my frequent wincing the evening I injured myself in a poorly laid out hotel bathroom in Akureyri. Again, my choice of accommodation. No finger pointing over the broken toe. But Evan comes to mind frequently each day. Swans! (Evan loves swans.) Lilacs all over Visby. (Evan loves lilacs, too.) He’d have loved hiking along a volcanic crater (though maybe not four of them; Iceland is teeming with them). Oh, how we’d have laughed at the room I booked on a ship in Stockholm. The boat was more like a tin can that floats (for now, at least) and the room felt more like a dog’s crate. 

 

He would have laughed, wouldn’t he?

 

I’ve been sharing pics. It’s not the same. I miss the guy. 

 

Atop another volcanic crater, this one 
Eldfell on Haiemay Island off the
southern coast of Iceland. Windy 
conditions and, when going solo, 
I didn't have to fret about 
every hair being in place.

The time difference makes communication challenging. I have photos and texts awaiting me when I awake each morning and the same goes for him. We’ve tried a daily FaceTime chat but the connection has been spotty and, for the last two days, nonexistent. It’s rare that I look forward to a trip ending, but aside from giving my credit card a rest, there’s a silver lining in going home. I’ll have one full day to recover in Vancouver before another weekend road trip to Seattle. It will take more discipline than usual to stick reasonably close to the speed limit.

 

It's less than a month before the next trip. Colorado. Both of us. Together and apart. Weirdly, my sister’s home and his family cabin happen to be only thirty minutes away from each other. We may spend a day in separate spaces but, compared to the distance between Gothenburg and Taos, or even Vancouver and Seattle, it’s like we’ll be neighbors. We may even run into one another in the cereal aisle at the grocery store. Time will tell how we’ll negotiate travel. I foresee more solo treks but, I suspect it will be easier once our relationship is more firmly established.

 

The bike I rented, propped up
against the charming hotel I
stayed at in Visby on Sweden's
Gotland Island in the Baltic Sea.

For now, I’m in transit to Uppsala, Sweden and thankful no one is tapping my shoulder, trying to persuade me to venture five kilometers out of the city to see the site where humans were sacrificed in pagan rituals of the 11^th century, their bodies left hanging and rotting in trees. Nope. Not a chance. I’ll be at the botanic gardens (Linnéträdgården) instead. I prefer trees adorned rather basically…leaves, maybe a lovely little nest. And for dinner, I’m good with picking up knäckebröd (crispbread) and cottage cheese at the ICA two blocks from the hotel. Sometimes I think Evan’s rather relieved he’s not traveling with me.

 

 

 

 

 

  

PASS AND FAIL

The U.S. Border Patrol has become the mother I never wanted. Time after time when I go to the United States, I must get by a nosy inquirer.

Yeah, I know. That’s their job. But they always put me on edge.

It’s not that I am carrying $30,000 in cash. If only. And, no, I don’t have a Canadian-grown apricot rolling on the floorboard of the passenger seat. No booze. No guns. Not even a plastic butter knife.

But the guard always lingers, stares me in the eye and tempts me to look away or shift in my seat. Any subtle expression of guilt to pull me over and drag me into an interrogation room with stale air and a floodlight beaming in my face. But then, maybe I’ve seen too many crime procedurals.

The cause for suspicion? Well, it starts with the obvious observation. There is no one in the passenger seat, no one in the back seat.

“Traveling alone?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“And why is that?” No joke. She asks. I’m tempted to say, “How long you got? Shall we grab a coffee?” but I’ve been coached since I was a little kid to say as little as possible.

“It’s just the way it is,” I answer.

She nods. I defensively read into her gesture. It figures.

“How long are you in the U.S.?”

“Twenty days.”

“Are you meeting anyone?”

And here I get blunt. “Of course not.”

She dares not nod this time. But my mindreading comes into play again. At least he knows.

She returns my passport. “Have a nice trip.” She doesn’t mean it. She probably doesn’t even believe it’s possible. But I’ve made it through. I cleared the border hurdle. A minor victory.

And as I drive off, the excitement of the trip takes a ding. Traveling alone. Three weeks. Meeting no one. Yeah, that sounds sad.

Did she stamp anything in my passport? “Loser” in all caps? I can check when I fill up for cheaper American gas. But, really, they don’t stamp passports anymore and I watched her hands, wary that she might draw a weapon. Okay, I’ve watched too many films with terrorist plots, too.

We had a chat, more questions than I wanted, with a clear focus on my hopeless single status, and then she sent me off, wishing me well yet leaving me anything but.

Mom in a uniform.