I’m still making adjustments to being suddenly single yet again. There have been some ups, more downs. Mostly, I seem to be in a perpetually stunned mindset. For a while, I considered it a healthy state of shock. It gave me time so I wouldn’t spiral downward and be in a medical crisis triggered by anxiety and depression. I experience these things to a clinical degree rather than in the way people speak of them casually.
But the shock is gone.
Single.
My status hits me umpteen times a day. I feel myself shaking my head. Do people see that motion? Do I appear odd(er)? Why would it matter?
One of the nice things that’s happened occurred on the same day I met a guy on Grindr who turned out to be dating material. He checked all the boxes but, after a week, I put us on hold. Not ready. Still not. Later that day, I met Brett, coincidentally from Grindr as well. It wasn’t a date, a hookup or anything in between. He’d tracked down my regular email last summer while living in New Brunswick, Canada. On New Year’s 2023, he’d heard a re-broadcast of an interview I’d done with CBC Radio for an episode called “The Joy of Exercise.” It had been a fabulous experience in which I’d really connected with the producer, crushed on the interviewer and managed to express things I really wanted to say. No nerves. The message was too important.
My portion of the hourlong show came near the end. I was the cautionary tale about exercise. I was the guy who looked and sounded good in terms of fitness. I worked out regularly, I varied my routines and I was in great shape for a guy edging closer to sixty or maybe for any age. My message, however, was that looks deceive. We know this, but we need reminders in a society that puts appearance at the forefront. Social media has only made matters worse. In gay contexts, the emphasis on looks is on steroids, sometimes literally.
I have anorexia nervosa. Usually, my body doesn’t fit society’s image of an anorexic. I’m male. I’m not a teen or in my twenties. My collar bone and ribs don’t protrude in a way that looks alarming. I’m trim, that’s all. When I swim laps each week, I’m certain that, as I walk the pool deck in my Speedo (boxer cut, not brief, good god), no one glances and thinks, Hey, that dude’s got an eating disorder. In a mirror, I can point out all sorts of imperfections with my body and all the work to be done. Part of that’s body dysmorphia—not seeing the body as it actually is—but I know that many of my criticisms are valid, too.
During the interview, I cautioned listeners about praising fitness and/or weight loss. The internal thinking of the individual matters. The behaviors to “achieve” a praiseworthy body matter.
In Brett’s email, he said he was moving to Vancouver and hoped to connect with me. He’s also gay and deals with an eating disorder. Listening to me on the radio, he felt connected for the first time. He was not alone.
Brett’s move got delayed. When he got here, he took two jobs to make ends meet in a place with a standard of living far more expensive than Atlantic Canada. He lost my email but then recognized me on Grindr. Embarrassing. He sent an awkward message. Like a friend or professional contact reaching out to you on a hookup site: “Hey! I see you. How’s it going?”
We met for coffee. I’m not sure which one of us got more from the experience. A quintessential Maritimer, Brett immediately showed manners that would make his mom proud. As I approached the table, he stood up. He bought my coffee and then waited by the counter to bring it to me. Charming and very good looking…I immediately thought gay men in Vancouver would eat him up. Was he ready? I felt like a father figure, needing to caution him about flakes and predators.
We chatted generally about his adjustment to the city and then he wanted to talk about how I’d helped him decide to be more openly gay and move to Vancouver, getting away from small-town life. He teared up and suddenly we were both verklempt. It’s a special moment when two gay men can see themselves and their struggles in one another, age gap be damned.
I tried to be an open book about my eating disorder journey. I encouraged him to ask questions. One question, in particular, hit me hard. “Has your eating disorder affected any of your relationships?” Great question. Food for thought, pun intended.
Food, in general, has been raised as a source of frustration during breakups. I’m a vegetarian. I don’t require the same in a partner. It would eliminate almost everyone from what already feels like a teensy dating pool…the size of a drop of water sometimes. I stand by the expression, you be you. I don’t feel it goes both ways. Lots of people think dating a vegetarian would be problematic. Meals out a problem. Meals in a problem. The refrigerator, the oven, all-things-food…a problem.
Based on my encounters during forty years as a vegetarian, I get the sense many people think I am the equivalent to an alien. I hear the grumbles about preachy vegans. I know that’s a thing. But I also know that non-veg folks intentionally prod and poke holes in veg lifestyle to either defend their own choices or criticize/mock the veg. I’ve gotten it a lot. Unprovoked. I’m no preacher.
Early in my relationships, my new boyfriend will make changes and point out all his vegetarian/vegan meals. “I had a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. Vegetarian!” “I had a salad for dinner. Vegan! Except for the chicken.” I try not to congratulate them. I don’t want them to change for me.
When things end, however, I get an earful about how difficult all-things-food turned out to be for them. WHAT?! I required nothing. I expected nothing. But it’s an easy potshot.
It stung more when my last relationship ended. There were the “regular” comments about difficulty dining with me but, yes, the eating disorder was raised as well. An area of intense vulnerability was weaponized. He referenced it first by bringing up cottage cheese.
Excuse me?!
Cottage cheese is a battle food for me, not that my ex knows the extent of it. When I spent seven weeks in a hospital eating disorder unit, I battled with my dietitian over protein which was required in my daily meal plan. As a vegetarian, options were limited. The cheese the hospital kitchen used contained rennet which makes it unsuitable for vegetarians. (You can look it up if you wish. I was blissfully unaware for my first twenty years as a veg.) I was not allowed to choose cottage cheese as my protein even though it was on the menu because the dietitian declared it was a food associated with dieting. (Never mind the fact I had a full tray of food, all of which had to be eaten while nurses observed.)
By default, my protein had to be packets of peanut butter—until recently a “no” food for me. A nurse inspected each packet to make sure I’d scraped everything out. During my stay, other patients took up my issue and, while you may have heard about Bacon’s Rebellion in colonial U.S. history, our ward had a cottage cheese uprising.
The dietitian hated me.
She denied it. Even smiled while doing so. Liar.
Anyway, when my ex went into a rant against me on the eve of breaking up, he specifically mentioned cottage cheese and how it ruled me and, hence, us.
Um, no.
We ate out all the time, most often Mexican food because that’s what he wanted. My dieting foods did not interfere. I often had to ask the server a couple of questions, quickly, quietly; nothing like the grilling his good friends put waiters through. Being a long-distance relationship, I ate my “diet” foods on my own or for lunch when I knew we’d be going out for dinner. His mention of “cottage cheese” was code for my eating disorder. He then complained about my exercise and how it ruled us.
Again, no.
I always worked out while he was working, when he went to yoga or before he even got up. I scheduled around him, around us. I consciously endeavored to make my “problem” not his problem. That’s why raising it felt so out of bounds while he prepared to dump me.
It took a lot for me to be open about my mental health. I was honest from the first day I met him. More came out…and more. All within the first few weeks. This is me. I gave him a handful of exit passes upfront. Why conceal parts of myself? I’ve spent too much of life hiding. Why wait, then finally disclose my vulnerabilities and have him flee after I’d invested so much? After both of us had.
He had his own food issues. He regularly skipped meals. I often felt he fit a disordered eating profile more than me. He loved cooking and eating out, but he talked far more about his body—both when he liked it and when he didn’t. I’d vowed not to talk about body insecurities. I didn’t want to highlight them. I didn’t want to set him up for having to toss me a strained compliment. On rare occasions, I’d mention sags under my eyes or fret about my jowls and stomach getting looser with age. His quick response was always, “You know you can pay to have that taken care of.” Um, okay. Sensible, I suppose. Straining to come up with a compliment might have added lines to his brow.
In the end, he didn’t want to be with someone with mental health issues. He didn’t want a partner with an eating disorder…and anxiety…and depression.
He had other struggles/challenges of his own. I encouraged him to talk about them. I tried to support him. I asked questions, but he wasn’t as open as I was. I thought being open helped a relationship.
It didn’t help me.
So, yes, Brett, I had my eating disorder used against me, hauled out as a reason to end things. Empathy? Fleeting at best. Acceptance? Nope. In sickness and in health? Mental health is apparently an escape clause.
This is part of my being stunned. I’d laid everything out from the outset. I’d managed things. I’d leaned when I felt I could but then so had he. That’s the nature of a relationship. No doubt he lists my labels to others in defense of giving up on us after two years. I can hear a listener saying, “Whew. You dodged one there. Good riddance.”
My relationship is dead. Stigmas live on.
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