My ears pricked as I heard a line from the conversation from two women sitting on the two stools beside me in the café. A simple question: “How are you doing?”
So ordinary but it stood out. I’d been typing away from my perch for fifteen minutes. The women had preceded my arrival. A lovely back-and-forth between two women in their early seventies. It was clear they were catching up after some time apart. Every so often, one of the women would drop the f-bomb and I kinda loved it. Not delivered with rage. Same conversational tone. But refreshingly unexpected. Human. Be the seventy-something you want to be.
When “How are you doing?” pops up mid-conversation instead of at the start, it means something. It’s not a throwaway alt version of hello. “Fine” or “Good” doesn’t seem to be the acceptable response. Confirming this hunch, I heard the questioner follow with a quick add-on: “Is it okay that I ask?”
A few words like sleep and treatment dotted a lengthy response. I made the assumption cancer was in there too, expressly or implied. My ears shut down. They knew this was private. They knew the period of being amused over f-bombs had passed. If another followed, the delivery would be much different.
Oh, how I would love a mid-chat “How are you doing?” It doesn’t come. I can almost see the person I’m with doing an artful dance around it. Let’s maintain some levity, shall we? Laughter is good medicine, after all. Even when forced.
So many topics. Pick from the following:
A. “Unseasonable” weather
B. Recent travels
C. The Tony Awards (even though neither of us
has been to NYC this year)
D. Any Trump trial
Hell, even Gaza or Ukraine will do. Anything but a meaningful “How are you doing?”
I totally get that a person with cancer doesn’t want every conversation to be dominated or interrupted by the topic. Sometimes it’s nice to instead posit whether Dua Lipa will have the staying power of Lady Gaga (Hope so.) or even talk about whether Edmonton can make the ultimate comeback in the NHL finals (Shrug.). That’s why the woman’s “Is it okay that I ask?” was a perfect followup. Her companion’s reply: “Of course!”
Ask me.
Someone. Anyone.
I don’t have cancer. Cancer sucks. F-bomb that. In my family, it was a taboo topic with an asterisk, that little star meaning it wasn’t to be discussed with the person with cancer but was open for discussion with anyone else, a trickle down of intel acquired somehow—did someone break taboo or was it all speculation. I mean, just look at her.
It wasn’t just my family that played things hush-hush. Laura Linney starred for four seasons in a Showtime series called The Big C. To be clear, the nasty c-word was cancer, not the nastier other c-word. I’m perfectly comfortable talking cancer; the other word? Nope. Never. Not even a men’s locker room. (Another c-word comes to mind: cavemen.)
We are getting better at talking directly about tough physical health conditions. Cancer. COVID. AIDS versus HIV. It’s partly because I’m a guy of a certain age but colonoscopy has come up in conversation a few times in the past year. I’m not skittish about the topic, just procedure-averse. Any procedure. I’ll still ask questions. It’s part of acknowledging my friend, inquiring about what he’s going through and whether he has any concerns. A colonoscopy conversation sounds more pressing than his take on the Tony Awards. Let’s talk…if that’s what you need.
The taboo is still entrenched when it comes to mental health. Every time another celebrity comes out about an experience with clinical depression, being bipolar or having an eating disorder, I feel hope just as I did thirty years ago when some famous person came out as gay.
It’s not just me.
There is a public name and face for this “quirk.” Regarding anorexia nervosa, few male celebrities have come forward. (Zayn Malik has referred to food restriction while part of One Direction but the oft-repeated quotes do not include a specific diagnosis. Not so helpful. It doesn’t bring a conversation forward. It’s the equivalent to if George Michael said in 1990 that he’d crushed on a guy. What exactly is that…if anything?)
Labels matter. Until they don’t.
Me saying I’m gay? These days, so what. Anorexic? Um…How ’bout dem Tonys?
My current downward spiral into severe food restriction—beyond my normal restriction practice—began March 25. This is Day 86, an uninterrupted streak. I’m down to the last hole in my belt, a shift of four holes. My face is gaunt, my arms and legs significantly thinner. So much of the muscle gained through decades of disciplined gym workouts is gone even as I continue the same workouts. Muscle is lost before fat.
There was a point during this streak when my body looked “hot.” Six pack, body fat presumably negligible. (I never weigh myself. When I must step on a scale at a doctor’s office, I close my eyes or stand backwards on the device. I’m very clear with the medical provider: Do not tell me my weight. If I know a number, it feeds into a warped game—how low can I go?)
I’m well past the point of “hot.” Now I try not to look because sometimes the sight in the mirror makes me cry. I’m doing damage. I can’t stop.
Someone who doesn’t have any understanding of eating disorders could easily say, “Just eat something.” A donut. Two. A lunch. A carrot. Hell, a “baby” carrot.
The understanding isn’t there because this is a food-obsessed society. I’m more aware of this when I’m in a phase of severe food restriction. Food is all around me. Ads. Signage. Tossed cups and wrappers. Restaurants. Grocery stores. Overheard conversations. The pair of seventy-somethings have left and, at this moment, sitting beside me, two young women have been talking for fifteen minutes about avocado toast, omelets, fried eggs and poached eggs. On and on and on…It’s progressed to “favorite chocolate bar.” This is what friends are willing to talk about. This is much more in the realm of normal than my current state.
Sights. Smells. Imagined tastes plant themselves on my tongue.
I’m on a 3-4 month wait list for outpatient support despite having been officially diagnosed by several psychiatrists, assessing me independently of one another. I’ve previously had an extended hospitalization. I’ve been in a group home.
The referral process started at zero again.
So it’ll be September, maybe October before another round of the same ol’ outpatient oversight. I didn’t buy into before as part of an I’ll-try-anything twenty-one month period in 2018 and 2019. I’m not all that hopeful anything will resonate this time around. But I won’t be alone with this. All the group sessions will be filled with people like me. Sort of. People with eating disorders, at least. Women. Under thirty. But I’ll see and feel their nods as I talk. I’ll nod for them, too. The nods won’t be formalities. Instead, they will mean, I see you; I hear you.
If I continue on the current path, I may wind up in Emergency first.
Again, I can’t stop. Despite what I know rationally, the eating disorder owns me. It’s scary. It’s sad.
Whereas people with active eating disorder behaviors typically go to extremes to be secretive, I am open. I am hiding nothing. I have previously opened up in an essay published by CBC, in a podcast and as being the patient on a panel for Toronto nursing students (my co-panelists being a professor and a social worker). If I talk, it may help another guy who is struggling. Maybe he’ll seek help. Maybe interventions will come sooner. Maybe his habits won’t be ingrained over four decades before an initial diagnosis. Maybe he’ll move past it.
Right now, I’d love to talk, to be heard, to have someone ask away about what they don’t know or understand. Maybe my conversation will break down stigma and allow that person to “be there” to listen and support someone else…and maybe help me just by letting me babble for a few minutes, feeling heard, feeling less freakish, feeling less alone in all this.
I’ve mentioned to my friends around me I’m struggling. The response is always the same, an empathetic spiel something like the following:
Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s awful. I’m here for you, you know? If you ever need to talk about it—anytime—know that you can talk to me. [Pause to catch a breath.] By the way, did you see The Tony Awards? I’m so glad Daniel Radcliffe won. Aren’t you?
No lie. A bizarre segue happens. Every. Single. Time.
This is what makes people give up. This is one-sided affirmation. What a good person for offering an ear. Not now, of course. But someday. As long as it remains indefinite, in the future, always beyond reach.
I, in fact, feel worse from this demonstration. I know these are good people. I don’t have tolerance for people who aren’t. But they can’t handle it. Just the topic of mental health is too foreign, too scary, too taboo.
If I hadn’t shared, I could have floated the possibility that Joe or Sue might be supportive. Someday, yes, in the future, always beyond reach. Instead, another door is shut.
A dream scenario...
I’m more alone in this just from raising the subject.
How am I doing?
Fine.
Do you think these gray skies will ever go away?
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