DO I WEIGH IN?

I’ve been going back and forth on whether to comment about a certain singer’s apparent weight loss, dramatic such as it seems. In general, I agree that people in the public eye can find the gaze too harsh and, frankly, inappropriate. Bodies change. Many have weight fluctuations—up, down, up again—that, for various reasons, seem hard to control. As a man in my (early) sixties, I’m finding weight stability tougher to attain even though my exercise and food intake are the same. Part of my life’s journey…my business and no one else’s.

 

But there may be exceptions when someone has to comment, not out of criticism but concern. I have written many times on this blog about the fact I have anorexia nervosa. The perceived weight issues I’m struggling with now aren’t much different than they’ve been since I was ten; I can just use the aging process as a “legitimate” excuse for my current weight concerns. It truly feels harder but I’d have said that when comparing fifty to forty and forty to twenty. One reality that underlies all the unrealistic personal body scrutiny is that it may always be there for me. An eating disorder can be a relentless impostor. It moves in to stay.

 

When I was seventeen, anorexia fully took over for the first time. I stumbled into a new eating regimen and the weight was coming off with ease, week after week. I was giddy. I had discovered my own special diet, one I will not share here since I know how easy it is for people with disordered eating to latch onto anything people proclaim is an effective way to lose weight. We all face scrutiny, even if sometimes it is only perceived. Over the course of a semester in university, I got down to fifty pounds below my current weight which is the same weight I was forty years ago, allowing me to still fit into a Hugo Boss suit I bought forty years ago.

 

Do you sense the desperation in my writing? I am always trying to tell myself I am a reasonable weight. I have to affirm this over and over because my eating disorder brain is just as persistent in saying otherwise. 

 

I managed to halt that prolonged eating disorder episode from when I was seventeen only on account of friends saying something. I would have kept on with my newfound dieting tricks but a small group of people I respected and cared about held some form of casual intervention. Yes, they were concerned. They could see the weight loss. I looked gaunt. I appeared unhealthy. Basically, I didn’t look good.

 

This is not what someone with an eating disorder wants to hear. I regularly beat myself up over many aspects of my appearance but weight is the biggest issue. When my eating disorder is really clicking—pounds are coming off; I can see ribs and abs—I think I am looking better. It’s quite a jolt to have people around me say, no, I am not.

 

The message was not just a shock. It scared me. Here I thought I looked not just better but healthier. Slim and trim! (Back then, I wasn’t a gym goer and muscles didn’t even think of making an appearance.) Something about the tone of voice and the looks on my friends’ faces made me listen. There was no doubt they were speaking out of compassion. The jolt they gave me allowed me to let go of my tricks. I regained weight and managed to spend a lot of time shirtless that summer in my role as a lifeguard without feeling any more repulsive than I had before. Merciless criticism over certain body parts has been a constant that I’ve been learning to live with. I tell myself the eating disorder voice is quieter, that I can muffle if not mute it. Maybe I’m just exhausted from decades of telling myself I’m not good enough. Yeah, yeah…broken record.

 

I am certain that, if friends hadn’t spoken up, I would have kept losing weight and I could very well have shifted from “too thin” and “unhealthy looking” to medically at risk. That may have only been a few weeks away. 

 

I have great reluctance to see a medical doctor for anything. I have a fear of all-things-medical. This includes blood tests and any and all needle pokes, drops in my eyes during vision tests, and apparently diagrams of organs. (I once fainted during a hearing exam due to glancing at the diagram on the wall.) It takes considerable mental preparation for me to consult a doctor about concerns my eating disorder is spiking. The first time I confided in a doctor that I thought I had an eating disorder, he immediately dismissed the matter, concluding that I was just very fit. I don’t want to feel like I’m a hypochondriac. I don’t want to waste a doctor’s time. All this goes to the matter that I would greatly appreciate if a friend, family member or anyone at all questioned whether I had an eating disorder and expressed concern. There were times I suffered and didn’t seek help. I couldn’t do it myself. All the while, I wondered, Doesn’t anyone see? Why isn’t anyone saying anything? 

I once had an essay published by CBC about my eating disorder and it opened doors to other people, including complete strangers, reaching out to talk to me about their own wonderings whether they had some degree of disordered eating. I can’t say enough about how gratifying it has been to be someone they could confide in and to share my own experiences with them while encouraging them to seek help.

 

It shouldn’t be members of the public having to express concern whether one of the world’s most successful singers has an eating disorder. At first, I wondered if the issue was being fanned by paparazzi and publications that feed off them. Capturing celebrities at their worst has long been a practice that means a big payday. I suspected photos were being photoshopped to accentuate thinness to generate online clicks, to create a buzz and to entice outlets to purchase (or produce) more severe photos. 

 

I’d been concerned when the singer promoted a movie last fall. At the very least, she looked fragile. But then I watched a video for her latest song yesterday—until a scene with a chainsaw and spewing blood. (Fear of blood, remember?) Presumably the scene represented the artist’s response to critics. The eating disorder can become stronger and more resistant when it’s poked at. The most alarming part of the video showed the singer as incredibly emaciated. Her exposed, protruding clavicle was disturbing. In various treatment programs, I’ve met many people with eating disorders and, while people who are afflicted have a range of body types and sizes, the singer’s body resembled the classic poster image of a young woman with an eating disorder. I’ve also noted that some people with eating disorders cover it up with loose-fitting sweatshirts while others seem to flaunt it, perhaps thinking they look good or crying for help or doing both at once. 

 

Like others, I wonder if the performer’s “team” has tried to intervene. Publicly, a statement on behalf of the singer has only implied she and her staff are doubling down, blinking so much so as to announce a cancellation of an upcoming commitment, but asserting it’s on account of the harshness of “public scrutiny” rather than based on a need to get help. 

 

Too often, I suspect a celebrity’s team enables concerning behaviour (think, Michael Jackson, Mike Tyson, Amy Winehouse, Donald Trump). Teams are paid to say yes. They’re general role is to fulfill their employer’s wants. Saying or doing otherwise risks being fired. (Um, again…Trump.) As with any job or relationship, however, the difficult conversations should not be avoided.

 

Perhaps it’s partly because of my own anorexia, but I think often of Karen Carpenter, one of the few female crushes I’ve had in life. As a kid, I used to sit on the step down to our sunken living room and stare at her image on the cover of Close to You while playing both sides on repeat on my father’s stereo. While I wasn’t born at the time so I can’t say, “I remember where I was when JFK was assassinated,” I do know where I was when I heard the news on February 4, 1983 that Karen Carpenter had died. (The date is permanently etched in my brain, no tattoo necessary.) It came nine months after my friends intervened. When I look back on photos and videos of the Carpenters, Karen often looks far too thin, particularly as shown in her face. I’ve always wondered if people in Karen’s world said enough, persisted enough and remained strong even as Karen’s ED voice presumably resisted. 

 

The current singer being scrutinized has, no doubt, plenty of haters. People resent success. For some inexplicable reason, they pit female singers against one another, as if there is only room at the top for one fave. For the most part, however, I think people are speaking out due to genuine concern. It should not have gotten to the point where it’s public opinion that is making pronouncements, but given images produced by the singer’s own team (e.g., her current music video), I don’t believe her fans want to be complicit in the silence. 

 

I sincerely hope that during some time off, the “yes” people, including enabling doctors, will step aside and allow those who truly care to guide the singer to proper assessments and, if there comes a diagnosis, then all possible treatments will be explored. Imagine if this artist comes out healthier on the other end. She doesn’t have to become a role model but she could positively impact so many. 

 

For now, a toast to the artist, maybe with a can of Boost or Ensure which I saw many times during my hospital admission: To her health!

 

 

 

 

 

  

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. 

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.

 

  

HOW TO MEANINGFULLY CHECK IN WITH SOMEONE WHO HAS MENTAL HEALTH STRUGGLES

Okay, last week I bemoaned the fact that people say, “I’m here for you” when their follow-up words and actions indicate otherwise. I needed to unload. I needed to leave readers with food for thought…maybe some introspection and some tweaking of their own interactions. 

 

It’s nice to be nudged instead of nagged.

 

Still, I feel this post is a necessary complement to last week’s. Mental health still has its stigma. It’s hard to wade into unknown waters. Perhaps my perspective regarding what I’d want may provide guidance to navigating heart-to-heart conversations with your own friends and family who may experience mental health challenges.

 

Let me preface things by saying I have had a few good conversations lately in which I’ve felt heard and understood. One of my closest friends moved to Montreal six months ago and I flew there for a weeklong visit. She’d known I was struggling, partly with depression but primarily with my eating disorder, and we were talking about it in-depth within the first hours of the visit. Another person is a new friend whom I met for a second time for a glass of wine on a deck overlooking Jericho Beach and the Burrard Inlet. To be clear, both these people have been open with me about their own histories involving eating disorders. There is nothing that compares with talking with people who can knowingly nod—Been there, done that…or something like that. These people are dearer to me for letting me lean when I’ve needed to. Their understanding is implicit, but it is expressed, too. I’m not expecting a friend or family member to provide that caliber of support. That just wouldn’t be fair.

 

Still, whether it’s an eating disorder or any number of other mental health conditions—on my Insta account, I describe myself as a hoarder of MH labels—one basic tenet that I want people to know is that the condition is not a one-day thing. It’s not like someone saying they’re “depressed” because their team lost a game or you lost a key document when your laptop crashed. It’s not like when someone says they’re “anxious” about a date tomorrow night or have anxiety over an upcoming job interview. Without further information, these are presumably non-clinical cases of sadness and worry…regular emotions situationally arising in predictable contexts. In such cases, listening to the person requires being in the moment and perhaps a next-day or next-week follow-up. “Hey, did a tech guy recover your lost document?” “How’d the date go?” Done. 

 

If you don’t have the same mental health diagnosis, your understanding of what someone is going through requires more information…from THAT person. In a nutshell, it’s about asking open-ended questions and then actually listening, even seeking further clarification.

 

“How are you doing?” is a starting point. 

 

Often, I don’t trust that the person really wants to know. Even if they listened well on a previous occasion, I tend to assume it’s a default question with a default answer: Fine. Okay. Good. Sometimes I even reflexively say, “Super!” It comes from a boss of mine who used that word to define her mood and most everything else. It’s a basic word but, when used by an adult, it comes off as surprising. We’re socialized to not be so enthused…unless our team has a big game and we’re wearing a block of cheese as a hat. At meetings, I entertained myself by tallying spoken “supers.” My punishment? The word found a prominent place in my own vernacular.

 

You don’t get a gold star for asking “How are you?” to a depressed person. Upon first ask, the answer is rarely, “Not so good” or “I’m struggling.” That only comes as a first response if they truly trust you, if the two of you have a track record of meaningful check-ins or if they just can’t even fake an “Okay.” If anything, I’m less trusting after being more open. Too many times the other person has gone out of their way to shut down the gloom. Good god, it's Debbie Downer again. Sometimes they reach too quickly for a diversionary tactic, such as an upper from the movie Up: “SQUIRREL!”

 

To let the person know you really want to know, you have to express that, maybe by even naming the context:

 

“How are you?” 

“Fine.”

“What I mean is, how are you really doing?”

“Fine.”

“Last time you were feeling depressed. What’s your current mood?”

 

I think there’s an assumption that naming a mental health condition is invasive. Tread lightly. Be the holly-jolly friend. Be the pick-me-up.

 

Yeah, that’s just grating. Obnoxious even. If I’m depressed and you’re playing the role of cheerleader, I want to flee. I want to block your number. You and your “super” this, “super” that” are not good for me. (I really must expunge that dang word.)

 

Here’s an obvious statement that nonetheless needs to be stated: If you’ve never had, say, an eating disorder, clinical depression or been diagnosed as bipolar, there’s an inherent imbalance in knowledge and experience. This is not the time to play Match Game. To talk about when you went on a diet and then—Presto—suddenly stopped, isn’t going to connect you to someone with an eating disorder. It sure isn’t helpful advice. It shows a complete dismissal of what the person with anorexia or bulimia is going through. 

 

Keep listening. Keep asking. You don’t need to come up with an anecdote about how you can relate because you can’t. A person doesn’t talk about a bout with the flu to respond to a cancer patient going through chemo. A person doesn’t mention a broken wrist to relate to someone who has had their leg amputated. A person’s appendectomy doesn’t come up when someone is scheduled for brain surgery. 

 

Relating is often part of empathy, but sometimes understanding comes from listening and letting all that’s said digest, the nods coming not from “been there,” but “I hear you.” 

 

One more key point: Don’t try to fix your friend or family member. All I want and need is to be heard. Just talking about a current struggle releases some of the inner chaos. Just be present. Be there.

 

Keep listening. Keep asking. Keep nodding from gained understanding. That’s all.

 

For my eating disorder, I’ve dealt with the following professionals, all in multiples: medical doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, psychologists, dietitians, occupational therapists, counsellors, art therapists, cardiologists, group home attendants, medical technicians, adapted exercise instructors and spiritual therapists. I’ve also been in support groups for people with eating disorders. My team.

 

I’ve had different teams for depression, anxiety and being bipolar. Smaller but still a full enough roster so we could don uniforms with garish colors and stand beside a head-scratching mascot for a team photo. None of that happens. I don’t want to start a mental health scrapbook. 

 

Think about it. If whole teams of professionals can’t fix me, there isn’t a suggestion or piece of advice you say that will suddenly make all the pieces of me fit together better. 

 

“Why don’t you try—” STOP!

“Have you thought about—?” STOP!

“If I were you, I’d—” STOP!

 

I’ve had well-meaning people complete each one of those statements. Many times. It only simplifies what is complex, and not in a helpful way. It negates the entire conversation. It isolates the person with the mental health condition. You don’t understand. 

 

It only increases the chances of the next check-in to go as follows:

“How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“No. I really want to know. How are you really doing?”

“Fine.”

 

A pat on the back for you. Now the chat can move on to something more enjoyable. Your “crazy” cat. That new show on Netflix. Are Ben and Jennifer—oh, yeah, “Bennifer”—actually going to make it? 

 

Sure. They’re fine, too.

As a postscript, I'll say that reading and learning about eating disorders may help you understand and support your friend or family member. I'm cautious about this recommendation. We all know how Googling anything medical may lead to misinformation or may offer dire and overly broad statements that don't apply to particular individuals. I spent ten minutes searching "how to support a person with an eating disorder" and had to stop. Despite clicking on government-related posts, I still found inaccurate information and advice that made me cringe. This article is okay though it still raised issues for me. Perhaps the best thing to do is to ask the person directly, "How can I support you? What helps? What doesn't?" 

Ask. 

They may shrug you off, but it sure beats asking nothing and having the person think you are yet another person shrugging first, their struggle being something taboo.