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.

MEANT TO BE

One final post-dump post. But this one isn’t about Tim at all. It’s bigger than that. And it’s all me.

When dating starts out so promising, it’s hard to contain the exhilaration. It’s that shout-from-the-rooftops feeling. Only if I climbed the ladder, I just know I’d slip and break my leg. And hobbling around on crutches again would have quickly lost its endearing quality. Even with a compassionate hot guy. So I stayed on the ground. I didn’t even strain my vocal cords. But I told people.

“It’s good,” I’d say. “Really good.” My face would redden. I’d beam while looking at the ground. (I can be Bashful even amongst friends. I’m not used to openly gushing.)

The closer friends know about April. That’s what we call it now. It’s so much softer than My Hospitalization or When I Was Suicidal. Yep, “April”. Showers, indeed. There was a direct chain of events from “April” to dating Tim. Immediately after being released from St. Paul’s, I went to the central branch of the Vancouver Public Library. And there I ran into my first Vancouver friend whom I met twenty-two years ago on my first visit to the city. We hadn’t had a falling out, but our lives hadn’t intersected much in the last decade. He asked the standard, “How are you?” and I skipped the “Fine.” I gave him the real answer. I’d been through hell. F*#k the façade.

We connected and reconnected over the next two months before he headed out to spend the next year seeing the world. We commiserated on being single and old(er). (He’s hitting sixty, me fifty.) I showed him Tim’s profile and mentioned wanting to send a message. “Do it. He’s single, too. I see him wandering around the West End on his own all the time.” I shook my head. Too risky. “Stop stopping yourself. F*#k that.”

Profanity has its place. And so I f*#cked that. Message sent. Cue exhilaration.

From “April” to Tim. So good to feel again. And not just anything—joy. Astonishing.

My friends gathered up their pompoms. “Wow! It’s meant to be!”

True enough. At the time, I was thinking—they were thinking—true love. A Destiny sort of thing.

But we know how that turned out. Meant to be turned out to be bigger than Tim. It was all about me. I am meant to be. And I didn’t feel an ounce of that back in April. I was done. I was desperately trying to hang on, trying to buy some time to find something. Anything.

Tim?

Nope.

I needed that temporary glee. It affirmed there were positive things out there. It filled that tenuous period between April and L.A. I always knew if I could last until Los Angeles (aka “July”), I’d be all right. At least for the summer. I’m not at the point where I can look too far ahead.

I reached out to friends. I had things to share—and not all doom and gloom. We smiled, we laughed. I thought I’d lost that mindset. The glee helped me bulldoze through the darkness. I allowed positive thought. And not just with safe, familiar long-established friends. I was a magnet of sorts in Los Angeles. People I’d just met wanted to hang with me. Again and again. They said, “You’re such a sweet man.” Again and again. I’d stopped containing myself. F*#k that.

Even the dumping seems to have been necessary. Once I’d pulled myself through, I needed a big test. Was it all just Tim? Would I crash? Would “April” return? That was certainly the fear. It reflected back to me in friends’ faces and in family emails. I wallowed, sure, but it was the garden variety going-to-the-garden-to-eat-worms sort. When someone you really really like rejects you, it stings. But it never got darker. And that is empowering. I felt it this week as I went for my counselling session—a remnant from April. I felt strong. I tried not to beam. (My employer-covered sessions are about to end again and I need more in order to work through some bigger issues. That only happens if my psychologist makes a case for an acute need. Goofy smiles and epiphanies negate the acuteness.)

We were not meant to be. Okay. Got it.

I am meant to be. For the next while, at least. Still can’t look too far ahead. That is as good as it gets—and far better than I’d have imagined.