TO HIDE FROM PRIDE

Don’t let me rain on anyone’s parade. Today is the focal point of Vancouver’s Pride celebrations. It’s the first time time in a number of years that I’ve been here for the occasion. I don’t intentionally flee the city to avoid the festivities, but I certainly never regret missing out.

Happening to be here for once, I’ve been asked a half dozen times if I’m going to the parade. It feels like straight people’s way of saying, Aren’t I hip. I know about the event and I’m comfortable enough to bring it up in conversation. My answer startles them: “No.”

Huh? But you’re gay. It’s what gay people do.

They recover quickly from my potential conversation-killing remark. Invariably they say, “So you don’t like crowds.”

If only I didn’t feel the constant need to be honest, I could just say, “Yes. Awful crowds. Whew,...too much.” Then we could move on and talk about something safer—It’s supposed to be a hot one; thank goodness we don’t have the forest fires (yet); yesterday was Mustard Day.

But crowds aren’t a deal breaker. Don’t mind them, sometimes I even feed off the buzz. And, really, isn’t that supposed to be one of the empowering things about Pride? One massive turnout. Look at all the LGBT folks and all the others tagging along to show support or to at least bask in the sun and join the party. Amazing.

And, truly, it is. I attended my first Pride parade by myself twenty-nine years ago in Los Angeles. I was attending law school in Malibu at a stiflingly religious university where it was rumored that faculty had to sign a statement condemning homosexuality. I spent many a Friday and Saturday fleeing to the bars of West Hollywood as I gradually pieced together some understanding of gay culture: lots of dancing and drinking laced with fear as dutiful companions wheeled in men ravaged by Kaposi’s sarcoma and other AIDS-related afflictions. Confusing times.

I parked my car many, many blocks away from the parade route down Santa Monica Boulevard before squeezing my way into a partially open spot at the corner of Kings Road and settling in for the long procession of floats, banner-clad convertibles and marchers. The spectacle overwhelmed me. Brazilian gays and lesbians, a gay swim team, a gay and lesbian university association (not my university). On and on and on.

I ended up chatting with a small group of female nurses, each sporting a rainbow lei, each straight but regular parade goers. “Always the best!” one of them gushed. Their laughter and their frequent whoops kept me in the moment and held my emotions in check. The sheer numbers on the sidewalks and in the parade overwhelmed me in a good way. Far from hating the crowd, I found affirmation in the masses. For so much of my life, I had felt alone, hating myself for being a societal pariah, wishing there were a way to expunge a basic part of me. I saw parents marching in support of their sons and daughters, an expression of unwavering love, something I couldn’t even dream of regarding my own family. That pride event felt like a giant group hug, a moment of acceptance and relief. Driving back to my new apartment in a bright pink building in the Pacific Palisades, I was far from ready to unhinge the closet door but I held on to the euphoria of temporarily stepping out in broad daylight.

Back then, Pride helped me feel less alone. Today I’m avoiding all-things-Pride to protect myself a crushing sense of isolation and a pervasive feeling of failure. My rainbow Converse shoes will remain in the box and I will try to tell myself that it’s so nice to work out at the gym without having to wait to get on any of the machines. I have a novel I want to finish reading, a New York Times crossword to distract me. Like Christmas and New Year’s which I spend alone, I have to simply survive the day. I am so glad the event exists. Let it bring empowerment and connection to many. It’s just become a party where, instead of fitting in, I feel achingly invisible. Always best for the party pooper to stay home.

ANOTHER ROUND

Here I go again. A new day, waking up in a strange bed. I wish there were a more exciting circumstance but, no, I get up, shower and experience a different walk of shame. No wondering about whether some guy will text me, no worrying that this is just a one-off. I have absolute certainty that I’ll wake up in the same bed tomorrow and the morning after that. It will be the same routine for the next fourteen weeks. And then, for better or for worse, it will all be over.

There’s no other guy involved. This is my own doing. I moved into a group home yesterday for another crack at treating my eating disorder. On the surface, it’s all perfectly tolerable, possibly even a great gig. I’m only five kilometers from my condo but now, instead of being in the bustle of the seedier part of downtown Vancouver, I’m smack in the middle of a charming neighborhood of older character homes and shaded parks. I’m a block from Commercial Drive, the city’s Little Italy, dotted with cafes competing to serve up the best cappuccino and all sorts of trendy new restaurants that have strayed from the lasagne-fettucine script and now offer Lebanese, Ethiopian and Japanese fare. If only eating out had some appeal.

As good as it may all seem, I can’t shake the fact that this is not normal. Fifty-somethings don’t flit off to three months of summer camp in the city. They get to sleep in their own bed whenever they want. They don’t go for programming at a hospital four days a week. They don’t have their meals monitored. They don’t have restrictions placed on how much exercise is acceptable. What fifty-year-old man has his exercise limited?!

The confusing thing to others—and even to me—is that I don’t look the part of someone with an eating disorder. I’m not eerily thin. I’d say I’m actually having to fight that middle-aged belly bulge that most men get. I’m consumed with fear that I am repulsively fat. I obsess over belly watching when in public, noting all the stomachs that may be bigger than mine, trying to take some comfort in the notion that mine might be less prominent and desperately wanting to assure myself that my tummy is normal for a guy my age. But the sense I have, at least now, is it will never be okay.

Prior to my group home gig, I spent an inordinate amount of time each day ignoring hunger cues and pushing myself to exercise longer, harder. In a way, I’m an eating disorder failure—massively blistered feet, worn out body, significant food deprivation and still no results. Not enough weight loss, not a trace of muscle gain. So much effort with nothing to show for it. A rational person would abandon a regimen that doesn’t produce results.

Drastic thoughts about my body image directly chip away at my self-esteem. Being in a group home for three months—regardless of the pleasant surroundings—is wildly threatening. With my exercise reduced to only five one-hour sessions per week and a meal plan that requires me to eat three meals and three snacks per day, it pokes at all my fears of gaining belly weight, going flabby and never being able to correct the “damage” done.

There’s another fear, a deeper one. What if I don’t see significant weight gain and, despite the encouraging evidence, I return to my extreme routines anyway? After all, this eating disorder is a fierce beast. In the spring, I spent six weeks in hospital for another treatment program. Upon discharge, I immediately went back to my eating disordered routines. I fretted that I’d gone flabby. I lost five pounds in the month between programs and the news made me giddy. This from a guy who, due to medications and moods, had thought he’d lost his ability to laugh. “It will never be enough,” the dietitian told me, referring to my weight loss intentions. Still, I wonder if the same goes for treatment.

Much of the work in program is intended to examine the underlying thoughts, emotions and events that brought on the eating disorder and continue to feed into it. I meet one-on-one each week with a psychiatrist, a psychologist and a dietitian and participate in multiple group sessions with the other residents each day. The feedback I got from the team working with me in hospital was that I’m a tough nut to crack. There were no insights, no breakthroughs. What if I can’t dig deeper? What if my sharing remains vague and evasive? How successful can I be at changing entrenched habits if I never chip away at what drives them?

I feel great pressure for treatment to work while also having no confidence that it will. What if I go through all this—the hospitalization, the group home experience, essentially half a year of intervention—and nothing changes? My eating disorder behaviors go back more than forty years and, while I’ve only been receiving treatment for the past two years, this feels like my last shot. Please don’t let this extended adult camp experiment be all for naught.

MOTION SICKNESS

Nothing new here. I’ve long bemoaned the gay dating scene in Vancouver. I’ve often mentioned that the online sites are stagnant. Same profile pics, same frustrations with three- or four-word messages. Grunts, not sentences.

In the past few months, things have been especially quiet on the dating sites. I’m going through the motions. Dating. A seventy-year-old woman wanted to go for tea. (No thanks.) Someone who claims his occupation is “cannabis coach” expressed an interest. (What the hell is a cannabis coach?!) A fifty-three-year-old man—a year younger than me—apparently tried to be hip by eschewing all capitals and punctuation. (This rendered his profile unreadable.)

Bleak times. Status quo.

I’ve tried to be proactive. My messages typically go unanswered. I did receive a response from one guy who politely said he could never date a vegetarian because he identifies as a foodie and likes the experience of sharing food. Fine. (How many guys have been turned off by my vegetarianism?!) Another guy didn’t want to meet because I mentioned that I like dogs and he has allergies. (To dogs or people who like dogs?!) 

These responses were met with a shrug from me. Sensitive to criticism that I may be too picky, these were men I may have overlooked before. The guys I truly hoped to hear from didn’t reply at all. My gut instincts about good matches are completely off.

Up until this week, I hadn’t gone on a coffee date this year. Then last week I received two messages on the same day from guys in their sixties. I hesitated. I read their profiles. Nothing stood out. Still, I was acutely aware that “few and far between” is the phrase that best fits my dating life.

I agreed to meet each of them for coffee.

On both meet-and-greets, the conversation was fine. We were cordial to one another. There were no horrendous missteps. There was an ebb and flow to things—at some points the discussion was interesting, at other times things were stilted. Everything was okay.

Both occasions ended with a hug and an exchange of “Nice to meet you.” I knew from the start of each date that things weren’t going anywhere, yet I fought to be open, to counter an indifferent first impression with something more. I tried to get myself into considering a second date.

Nothing doing. Why prolong something that isn’t going anywhere?

I always feel badly after these experiences. Although one of the men seemed equally indifferent, the other was genuinely interested and I never want to be part of someone else’s disappointment, however brief. These days each dead end wears on me even more. I don’t feel connected in Vancouver and that goes beyond dating. It would be nice to click again with someone. And yet chances seem slimmer with each message that fails to merit a reply, with each one that informs me that I’m disqualified from consideration and with each coffee that feels decaffeinated from the get-go. 

It’s been twenty-four hours since that last coffee date and I feel myself trying to muster up hope anew. Frankly, it feels more like desperation than hope. It may be months before another new profile within my age range appears on a dating site. I know this. It allows me to step away but it does nothing to ease the loneliness and isolation. 

Just once I’d like to meet a guy in the real world. Or, at least the way they do in rom-coms. At one of the cafes where I write. Go ahead, good looking fifty-something single guy: show up and accidentally spill coffee on my shirt. It may be the start of something beautiful. Yes, I’m willing to experience third-degree burns on my quest to meet Mr. Right. Like I said, desperate. 

Maybe I should just get a couple of dogs and gorge myself on plant-based pizzas. That’s how guys see me anyhow. Why not own it? 

Not there. Not quite yet.