It Runs In The Family

I remember visiting my mother at the eating disorder clinic she stayed at in Boston. Her eyes were tired, but her smile was genuine. We sat in her little apartment and talked for a little bit.

“Mommy’s getting better, baby. I’ll be home before you know it,” she said. I didn’t know what to say because I knew she was lying. Even at 12 years old, I knew that it would be a long time before she came home. She rummaged through her bag of makeup and cigarettes and pulled out some sort of toy. It was a small rubber llama with large plastic eyes. She handed it to me and said, “Squeeze it.” When I tightened my grip on the llama, the pressure caused its eyes to bulge, and it squeaked.

“I got it at the comic book store a couple of blocks away. I could take you sometime if you want.” I smiled and said that I’d like that. Visiting hours were almost over, and it was a long drive home. My dad checked his watch and stood up, saying that we should start leaving.

“I love you, baby.” Mom said.

“I love you too.”

During the two hour drive back, I imagined what my life would’ve been like if I had lost my mom, if she hadn’t gotten the help she needed with her anorexia. I wouldn’t have had anybody else that cared. I would’ve been alone. Little did I know that history was bound to repeat itself.

I sat 4 years later, hunched over the toilet of my bathroom, and I remembered the 3 months without my mother. I remembered how ill she was before she was sent off without my knowledge. I stood up and stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, my eyes seemed to bulge out of my skull, bloodshot and watery from the gagging. Look at you, I thought to myself, how selfish can you get? She worked her ass off for months to get better for you, and you repay her by doing the same shit she did? You’re slowly killing yourself, and for what? I wiped the tears from my eyes and brushed my teeth to get the taste of vomit out of my mouth. I had been doing this to myself for nearly 7 months when my mother confronted me about it. She told me that if I didn’t stop, she’d have to send me off to the same clinic she went to. At the time, I didn’t care. What I was doing didn’t affect anybody but myself, so it couldn’t have been that big of a deal, right? Besides, eating disorders weren’t usually seen as ‘male problems.’ But as I sat there and remembered how I felt, watching my mother slowly kill herself, I finally understood. I didn’t want her to have to feel what I felt.

While she took my disorder seriously, many people didn’t. Many people believed that since I wasn’t a female, it wasn’t that big of a deal, like it made a difference. In actuality, males make up about 25% of all individuals with anorexia nervosa and bulimia nervosa. These men typically aren’t taken seriously and are too afraid to ask for the help they need, fearing ridicule from their peers, which is why the mortality rate for males with eating disorders is actually higher than it is for females. I was picked on a lot for it, too. By my closest friends. They told me, “why even bother eating if you’re just going to throw it up later anyway?” I never stood up for myself. If they didn’t take it seriously, it must have not been a big deal, right?

It’s been 2 months since I last did that to myself. I have gained a bit of weight, which I’m not all too happy about, but my health is better. I’m no longer constantly dehydrated and tired, and I’m not always worrying about if I look fat. I’m finally becoming happy with who I am, which is what I’ve wanted for years now. However, not all males with eating disorders can say that. The de-stigmatizing of eating disorders in males is a necessity. People need to realize that women aren’t the only gender that face double standards when it comes to serious, life threatening issues. And perhaps one day, men will no longer be afraid to get the help they need.