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Why I Couldn’t Tell the Boy I’m Dating About My Eating Disorder

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When people ask me why I went to graduate school, I give them a standard, flippant response: I wasn’t ready to get a job. For most, this satisfies their curiosity. They laugh and we move on. For others, though, it isn’t enough. They see through it. They know me, my ambition, my dedication. And sometimes, they ask questions.

I knew my mental health was going to come up at some point when I started dating. When he asked the grad school question, I gave him the typical answer. When he squinted his eyes and tilted his head, I knew it was only a matter of time. When I changed the subject, I hoped he would get the message to not push it. What I was not expecting, though, was for him to, halfway through our second date, ask me point blank if I would tell him more about what I meant.

I laughed. I cringed. My eyebrows shot up and I awkwardly made my way through a “yeah, no, for sure.” And I started in, three different times, on a sentence I know by heart — but it never came out:

I am in recovery from an eating disorder.

I’ve memorized the next ones, too:

I have anxiety and panic attacks, and I’m working on managing it. I have good and bad days, but I’m pretty good at recognizing it.

It’s the perfect response for me — succinct, accurate and not open for discussion unless I want it to be. I don’t say it often, I’ll admit, but it’s not a secret. I want to commit to recovery and secrecy doesn’t have a place in that. Neither does shame.

Regardless, I sat there, a fish out of water gasping desperately for some relief in this sea of discomfort.

“I…”

“Um, sorry. It’s not bad. I, um…”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m, um…”

After about a minute — maybe more, maybe less, I couldn’t tell — he took pity on me. Hands up like he was approaching a scared animal in the wild, he backtracked. “Hey, it’s OK. You don’t have to. It’s fine. I’m sorry. Whenever you’re ready.” And for the next minute, we both smothered each other in apologies and guilt. It happened again, an hour later. He asked me why I don’t drink, and this time it was only 10 seconds of my uncomfortable stalling before he backtracked again, hands back up in the air, giving me space alongside his silent support that he would be there when I was ready.

I don’t know why I couldn’t tell him. I’m not ashamed. I’ve done nothing wrong. And yet, I couldn’t make the words come out of my mouth. Maybe it was the timing — maybe I was afraid of giving him ammunition to hit me where I’m weakest before I even knew how he fights. Maybe I didn’t want to darken the mood, or risk alienating a boy that I like, way more than I want to admit. Or maybe … maybe I am ashamed.

Maybe I am ashamed that I carry this. That I’ve carried it for so long. That this hasn’t always been an easy, positive, straightforward recovery. That so much of my life is consumed by it. That you wouldn’t even be able to deduce it unless I told you, as if the invisibility of my conditions makes them any less real. Maybe I am.

In reality, I think it’s a combination of things. I think I am partly ashamed and embarrassed because I too carry stigma about mental illness, no matter how much I try to fight it. But I think I am also afraid and distrustful and unfamiliar with letting people in, letting people care, letting people know me and love me. And so I’m going to try. I’m going to clear the air. Say the sentences I’ve memorized, and maybe some that I haven’t. I’m going to trust he is a good person who has shown me nothing but kindness and compassion and respect. I’m going to practice being seen. And then, I’m going to give him feedback on the right things to say and the wrong things, and I’m going to give him the tools he’ll need to support me.

I’m going to bring ED into my dating life so that I can kick him out of my mind once and for all.

Photo by Tord Sollie on Unsplash

Originally published: June 22, 2020
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