How I Embraced Vulnerability in My Eating Disorder Recovery

What are your most vivid childhood memories? The ones that stick for the rest of your life. Perhaps they helped define or shape you. Was it that first sleepover camp? Learning to ride a bike, how to swim? A birthday party? A vacation? The first day of school? Joyous events, full of comfort and nostalgia. But think about those other memories: skinned knees, fighting with a friend, parents divorcing. Children are not immune to pain. I was not immune to pain.

My most vivid childhood memory is May 15th, 1997. It was a chilly spring day in Chicagoland. The sky painted an abstract portrait of grays, whites and yellow. It seemed to match the mood inside the Wood house. The home where glorious memories were once made had now been converted into a makeshift hospice center. My dad, my hero, lay in a hospital bed drifting in and out of consciousness. He had only been sick for a few months but the end was near. The cancer ravaged his body much like this event would eat away at me for years to come.

I arrived home from school and came to his bedside. I was able to hold his hand one last time as he whispered, “I love you, Jason.” His body, yellow from the jaundice, looked like a fragment of the man I once knew. This was my last memory with him. He breathed his last a few minutes later and life changed forever. That is the memory that defines my childhood. It quickly trumped the joyful ones of holidays and fishing trips. My hero, my innocence and my naivety died that day.

“You’re the man of the house now,” he said just a few weeks prior as mom and I departed the hospital. At 11-years-old I was now the man of the house. I needed to take care of mom, who was chronically ill herself. My childhood was over. I needed to be an adult. The top priority was making sure mom would be OK. To do so, I put up a front. I began to mask my inner fears and feelings because I could not appear weak. I started to lose touch with who I was, but chalked it up to just growing up under special circumstances.

Fast forward to 2005 and it felt like my life was a terrible rerun. Mom, my last pillar, slept in a hospital room full of beeping machines and rattled breathing. That death rattle nurses and doctors often talk about still haunts my ears. Her lungs filled with death. After two successful battles with cancers, she was about to lose this one. I was only 19, what the hell was I supposed to do? I was not prepared to be an adult yet. The wounds from dad’s death were still fresh.

I held her frail hand, veins bulging as her body wasted away. She reminded me to let the dog out and then she joined dad. I was alone, really alone. My siblings had turned on me. They seemed like the enemy now. There was an age gap in our family and I was the youngest by 15 years. They did not approve of my new party lifestyle. I didn’t approve either but it was the only way to feel somewhat my age and escape the pain I felt.

I faced eviction, arrest, a nasty estate battle and a few dead end jobs in the aftermath. My life was broken. I felt broken. I felt useless. But above all, I hurt. I had lost my parents. My childhood memories felt tarnished. Meanwhile, the rest of my friends were living their best lives away at college while I struggled to survive.

Did I ask for help? Did I let others into my world of pain and inner turmoil? No! I needed to stay the man of the house. Act tough, put on a brave face, and impress others with my resiliency. I turned to alcohol a lot. It temporarily numbed the pain and it made me fun to be around. I was that obnoxious, loud friend always down for another beer. I was lying to myself that this is who I was and wanted to be. Inside I was killing myself.

My unhealthy relationship with food accelerated during this time. In high school, I had lost a significant amount of weight. After years of being bullied about my weight, I wore this accomplishment as a badge of honor. It was one of the only things I valued about myself. I assumed it was the only thing others valued about me too. I turned to controlled eating as a refuge during times of uncertainty.

In 2010, I meant my future husband, my knight in shining armor. I could never understand why he loved me or wanted to be with me. I felt like I was not worthy of him and that he could do so much better than me. As such, I only allowed him to see the tip of the iceberg into my pain. I feared that my complete openness might chase him away. I had already lost too much to lose again.

This hurt eventually turned into anger. My perspective soured as the years went along. I was bitter at the world, at my family, at life for handing this unfair deck of cards. My eating disorder continued to worsen and I started taking the anger out on my body. My loving relationship with my husband grew tense. Bickering progressed into arguments and tears, usually as a result of my abusive relationship with alcohol. I turned to beer to escape my pain and insecurities, while still masquerading as a happy-go-lucky guy.

In 2020, I bottomed out. My weight and self-respect reached an all-time low. My drinking and frustration hit an all-time high. My husband expressed his concerns during a mini-trip and in this moment of weakness something awoke within me. He opened my eyes to the pain and hurt in my childhood, teen years and the damage I was doing to myself now.

He recognized my pain and in a move of independence, I did too. I realized I was broken. I ached. I needed help. The following Monday, I called my doctor and started my road to recovery. I began working through personal issues with my therapist, who helped me better understand my anxious and OCD thoughts, thus enabling me to address my disordered eating. We talked about how I never had a chance to really eulogize my parents, my jealousy about never having a normal childhood or adolescence, the pain from losing my family and how the fallout from the estate battle left the good childhood memories tarnished.

My therapist helped me open up and face problems I didn’t know I had. In turn, I began to embrace vulnerability. I began to feel empowered each time I let my guard down and embraced vulnerability. I found the strength to take the upper hand on my eating disorder, to cope with the pain I buried away down deep. By being vulnerable, I reconnected with the parts of me that I always loved. I remembered who I was before life’s vicious attacks commenced.

I started writing. I’ve always enjoyed writing and found this as my outlet to speak my truths. Through writing, I learned that the man of the house can show vulnerability. That does not equal weakness, but instead it shows love for himself and those around him. I can be honest with myself now, with my husband and with my friends. I broke free from the chains of my eating disorder, my insecurities and the hurtful memories.

Vulnerability is defined as the quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally. All along, I was the one doing the attacking and harming to myself by not allowing myself to be vulnerable and share my struggles. I am now on a mission to help others live their best lives just like I am finally doing after two decades of inner hell.

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