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Eating Disorders
In honor of National Eating Disorder Awareness Week, a close friend of Dating & Hookup and a respected journalist, ”Nate Milsham,” writes on his relationship to his wife’s debilitating sickness.
Part one, here.
Emily was never fat in the first place—she was curvier in high school and lost a lot of weight through starving herself so badly that she could tell exactly how much she could eat before she blacked out. As with ballet, she was able to make her anxieties work for her. Many people in her life have done very cruel things to Emily—a boyfriend who humiliated her for fun a long time ago, a stalker when we were at school together, regular unkind words from her mother along the way—and whatever rage she feels, she turns inward, into the kind of brutal punishment you wouldn’t inflict on a rabid dog. She treats her body like a lump of particularly stubborn clay; pain is merely proof that the sculpting process is working. She can fit into a pair of skinny jeans now, and she can buy designer clothes if she saves her teacher’s salary, and she likes the way she looks.
But she can’t order takeout after 8 p.m., because she gets tired and the stress of fatigue pushes her that crucial few inches over the precipice into recursion and terror and paralytic anxiety.
In honor of National Eating Disorder Awareness Week, a close friend of Dating & Hookup and a respected journalist, ”Nate Milsham,” writes on his relationship to his wife’s debilitating sickness.
It was a Saturday morning and we’d slept too late; that was the crux of it. Emily wanted pancakes, but wouldn’t let me make them, or make them herself, or go out to get them from the diner across the street. She just folded herself deeper and deeper into her bathrobe—my wife is a small woman who likes to be noticed least when she’s upset—and just said, “Breakfast is over.” She started to cry. “Breakfast is over, breakfast is over, breakfast is over.”
Emily Milsham is a genius. She has one terminal degree in art history and is working on a second, both from top-tier universities. She drags the lazy, privileged shits in her packed-to-capacity undergraduate classes kicking and screaming into the beautiful worlds created by Picasso and Rembrandt and Robert Mapplethorpe (and let me tell you, I would not do that for those students, because they do not fucking deserve it. I speak once a semester in her classes and I brought my last lecture to a dead halt just so I could tell one of the little bastards to stop talking to his buddy as though I wasn’t even in the room) and at the end, they thank her for it. She is funny as hell, a sparkling conversationalist, a good Christian, and incredible fun to go to bed with. She has a chili pepper on her RateMyProfessor page, and that chili pepper is absolutely correct.
Emily was also a ballet dancer starting at age two and a half; her mother is not an intentionally mean person, but her daughter baffles her and she has spent most of Emily’s life trying to make her do one thing or another, usually successfully. Until a year or two ago she would send Emily “care packages” of diet bars and clothes that were too small; Emily has always tried to play them off as though they were no big deal but you can’t keep abject misery from showing up in your eyes even if you keep your face still.
Before and during college, when I thought ahead to the possibilities life in my twenties might hold, “develop an eating disorder” was not on the list. I had emerged from high school with a very normal relationship to food and exercise, and that trend continued in college.
But once I graduated from college, the pressures of proving myself at a new job, moving away from the community I’d grown up in, developing new friendships from scratch, and navigating changing family relationships, on top of my already sky-high perfectionism, became too much. Without even realizing it, I began to use food and exercise to help me cope with my overwhelming (at least to me) life—to give me a sense of control in the midst of what seemed to me to be chaos and unknowns, and to provide a standard by which I could measure how I was doing at adulthood and work and life.
The small changes in eating and exercising started to add up and become more regular. Avoiding food—and therefore social events that involved food—started to dictate my decisions. The number on the old, beat-up scale in the restroom at my workplace became my measure for how I should feel about myself, and how much I could eat. I became withdrawn and secretive.
After a couple years, I finally had to face the fact that I was anorexic. And terrified. I had no idea how to escape it.
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