Genesis of an Eating Disorder
When I was nine-years-old I found out my dad wasn’t my biological father. It happened at the dinner table one night. My mom and dad called me into the dining room and sat me down and broke the news. Or maybe they asked me to stay after I said I was done eating. I’m not sure. I don’t remember the specifics. What I do remember though is that a few days before I’d said something really mean to one of my only friends at the time, Josh. And sitting at the table dinner table with my parents, that mean little comment of mine felt like an ominous bit of foreshadowing.
Josh had a biological father he’d never met either. He also had a stepdad that was his little brother and sister’s “real” dad. Josh once showed me a photo of his bio-dad. It pictured his mom and bio-dad on their wedding day. His mom, short with a huge grin and a blonde bob haircut, wore a white dress. But the thing that really caught my attention was Josh’s resemblance to his bio-dad. Seeing Josh’s biological father was like looking at a photo of Josh filtered through an old timey filter. He was tall and lanky with a white tux and the same red-orange hair as Josh. I was struck by their likeness. And I couldn’t help but wonder, even at such a young age, why I hadn’t realized before that Josh looked nothing like his stepdad.
Josh didn’t seem to get along with his stepdad. It was one of the reasons I never liked the man. There was something harsh and dismissive about him. When I try to picture him now all I can see is how differently he treated Josh from his brother and sister. I hated that. Josh was my friend, and his stepdad was mean to him. So as far as I was concerned that made him a man to be despised. That didn’t stop me though from making a rude comment to Josh unfortunately. When he told me that his dad wasn’t his biological father I dropped a comment that, though honest, was wholly unnecessary.
“Well my dad is my real dad. My family’s not weird.”
I think about that comment a lot. It was the first thought that came to mind when my mom said to me from across the dinner table “Ron isn’t your real dad.”
Things speed up in my mind from that point on. Pretty quickly my dad, Ron, adopted me and gave me his last name. Which felt odd at the time because I’d been using “Eidson” my whole life. Shortly after that I got a letter from my biological father, Carles. He included a photo of himself with a dog, a golden lab I think. And looking at that photo of Carles, huge grin and a thick head of black hair, I wondered why I’d never realized that I look almost nothing like Ron.
I didn’t know it at the time—hell, I didn’t know it until a few months ago—but sitting at that dinner table when I was nine-years-old, a seed was planted in my little brain. Overtime that seed’s roots grew to infect every corner of my mind. By now, at thirty-seven-years-old, I can’t distinguish between the thing growing in my head all these years and the content of my consciousness. It’s as much a part of me as my fingers, and it’s affected the course of my life many times over. But the one thing it affected that I didn’t notice, and never realized until a few months ago during a session with my VA-appointed therapist, was my relationship to food. And by extension, my body.
It’s a rat’s nest, one that can’t be untangled in a few words. And I don’t have the expertise to untangle it anyway. But recently I reached out to the VA and asked for some help. As of this blog post, I’ve had my first meeting with a psychologist who specializes in eating disorders. She had me recount my specific issues so she could identify the exact eating disorder I’m struggling with. But I already know which disorder I’m dealing with, so her diagnosis feels redundant.
That being said, hearing a professional say “you have bulimia” would be a tremendous source of validation. But as anyone who’s gone to therapy can confirm, knowing the source of the issue is only the first step toward recovery. This post will serve as the first of many as I recount the path that brought me to this point in time, as well as the way forward.
This isn’t something I’m necessarily comfortable with sharing, especially on a blog. But I’ve seen firsthand the power of being open about your struggles. Years ago, when I was diagnosed with PTSD as a result of my time in the Marine Corps, several friends from my time in the military reached out to say they had similar struggles, and that my willingness to say something about my own problems led to them asking for help as well. Despite the horrible state of my life at that point, knowing that I helped at least a couple buddies gave me with a lot of desperately-needed comfort. I’m hoping that this blog does the same thing.
It feels obvious to say this, but bulimia isn’t restricted to women. Men suffer too. But it can be tough to talk about, as if it’s “unmanly” to have an eating disorder. I’m hoping that my willingness to share my journey will inspire other men to acknowledge and address their own eating disorders or body image issues. I know that I would have appreciated the help.
So if you’re struggling, or you just want to read the story, go ahead and subscribe by entering your email address at the bottom of any page on my website. Thanks for following. Until next time.
