The Most Toxic Relationship I’ve Ever Been In Wasn’t With A Person

Trigger warning: Eating disorders

I was 10 years old the first time I stood in front of a mirror and wished I looked like someone else. I closed the bathroom door behind me, undressed, and stared critically into my reflection. I took in the figure before me, aware that I was shedding my prepubescent skin and stepping into a body with curved hips and budding breasts. According to every puberty book my mom made me read, these were all standard indicators that I was growing up. But inside, I grappled with a new voice, a critical version of myself that seemed to grow louder with every new inch or curve my body gained.

While my peers spent their summer memorizing their locker combinations for the first day of middle school, I was learning what it meant to be a woman in America. My body no longer belonged to me but to the societal standards that dictated what it meant to be beautiful.

I lowered my gaze to my stomach, full from the dinner my mom had served. I squeezed, poked, and prodded and, without any real choice, committed myself to the most toxic relationship I would ever be in.

I was 12 years old the first time I heard a boy pass judgment on my body. “Thunder thighs,” he called me. I didn’t understand what a storm had to do with my legs, but when I relayed the comment to my mom later that night, her facial expression told me all I needed to know. I spent the rest of eighth grade hiding my legs from boys and doing Jillian Michaels’ workout tapes in my bedroom.

I was 14 years old when I decided the diet pills I found in my mom’s drawer were a suitable substitute for breakfast. I popped them with stealth, fearful that someone would find them or find me out and ask questions I wasn’t ready to answer. I was pretty and popular and nice and a cheerleader and got straight A’s and said yes ma’am and no ma’am and kept my legs closed. I would go on to win prom queen, homecoming queen, and every other award that, by high school standards, meant I was the Chosen One.

None of those things should have equaled an eating disorder, yet I now realize this quest for perfection was the equation all along.

For lunch, I halved the portion of whatever my mom had packed for me.

Half a sandwich and

Half a granola bar and

Half an apple

and hopefully

Half a body

I was 16 years old when my period disappeared. I told the doctor I was just stressed, and don’t worry, my appetite is fine, and no, I’m not skipping meals.

I don’t think she bought it, but I pretended she did.

I started working at a fast-food restaurant right down the road from my house. I ignored the savory smell of chicken, deeply salted fries, grease, and ice cream that hadn’t entered my body in years. The food chain allowed us one meal per shift in exchange for a shitty wage and condescending management. I took home salads and fruit cups and pride that I resisted and resisted and resisted until one night, during a Friday closing shift, my Hunger refused to be silenced.

I grabbed a to-go bag and packed it with fries and chicken tenders, and when my manager wasn’t looking, I sneaked in an extra sandwich and a cookie.

My mouth salivated like an abandoned dog who was finally privy to sustenance.

I finished my duties for the night, ran to the car with my secret in tow, and let the delicious smell permeate the air around me. My stomach fluttered with nerves, excitement, and energy, which was soon replaced with a ferociousness I didn’t recognize.

Within three minutes, every last morsel of food was gone.

First, time stopped.

Then, bliss followed.

And finally, my illness swallowed me whole.

I was 18 years old, alone in my dorm room, my heart heavy from how homesick I’d become. My roommate had gone home for the weekend and the girls who lived next door were out with their boyfriends.

Binging was now a weekly part of my routine. As I arrived on campus, I told myself this was my opportunity to start over and leave that piece of me back home. That mindset was foolish because my mind was sick, and sick minds don’t recover overnight.

I filled the silence around me with crinkled wrappers of sweets I had hidden throughout the week. I rummaged through drawers that did not belong to me to find more food to inhale. I ate corndogs and chips and gummy bears and gobs and gobs of peanut butter and ate and ate and ate until the familiar searing pain replaced my urge to consume.

The high lasted seconds, but the hangover and shame lasted days.

I was 20 years old the first time a man told me he loved me. We had only gone on two dates before he professed his love, probably because he was naked and on top of me. I said it back, not because I meant it but because I’m a woman, and women are taught to please men, even if it means lying to themselves. After he finished and fell asleep, I stealthily escaped into the kitchen and opened the fridge to soothe my shame in the only way I knew how.

I had been abusing food for so many years that my disorder was the center of my world and everything orbited around it. So as a mere stranger slept in my bed, I polished off an entire pint of Breyers ice cream, two candy bars, and a bag of Doritos to make sense of the night.

Unable to go back to my bedroom to face him or his questions, I lay on the couch, my hand clutching my bloated stomach, and felt the rush of tears stream down my face.

Apparently, men notice when you disappear after they tell you they love you.

The following morning, he asked where I’d slept and what he’d done wrong. He seemed open, vulnerable, and even sad, and while I didn’t particularly have the heart to tell him his message’s delivery was horrifying, I told him the truth.

“I’ve had an eating disorder since I was 10 years old. I binge every week, and I don’t know how to handle my emotions,” I said, “Anyway, sorry, it was shitty for me to leave you alone last night.”

He stood there for a second, trying to process my shared information. And just as he would for the next four years, he approached me with so much love and kindness and enveloped me in a hug. What’s important here is that it wasn’t the presence of this man that made me feel okay; rather, it was the release I felt from sharing my wounds and speaking my truth without hesitation.

I exhaled into him and allowed myself to feel the weight of our bodies pressed together. At this moment, I experienced a sensation I had not felt since I was 10 years old: Presence in my body.

Finally, I was coming home.