I thought I’d finally gotten my shit together when admitting nine months ago I had an eating disorder. Divulging this long kept secret, and quite publicly, was incredibly freeing. Thankfully I was not completely shunned or ridiculed as my fears had led me to believe I would be. Instead I received a ton of support and realized I was not the only man on the planet that was dealing with bulimia.
Yet the even more positive spin on this confession was that it also made me really address my eating disorder for the first time. Since I’ve been in recovery for the last 14 years for drug addiction, I’ve learned that it is not enough to just say I have a problem. I have to want to make the change and then really put in the effort. So I talked about it with my sponsor (and even at some meetings) until it was no longer my guilty secret. I then upped my exercise regime, fine-tuned my diet and kept writing about it. And before I knew it, I was feeling really good about myself. I hadn’t thrown up in six months, the exercise was helping with the body dysmorphia and I’d lost weight.
And Then Came the Holidays…
I usually don’t indulge in seasonal festivities and holiday parties. I’m not really a social person. I dread small talk, and if I can, I’ll do anything to avoid having to deal with strangers asking me what I do for a living. But a close friend was having a get-together and he and his family had invited me and I just didn’t want to say no. I actually like these people and was honored to know they would want me in their home to celebrate.
But the afternoon before the party I was totally stressing. There was going to be a ton of food there and I’d been doing so well keeping to my program that I didn’t want to screw it up. Some people I know with eating issues have no problem taking a “break” and can indulge in foods they normally avoid without serious consequences. Personally, if I do that, I struggle with cravings, and I feel that I’m back at square one.
But what was I going to do? I could either abstain completely and be that weird person that doesn’t eat or I could try to eat in moderation. I didn’t want to be that weird person. Hell, I’d been doing really well lately—maybe this time it would be different? I seemed to have a handle on this bulimia, I thought, so how hard could it be?
The party was at a downtown loft. I walked in and it was full of people I didn’t know. Off in the corner was a bar, which oddly never bothers me (maybe if it were a full-serve heroin buffet I’d have a problem).
I stashed my coat in the guest room then walked into the dining area and was floored. There was so much food it scared me. Three long buffet tables set up with hors d’oeuvres. The theme seemed to be bad retro ‘60’s fare. There were pigs in a blanket, nut-encrusted cheese logs, deviled eggs, cold cuts, macaroni salad, chicken wings and Swedish meatballs. Thank God I’m a vegetarian, I thought. Thank God I’m gluten free. Thank God I’m Paleo and…
“Oh, fucking hell, are those mini grilled cheese sandwiches!?”
There was no hesitation. I grabbed a plate. I filled it up. I didn’t break the meat barrier, but gorged on gluten-infused wheat, fat-laden dairy and anything else that didn’t originally have a face. I think I hit the buffet three times. I didn’t talk to anyone until I’d wolfed down the first plate. Then I slowed up and pretended to socialize, but the whole time I was eyeing the food and craving more.
At some point I walked out onto the balcony and stared at the skyline. I felt like I was on a bender. I was sweaty. I was nauseous. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to eat more. I was fucking out of control, and I knew it.
Gripping the railing I felt the cool night air blow against my face and I made the decision that I needed to leave. I was going to go back inside, thank my friends and get the hell out of there.
I opened the sliding glass door and was greeted by a new table filled with desserts. There were pies, cakes, cookies, puddings and ice cream. I should have just kept walking and grabbed my coat. But I didn’t.
In the car on my way home, I was feeling sick. My belt was tight and I felt bloated and grossly fat. I had overeaten. I had fucked my program. I had failed. At a red light I almost pulled over to throw up. But somehow I made it home and then I was in the bathroom puking my guts out. Only I didn’t want to do it. The fear of craving food was now replaced with the fear of returning to bulimic purging. And right in mid-puke I forced myself to stop. Instead I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water and downed it. Then I threw on a pair of sweats, a hoodie and some running shoes.
A half a mile into the run, I felt better. At two miles I had stomach cramps but kept running. At three miles I stopped beating myself up. At four miles I was two blocks from my apartment and the endorphins had totally kicked in. I was back on track.
I might have blown the last six months of abstaining from unhealthy eating behaviors, but I didn’t have to keep doing it. I was in the solution and that solution didn’t include doing what I’d usually do, which would’ve been to engage in a lot of self-loathing and then lapse into a depression. I had successfully walked away from the purging and the running had pulled me out of it even more. Drinking the water had flushed my system. The endorphins had addressed my depression. For the first time I was totally reactive and looking at my relapse as what it was: a relapse. And the solution to it was really simple. It was honestly admitting that I have a problem: “My name is Patrick, and I have an eating disorder,” and then having a plan of action.
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Originally published by AfterPartyMagazine January 6, 2015
I’m at an art gallery opening. It’s a hot Friday night and the place is packed. I’ve done the required loop of the room, staring at the artwork on the walls, and now I’m over by the food, a table of crackers and cheese, crudités, and some unrecognizable meat on a stick. Not in the mood to eat, I turn toward the bar. I could really use a club soda or a Pellegrino on ice. But it’s a full bar and there’s a crowd in front of me, so I wait my turn.
A group of bearded, plaid-wearing hipsters are hogging up all the available space and ordering a ton of drinks. When one of them looks over his shoulder and sees me waiting, he asks if he can order me something. I say, “Yeah, a club soda would be great, thanks.”
“Club soda?” he responds. “Dude, it’s free. Live a little. Have a drink.”
And then here I am once again stuck deciding how to approach this. Should I say, “I’m in recovery, I don’t drink” and possibly have to deal with the moral high ground fallout that happens whenever I choose this option? Because a lot of people get weird when you tell them you don’t drink. They mumble excuses or try and justify their own drinking: “Oh really? Actually, I only drink on weekends,” “I’m only having a glass of wine,” “I don’t usually drink hard liquor,” “I’ve been thinking of quitting.” And really, I could care less what they do. It’s a personal choice I made. I’m not judging them.
Instead I do what I usually do and just say, “I’m not drinking right now,” thus avoiding any confrontations, or unnecessary misunderstandings. Only tonight, hipster guy is feeling his oats, or maybe he just doesn’t like to drink alone. My not drinking in a gallery full of folks that are drinking shouldn’t upset the earth’s balance but apparently it upsets hipster guy because he says, “Dude, one drink. What can it hurt?”
And yeah, what can it hurt, right?
Alcohol isn’t my biggest problem. But it could easily be. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’ve drunk my fair share, usually to a blackout, waking up in unfamiliar places with no idea how I got there. I’ve been in way too many bar fights, and I’ve even been known to tell a pathetically slurred version of my love life to a bartender now and then. But if I were given the choice between my first love, heroin, and a scotch on the rocks, I’d choose heroin every time. After all, I was a junkie for over 18 years. I’ve got an invested interest in that shit. It destroyed my life. It brought me to my knees, and then I found recovery. Which, right now, is not something I’m willing to give up for just one drink. Because even though alcohol is not my drug of choice, I know that once I start, one drink isn’t going to be enough.
Fifteen years ago, I’d just gotten out of my second rehab. It wasn’t 12-step based but what they call behavior modification. They tore you down by yelling at you, calling you a scumbag and a loser—which, back then, I already knew. But whatever, it worked for a while and it seemed to make the counselors happy to yell at me. So I went along and actually stayed clean for 18 months. Then I met this girl who was fresh out of detox. So of course we moved into a tiny studio apartment together, and for a couple of months, everything was going smoothly. I was going to work every day and trying to exist in the straight world after years of being a drug addict criminal. Then one night we were at a really nice restaurant known for its vodka drinks. We were sitting there with our menus watching these scantily clad waitresses pass by with trays full of giant martinis. Their double olives and dripping condensation looked so good that we just nonchalantly ordered two. Then two more. And I remember ordering another round before I blacked out.
The next morning, I woke up with the second-worst hangover of my life and said, “I’m never doing that again.” And I probably meant it. Yet an invisible line had been crossed. I’d given myself permission to use after a year-and-a-half of abstinence. Of course I kept it a secret from my family and what few friends I still had, going about my life as if it never happened. That is, until I hurt myself at work, scratching my cornea so bad that I couldn’t see. At the emergency room, the doctor said I’d be in a lot of pain while it healed and gave me a prescription for Vicodin. Deep down, I knew I should’ve said something like, “Hey, I’m an addict, I can’t take drugs.” But I didn’t.
Two days later, I’d taken all 60 pills. I called the doctor and explained I’d lost them because I still couldn’t see very well. He called in another prescription of 60, and this one had a refill. A week later, after a few days of withdrawals when the pills ran out, I took a cab down to the part of town where I used to cop on the street, back when I was first starting out. Surprisingly, every dealer I’d known before was still there and it was pretty easy for me to score heroin. The first shot felt like poison, the second shot I OD’ed and my girlfriend called the paramedics. When I got out of the ER, I went back to the corner and scored again. In just 48 hours, I was back at square one with a habit to feed. Took me another six months with my parole officer chasing me before I was through and got in another residential rehab. And although this may not make a lot of sense to those who aren’t alcoholics or addicts, if I hadn’t taken that first drink, my chances of staying clean would’ve been much better. Who knows, I might have even gotten tired of trying to do it all by myself and gone to a meeting to ask for help.
Hipster guy is still standing there. He won’t take no for an answer. In fact, he’s almost demanding that I drink. “Dude! Come on. Party with us!”
Not wanting to prolong this any longer, I turn to him and say, “Believe me, you don’t want me drinking. Because first of all, what you’ve got here isn’t enough and it’s not the type of dope I really want anyway. But I can promise you, as soon as I get a buzz-on? I’ll definitely end up robbing you so I can go buy the drugs that I really crave. But before that happens, what I’ll do is get really sloppy, cry in my beer, and then punch one of you out. Okay?”
Of course I know that will pretty much bring any and all future social interactions with him to an abrupt halt. So while hipster guy and his pals stare wide-eyed with their mouths open, I slowly back away. Finally alone, I meander about the gallery, still thirsty and wishing I had a Pellegrino.
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Originally published as “How One Drink Leads to a Heroin OD” by AfterPartyMagazine June 3, 2014
The only time I have ever been happy with how much I weighed was when I was shooting heroin. I was 125 pounds and thought I looked great. I had that junkie chic thing going—that oh so appealingly attractive gaunt look that accented my cheekbones as well as my protruding ribcage. Never mind that I’m 5’ 10’ and resembled a walking skeleton, or that I had no muscle tone or that I was slowly dying.
In my mind, this is still my ideal weight, and what I continue to measure my present self against. Of course, being that thin is such an unrealistic goal that I can only fail trying to achieve it—unless I am willing to engage in some really unhealthy old behaviors.
I have been bulimic ever since I was 12. I started binge eating to suppress my feelings of abandonment while my parents divorced and I became invisible to them. When I discovered that drugs worked a lot better than food not only to subdue my fears and anxieties but also to keep me thin, I started using on a daily basis and didn’t stop until over 20 years later when I walked into my first treatment facility.
Because most addicts don’t bother to eat, and when they do it isn’t exactly what’s generally considered a balanced healthy diet, a majority of the clients there were as emaciated as I was. In an effort to get us all “healthy again.” the program encouraged us to eat. They served three meals a day that were high in calories and heavy on carbs to fatten us up. And in between they put out a ton of snacks so everyone was doing the rehab 20 in 20—20 pounds in 20 days. I was freaking out.
I hadn’t even thought about my eating disorder the years it lay dormant while I shot heroin. But as soon as I gained weight I started purging like I had never stopped and it wasn’t long before the counselors took notice. “We think you should go to OA,” said Nancy, my primary counselor, who had no experience working with eating disorders.
“What the hell’s OA?” I asked.
“Overeaters Anonymous,” she answered. I didn’t know what the hell they’d do there. And apparently neither did Nancy because when I asked about it, she said it was just like AA except you did it with food. Only as far as I knew, AA preached abstinence from alcohol. How was I supposed to completely abstain from eating?
“Honey, I don’t know,” she said. “But I’m not the one hugging the toilet in the bathroom every day. Just go to the goddamn meetings.”
My first OA meeting was in a church, but not the usual large basement room that AA meetings tend to be held in. This was a small sitting room off to the side of the chapel and there were very few chairs. I was nervous about going, and when I showed up a few minutes late, the meeting had already started. I quickly scoped out the room from the doorway. There were five people in attendance as well as a secretary who was running the meeting, and when I walked in everyone fell silent. After I took a seat the secretary resumed reading: “Whatever problem you may have with food, you are welcome at this meeting, regardless of race, creed, nationality, religion, gender, sexual orientation, or any other trait. Are there any compulsive eaters here besides myself?”
Everyone raised their hand, and as I looked around, I noticed they were all women, quite overweight, and well dressed. And there I was, weighing considerably less, dressed in torn jeans and a leather jacket, and I was a man. I suddenly felt even more out of place then usual. When the secretary asked if there were any newcomers I said, “My name is Patrick and I’m an addict.” And the room fell silent again. When another woman started reading the 12 steps, I stared at the floor.
As uncomfortable as I was at my first AA meeting, this was 10 times more awkward. I totally understood that I was powerless over drugs, and my life was unmanageable, but this was food we were talking about here. And unlike being in a room full of addicts and drunks, I just couldn’t relate to anyone that said they couldn’t stop eating, even when I had the same problem. I felt completely different from these women, and kept thinking that because I threw up and was skinnier, I was somehow better off then they were. After a few minutes of fidgeting, I got up and left.
When Nancy asked me how the meeting was, “Fuck that shit” was my response.
At that point, I hadn’t even started working the steps for my drug addiction, and trying to wrap my head around thinking that the same ideas could help me with my eating disorder wasn’t working. So instead of continuing to seek help I decided it would be better if I were just less obvious when I purged. And because I had so much self-loathing and shame around it, I continued to keep it a secret, and over the next few years I stayed clean off drugs, but I relapsed on food about a million times.
There were periods where I didn’t eat compulsively or purge my food. But as soon as my life got the least bit stressful, bulimia would reappear. And it was after one really bad episode that I began to consciously consider what I was eating. My diet had slightly evolved from when I was a junkie, when I’d existed on cigarettes, candy and the occasional cheeseburger, but I really wasn’t eating that much healthier now. So I made some drastic changes. I became the worst pain-in-ass food person around: a gluten-free vegetarian. Only with a gluten-free diet there were a lot of “alternative” carbs and starchy legumes and sweets were no problem as long as they were organic and made with the right ingredients. Which didn’t really help my eating disorder. I’m an addict, I over indulge, and there was nothing stopping me from power munching an entire pack of gluten-free cookies in one sitting every day. So even though I was eating healthier, I wasn’t losing weight or even staying the same but slowly gaining. And as I once again started feeling fat, I returned to throwing up, and that’s when I fell into the deepest depression around food that I’ve ever experienced.
That was about a year ago, and it’s taken me a very long time to work myself out of it. I had to return to the gym and start running again just to get the endorphins going. And although there are some folks at meetings that consider eating disorders an outside issue, thankfully my sponsor isn’t one of them, and I was able to talk with him about it as well.
When I started to feel the slightest bit better about myself, I began to approach eating in a totally different manner. I stopped looking at food as the enemy, or another substance to abuse. Now I only eat whole foods, nothing processed, and I stop eating well before I feel full. I’m still a vegetarian so meat and dairy are out as well.
While this regime may seem strict to some, I haven’t felt the need to throw up once since I started. But people are always going to share their opinions; one of my friends actually said that I was practicing another form of anorexia while others continue to probe me about all the “wonderful foods” I’m “missing out” on.
My feeling is this: I’ve eaten all kinds of wonderful foods and enjoyed them all—some a little too much. What I don’t enjoy is engaging in unhealthy behaviors that produce a shitload of shame. If what I’m doing is some form of anorexia, then it’s the healthiest eating disorder I’ve ever had.
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Originally published as “Call This An Eating Disorder If You Need To” by AfterPartyMagazine November 19, 2014