An anonymous contributor shares her story of dealing with her ex-boyfriend’s eating disorder, and demonstrates the importance of the need to address such diseases.
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We met out by the dumpster, sitting on the concrete wall behind the theater. Ben*’s face still maintained boyishness, with flushed cheeks, bright red lips, and shoulder length brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. I watched him take a drag from his cigarette as we bitched about customers, co-workers and the management, shaded from the hot desert sun by the brick building towering over us.
“Isn’t Ben getting skinny?” My friend and assistant manager remarked one day toward the end of the season. I didn’t notice until he brought it up, but, yes, he was losing weight. I wondered aloud if he had started exercising or eating better, but quickly moved on.
While I gained about 10 pounds that summer, between munching on free and unlimited supply of buttered popcorn and soda and buying candy and pretzels on my days off when I would come in to watch a free movie, Ben continued to drop weight, rarely dipping in to the popcorn and free slushies like the rest of us. We often worked long shifts together, and while we went out pick up fast food on our dinner breaks together, he rarely ate anything.
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Shortly after my dad died that fall, Ben and I began dating. We moved slowly. While I struggled to keep from sinking into depression, Ben helped me stay afloat, driving around with me for hours at night, listening to music, talking, or just sitting in the still car, staring at the city lights stretching before us. We were both working full-time at the theater, so we spent a lot of time at 24-hour restaurants, gorging ourselves on comfort foods like pancakes and coffee after our shifts.
When Ben moved into a new apartment by himself, his glaringly empty fridge bothered me. “Don’t you ever eat here?” I asked him one day. “Not really,” he replied sheepishly, and I left it at that, assuming he was just a typical young bachelor with poor cooking skills.
By winter, Ben had lost around 75 pounds. One cold December night, I slept at his apartment for the first time. Ben switched the lights off, changed into pajamas in the bathroom, and slid into bed after. His body felt tense and, as I wrapped my arms around his torso, I could feel his ribs. Snuggling closer, I felt his hip bone press into me. His breathing was shallow, almost as if he were holding it in.
“You’re so skinny,” I said quietly, feeling a knot of nerves forming in my throat. Ben grabbed my hands as they slid down toward his stomach. “Don’t touch there,” he whispered.
After that night, I became acutely more aware of Ben’s extreme insecurity and unhealthy habits. Over time he became more comfortable with me in bed, but was still deeply ashamed of parts of his body, often covering them or pulling my hands away. He began working out in his apartment’s gym, spending hours running on the treadmill. When I would see Ben later in the day, I’d ask if he was hungry since I usually was, and he’d tell me that he had forgotten to eat all day. Noticing this pattern, I made sure we ate together almost every time I saw him, regardless of whether or not I was hungry.
One night, as I was getting ready for bed in his bathroom, I glanced at the toilet and noticed that the sides of the bowl were filthy, covered in dark specks of what looked like vomit.
“Did you throw up?” I asked when I got into bed.
“Why?” He looked taken aback.
“The toilet is dirty — it looks like someone threw up in it.” I replied.
“Oh, yeah, I wasn’t feeling good earlier,” he answered. I left it at that, fearing what would happen if I pressed for more information.