First date jitters are normal. But when you’ve spent your life wrestling with an eating disorder, those jitters can quickly overpower you.
On my first date after a long hiatus, I was consumed with anxiety, not about my date, but about the menu. Instead of worrying about witty banter, or getting to know my date, I spent all my time trying to figure out the calorie content of each dish. Would I go over my calorie limit if I ordered a cocktail? If I asked him to split an entrée, would he think I was cheap? Would it be weird if I ordered something off the kid’s menu?
Fighting against the tidal wave of neurotic thoughts, I finally managed to order a salad.
My date immediately scoffed. “Oh, you’re one of those girls.”
Is it too late to swipe left?
How To Tell Your Date About Your Eating Disorder?
Telling potential love interests about my illness is something I’m never ready for, never quite know how to do. When’s the “right time” and how should it be done? If they ask me to dinner, should I say I’d rather go to the park? If I have to cancel my date because my body dysmorphia suddenly renders me incapable of leaving the room, should I explain why, or risk seeming unreliable? Would it be better just to put it on my dating profile and be done with it: Hi, I’m a Virgo, my Hogwarts House is Hufflepuff, and I’m battling anorexia.
I’m not ashamed of my illness—I’m managing it as best I can, and actively working to be healthier. But when you tell someone you have anorexia, it changes their opinion of you: suddenly, instead of being the woman who can quote from every line from Moonstruck, you’re now the woman with a mental illness. Both things are true about me, but I feel like I have to choose between the two—to appear normal, or to appear ill.
You can tell someone what an eating disorder is, but they’ll never be prepared until they experience it.
And that never necessarily goes away. You can tell someone what an eating disorder is, but they’ll never be prepared until they experience it.
In my last relationship, I met my significant other at a conference where I led a panel my first-hand experience with anorexia. Afterwards, I was deeply touched when he came up to me after and told me how powerful my presentation was. But two years later, at the bitter end of our relationship, he cited my eating disorder as a reason. “You knew what you were getting when you met me!” I shouted at him.
He shrugged: “I thought you were over it.”
I gave the violent being inside me leeching off my body the name Edna.
According to the National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders, at least 30 million people of all ages and genders suffer from an eating disorder in the U.S. I am one of them. My severe eating disorder affects my both my physical wellbeing and my emotional health, and spills into every aspect of my life, including dating. Eating disorders have the highest mortality rate than any mental illness, yet I am still called one of those girls for ordering a salad.
I’ve had an eating disorder since I was fourteen years old. It started as bulimia, then turned into anorexia by the time I was 18. No one ever told me about eating disorders, so I didn’t know I had one: I only knew that something was wrong with me, a deeply-rooted internal wound I could not reach. To describe what was wrong with me, I gave the violent being inside me leeching off my body the name Edna. It was a coping mechanism of sorts: these thoughts are so intrusive, so never-ending, it’s like they’re coming from another source, so giving it a name helped me deal.
An Uncomfortable Love Triangle
Edna was, and still is to this day, a constant voice in my head. She tells me what to do, what to eat, and how much to weigh. She calls me names: fat, lazy, unlovable. When I cave to her wishes, she holds my hair back while I throw up, telling me what a good job I’m doing. And when I’m in a relationship with someone… well, like it or not, they’re in a relationship with Edna too.
When I’m in a relationship with someone… well, like it or not, they’re in a relationship with Edna too.
So when I date, what my partner might want me to do is the exact opposite of what Edna wants. If they want me to eat, Edna wants me to lie. If my partner tells me I’m beautiful and sexy, Edna tells me I’m hideous. It’s a constant tug-of-war between a boyfriend who wants to save me, and the illness that wants to consume me. And both of my partners are powerfully jealous of one another.
So I suppose it’s no surprise when the men who tell me I’m beautiful and brave eventually call me suffocating and a burden. I imagine it must have been hard to watch me slowly kill myself by loving an illness over them. But Edna doesn’t want to share me.
A few months ago, I was talking with an ex of mine when he said something insightful about my illness. “You’re like a junkie,” he told me. “It’s difficult to be in your life.”
I flinched. The comment hurt, but he was right. I am very difficult to be with because I love Edna more than anything else in my life. I’m stuck in my own abusive relationship: I keep coming back to Edna, even though I know she could one day kill me. And when I do so, I did not choose my mental illness, but I made a choice to not get better.
I feel like I’m finally ready to ditch the third wheel and swiping right on a healthier me.
After many years of failed romantic relationships, forging a healthy relationship with myself felt nearly impossible. But I think I’ve finally learned that being well is like learning a language or playing an instrument: it’s a skill. It takes a lot of practice, and you have to practice every day. I started out being terrible at stability, but with years of practice, I’m slightly less bad. And I hope that means something.
After years of falling for the unwell voice, I feel like I’m finally ready to ditch the third wheel and swiping right on a healthier me.