Relationships are messy. Recovering from mental illness is messy. Human desire is messy. Blend all three and you can get what I got: a painful, complicated tangle. That’s the topic of my latest essay at BuzzFeed Ideas:
I told him early in our relationship that I was recovering from an eating disorder. I had only stopped compulsively overexercising and subsisting on lettuce and baby carrots a few months before we met. Having struggled with his weight for most of his life, he sympathized. In the year before we met, he told me, he’d lost a dramatic amount of weight, and was only now starting to like the skin he was in.
As a feminist writer, I had felt like my eating disorder made me a hypocrite. For two years, while I wrote about body image and loving yourself and being healthy at every size, I had been starving myself. On one day in 2011, I moderated a panel at a body image conference — but I was starving; I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I had spent those years feeling tremendously guilty, not just because I was a feminist who ought to have “known better” than to have an eating disorder, but because I felt immense pressure to set an example for others.
I felt like such a fraud. The double whammy of perfectionism — you must have a perfect body and you must be a perfect feminist — tied me up in a painful knot. The guilt, the extra layer of self-disgust, lay thick on top of the kind of self-loathing that makes a person starve herself, and only deepened the pain I felt. The knot was so tightly tangled that I spent a year and a half in therapy before I turned a corner and stopped actively hurting myself.
Then I met B, and we fell in love. And then B started putting on weight.
You can read the whole thing here.