By Beau Barley
It was my senior year of high school in a small Ohio farm town. For an idealized setting, my year was nowhere near perfect. You couldn't have guessed by looking at me that I was actually a senior, or that I had once been a vibrant and healthy18-year-old.
My cheeks were sunken in and hollow, those high set cheekbones I had long been complimented on now appeared large and exaggerated. My arms were sickly thin and narrow with pointed elbows. My hair was thinning, my skin pale and yellowish, and every rib was visible under my overly baggy clothes. I no longer needed to shave, because facial hair growth was now out of the question.
And this was my whole world during this time; my existence consisted of striving, often in vain, to find the energy needed to get out of bed each morning, shower, put on sweat pants and a hoodie, and, if possible, try to make it to school.
School days were long and miserable, filled with pity and concern from my friends and teachers. Those who didn't know me previously would often just wait until I had passed in the hall to talk in hushed whispers about my pathetic, emaciated state.
And on top of all of this, at least twice a week, I went to the local clinic for scrutinized "weigh-ins" and painful blood draws and lab tests; tests needed just to make sure that I had the minimum amount of vitamins and electrolytes in my depleted system necessary just to maintain my weak metabolism and a normal heart rhythm.
At my most depleted state, both physically and mentally, I stood 5 feet 11 inches tall and weighed only 92 pounds. On top of this was the exhausting weekly trip to Columbus, two hours from home, to meet with a sports psychologist for intensive group and individual therapy.
I remember all too vividly the day it all finally changed for me. Stepping on to the familiar scale at the doctor's office, I felt a sinking feeling. I couldn't bear to see the number, but I could tell by the reaction of my doctor that it was bad, really bad. He led me off the scale and back up onto the exam bed. I sat back and watched, as my doctor, who had watched over me through it all and cared for me like I was his own son, wiped his eyes and looked up at me through tears. He was crying; crying because he was scared, scared because he knew how bad I really was. "Buddy," he had said. "You know I love you, and I told you from the beginning I would be straight with you and wouldn't scare you any more than what's necessary." "But now, it's time to get scared." "Right now, you're on death's door…" And it really was shocking: 92 pounds.
He would go on to ask me if maybe it was time to consider temporary voluntary hospitalization to get nutrition from feeding tubes. But this time was different for me; it had to be different. I told him no, that I would beat this thing once and for all this time, and the rest is history. Well, not quite.
Recovery from an ED, especially as a man, brings its own set of unique challenges each and every day. I wake every morning and say a quick prayer, thanking God that I am still alive. And why not? I was one of the lucky ones; I made it. Now, 60-some pounds heavier, home for winter break and loving every day spent with my family, I am ready to tell my story. And for good reason; my battle with anorexia nervosa and eventual bulimia nervosa, as shocking as they may be to read about, are unfortunately not unique to myself.
According to the NEDA (National Eating Disorder Association), about 800,000 men have suffered from bulimia at some point in their lives. Up to 20 percent of those who are diagnosed with an eating disorder of any type are male. The numbers may be even higher because so many men hide in the shadow of the disorder, suffering in shame and silence. I hid.
For months and months before things got truly bad and I dropped all the weight, I told no one. Not my family. Not my doctor. Not my closest friends. It was my dirtiest secret; one that would creep and creep until it consumed me with its trademark shame and unrelenting self-loathing.
You see, I had not had much extra weight to lose growing up. I was never teased about my weight, never fat-shamed at school or at home. But that didn't matter. I still ran into trouble with my blend of perfectionism and lack of self-esteem. Despite being third in my graduating class, I felt stupid. Despite having several close friends, I felt alone. Unlovable. Boring. Ugly. In my own eyes, I was worthless, everything I did was wrong, and I would go on to amount to nothing in my personal life or career.
You may be shocked to know that a huge number of eating disorder sufferers fall into this category; "Type A" personality types often struggle with anxiety, compulsive behavior and eating disorders. I wanted to punish myself for every single perceived "mistake," and eventually became addicted to the high I felt after restricting my food to under 500 calories a day, or running twelve miles a day for 6 days a week or even by shoving my hand deep into my throat and purging after a big meal. It was a high that I came to crave just as a drug addict craves his next fix.
It really was just as hard to overcome as any other addiction. It would require medicine and counseling. The entire process was further complicated by the lack of specialized, gender-specific treatment programs for male eating disorders.
When I first arrived at Miami, I displayed interest at the Student Health Center in joining a newly formed "group therapy" for recovering ED survivors. Come to find out, I would be barred from participation because the idea was uncomfortable to the mostly female other members of the group. And perhaps far worse is the stigma that is unfairly placed on males by a society, a society that is critical because of their own preoccupation with food and exercise.
This is unfortunate, because male body image stereotypes are powerful, just as they are for women. Men are strong. Men are leaders. Men don't complain about fat days; men don't even have fat days. Men certainly don't stick their fingers down their throat and purge their meals. Men don't starve themselves. Yet, men are doing it. They are doing it in alarming numbers. Children and teens, both male and female, are more preoccupied about their weight then ever - especially on college campuses. This is so dangerous, considering the sense of shame these societal pressures breed in sensitive or susceptible individuals.
Today, men are also affected by the recent Internet-driven, hard body image explosion that tells us we simply don't measure up to these perfect, airbrushed images of J. Crew models. There is no shame in speaking out against a society that pressures both men and women with these unfair expectations. There is only more awareness and recovery to be found. It just takes one small step from us all. Let's take it now.
Take me for example. I was ashamed. Ashamed that I did not stand up to the harsh voices in my head. Ashamed that I felt I was everything I feared becoming. Lazy and stupid. I told no one. Boys don't talk about body shame. Boys play sports. Boys fight back. Boys become men. That is what American society has hammered into us for 200 years. I, however, was psychologically predisposed to be quiet and shy; type-A and OCD to a fault. I was not a fighter. Instead, I turned on myself with destructive behaviors. Every day I had to be punished. And I was just the person to do it.
Our university is certainly not an exception from this social stigma. Our school has long struggled to shed its warranted yet unwanted fitness, clean eating and lean body obsession for years now. It remains infamous for its high prevalence of EDs, especially bulimia nervosa.
In fact, I was warned by multiple individuals to be careful when considering how coming to Miami as a freshman could perhaps negatively impact my own fragile recovery
There is still much work to be done on our campus, but it is doable. I encourage others to speak out about their own experiences; it's been cathartic for me.
My advice for others? Recovery from any mental illness is a process of gains and losses. The key to working through the setbacks for me was to realize that it's okay to feel shame now and then, even a little each day.
It's human. It's how we process the negativity that makes all the difference.