Johnny Horton

Each day it doesn’t get easier.

Each day the routine, the ritual, doesn’t change.

Each day, while standing in front of the mirror—focusing on the yellowing of my teeth, the crackling of my skin and the overflowing bulges of my fat–it doesn’t go away.

Each day the tears flow slowly. First, they gently gather in the corners of my bloodshot eyes, providing a light sheen on the now eggshell colored whites. As the tears continue to build, much like the hatred of myself, they pack so tightly that they are forced to steadily release. Each drop is another piece of me escaping from a trip to an early grave. Each drop ventures into the crevice where the roundness of my cheeks once appeared. Each drop is nearly trapped in the canyon of skin and bone, only to find a simple pathway down my sunken jawline, a last ditch effort of hope and safety. The tear falls. It hits nothing else until the floor.

Each day my eyes sink further and further into despair, both physically and emotionally. The greying circles beneath my colorless eyes provide no contrast against my lifeless skin. Each day, I stare at a skeleton of myself, forgetting who I once was. I fear who I was. The skeleton of perfection is who I wanted to become.

Each day my hair falls out. It started a strand at a time, still vibrant as it rested on my then broad shoulders. As each day passes, more and more of my lifeless hair recedes and falls. It’s more noticeable now than when it first began.

Each day my nails become grittier and more frail. The white flecks of malnourishment frequent my nail beds. My incessant drive to cut my nails until they bleed leave scars far worse than the ones visible to the naked eye. Each day I cut deeper and deeper not just at my nails, but at myself.

Each day my stomach sinks deeper. My ribs protrude through my already fragile skin. My heart beats slower than before. Maybe it, much like the tears, knows what’s coming. However, instead of looking for an escape, the subtle pounding of my heart gently lulls me to sleep. Each day I grow more and more tired and less and less hungry. My pulse weakens and my blood runs cold.

Each day, as my sunken eyes look in the mirror at a reflection full of fear and disgust, I hate myself. The mirror doesn’t hide insecurities. The mirror isn’t an opportunity for a childish illusion or trick. The mirror can’t provide an escape or a simple white lie. Each day, the mirror provides my truth.

Each day I stare straight into the person I’ve become: a man with an eating disorder.

The problem is that so many people think it is either a girl-only thing or it only about the food. Well, I can tell you right now that it isn’t just a girl problem. I’m bulimic, but that isn’t the only eating disorder out there. There are thousands of men and women going to the gym every day for countless hours seeking out perfection and muscle. They try to become the Barbie, the Ken, the G.I. Joe. That’s an eating disorder, too. And, really, it isn’t just about eating. Food is simply something I can control; it helps stiffle my obsessive personality and kills off the fat that I stare at daily.

It is the mental game with yourself. It’s a game I’m never going to win because I won’t let myself win.

Having an eating disorder is the pain of obsessing over something you can’t stand to stare at any longer. It’s the shame of not feeling comfortable in your own skin. It’s me trying to be normal. The saddest part? It isn’t normal because normal isn’t perfect. And perfect isn’t normal.

Part of my problem is that I’m afraid. I’m afraid to look the way I do and I’m afraid to be open about my struggles because of what others will think of me. I’m sure when I was younger, back in middle school when my weight issues started, I should have sought out treatment. But, really, how do you look your mom in the eyes and say, “hey, Mom, I really hate myself so I stick my fingers down my throat after every meal and hope to God it comes up so I can avoid gaining weight.”

I’m slightly above average in height. At one point I dipped just below 140 pounds, which is nearly 30 pounds below average healthy weight for my height. My skin stretched tightly over my ribs and hips. I had weird sores on my knuckles that I used to lie about and say they’d be from hitting walls. Like that was much better. At one point, three of my teeth broke in a matter of a few months. And then I’d get the dreams. I still get them. I’d lose teeth uncontrollably and I couldn’t face people as a result. I couldn’t escape myself awake or asleep. My rock bottom was when I hit 136 pounds and my roommate found me curled up around the toilet, toothbrush in hand, shivering. He forced me the next day to go talk to someone.

While I knew what I was doing was wrong, I couldn’t stand who I was. I still can’t some days. It is an illness that multiple counselors have told me is not going away. Instead, I have to learn to live with who I am. Thankfully, I’ve had three people who cared to save me since I wasn’t willing to save myself.

I am average build.

I am average height.

I am just like anyone else. Just like everyone else, I have a secret. I have my own skeletons. I have a story to tell.

I want to tell my story, but I am still too ashamed to have my name be recognized. I want the shame to go away.

I am not the only one who knows what it feels like to have this shame. I am one of thousands of men and women in the United States who fight this battle every single day.

I am a man with an eating disorder.

If you or someone you know is currently suffering from an eating disorder, do not hesitate to talk to an adult—parents, family, teachers, administrators or counselors. The National Eating Disorders Association has a hotline available Monday-Friday if you are struggling and need to speak to someone. Call  1-800-931-2237 to reach the hotline. Other organizations offer similar services and can be found by a quick online search.