Updated: Aug. 13, 2016
Originally Published: Aug. 13, 2016
What do you do when “Ed” shows up for dinner? I thought I had sent him packing—twice—but here he is again.
I first encountered Ed when I was just shy of 18. He sensed my loneliness, approaching me during a solitary walk back to my dorm. While I should have felt alarmed, he felt comforting, almost like family. In the years that followed, he kept me company at the Off Campus Deli, where I would nervously tear at the edges of my turkey sub, lost in thought.
He would join me for late-night strolls around campus, from Spring Street to the Quad, ensuring I never felt alone. I found his presence considerate back then. Every mile I ran, he pushed me harder, always a half step ahead, encouraging me to go faster—10 miles daily, no breaks. And on Friday nights, while others indulged in pizza and beer, he lay beside me, whispering sweet nothings, wrapping himself around my fragile frame. But as time passed, he became suffocating. I realized I couldn’t go anywhere without him; I could barely breathe. Eventually, I asked him to go.
Years later, at 37, our paths crossed again, this time by chance. We were both older, but the familiarity was undeniable. Ed settled back into my life, sharing stories while I sketched with charcoal or waited in the car after therapy, eager to weigh in on my thoughts. Every story echoed the same theme: he was my lifeline, as if I could disappear without him. The irony was not lost on me, so I bid him farewell once more.
My time with Ed had its merits; he provided a semblance of control amid chaos—like coping with being raped at 18 or leaving a toxic marriage at 37. He was my confidant, but ultimately, he nearly led me to my demise. I came to realize that this had been his goal all along.
Now, at 48, Ed has reappeared at my dinner table, this time uninvited. He’s whispering to my nearly 18-year-old daughter while she meticulously picks the potatoes from her clam chowder and removes the crust from her grilled cheese, rearranging her plate to appear as if she has eaten. I can see a slight smile on her face, and it feels as though he is echoing those same sweet nothings, attempting to ensnare her too.
So here I am again, walking in silence until 3 a.m. on nights when I don’t have the children, pondering how to protect my daughter from Ed—again. I find myself wandering Parker Street, Main Street, and around the village, trying to devise a plan for when Ed inevitably returns for dinner tomorrow. And as I wrestle with this daunting reality, I can’t help but wonder…what if I just lost a little weight?
This article was originally published on Aug. 13, 2016.
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In summary, the journey with an eating disorder can be complex, marked by moments of companionship and struggle. Recognizing the dangers of these relationships, especially as they impact loved ones, is crucial.