FIRST PERSON

Men Living With Anorexia: How It Begins, How It Ends

anorexiaThere was a time, not too long ago, that I could count all the meals I had in a month with one hand. I’m exactly six feet tall, and at the low point of my anorexia I weighed 118.3 pounds. The exact number is important to note because my self-perception was so warped that I saw this as an accomplishment. I wasn’t 118.5 pounds nor did I round down to 118 when asked. I was a solid 118.3 and I felt invincible.

My anorexia began in college. I had always been skinny but I had gained the freshman fifteen, a rite of passage for any college student. At the same time, my body was maturing, naturally bulking up, and letting go of its boyish figure. This too was a rite of passage. My best friend Yazmin was the first to notice this change when I came home during spring break.

“My abuela was telling me that your face has filled in. That you look fuerte,” she said.

Whether you’re gay or not, all men are expected to look fuerte: to have wide pecks and big Gladiatorial-like arms that are capable of lifting heavy things. I was never strong looking.  When I was in elementary school my frail body was contentious. The other boys mocked me, telling me I needed to be on weight gainers from GNC. Even one of the homeroom mothers said I could be handsome if I played sports and stopped acting like a mariposita.

All my life I was the skinny boy who was the last to be picked for sports. My gay friends have told me that being the last one picked for basketball was a pivotal moment in their childhoods because it was in that moment they felt different and emasculated from the other boys.

For me, being the last one picked never bothered me. I hated sports. I preferred to be sitting on the benches with the girls doodling in notebooks and talking about their periods. As it turned out, I was born to be a mariposita.

Yazmin was right. My body had changed. I don’t speak for all male anorexics, but I didn’t want to be fuerte. I was proud of being effeminate. When I started dating boys, they liked me because I was tall and lanky. I was comfortable with who I was and feared my growing body would make me unattractive.

All it took to lose weight were ten dry roasted peanuts a day and several visits to a pro-anorexic message board. The pro-ana community was this counter culture group where we gave each other tips on how to starve and discussed our thinspirations.

“Water weight is for fatties,” one poster wrote. “Drink as little water as possible if you want to look like Nicole Richie.”

I weighed myself before and after a cup of water, and the poster was right. Those two ounces of water weight were the difference between feeling like a celebrity and feeling obese.

No amount of starvation could satisfy my hunger to be thin. I went from a waist size of 32 to 28 in just two months. The starvation felt justified but as with all anorexics the thinner I got, the more potent my body dysmorphia became. I now believed my bone structure was disproportioned, that my pelvis was larger than my chest, and I would look wide no matter what. This only encouraged me to continue starving for years to come.

2523_767738508763_1834981_n

Growing up, my dad was anorexic. He too was always a slender man and the disease hit him in his 40s when his body softened. We never spoke about it. The only time it was evident he was weathering the disease was when he’d lower the car window and shout to joggers, “stop eating dead animals!”

Dad overcame his anorexia after he was diagnosed with anemia. He just started eating again. It was unceremonious and he no longer looked like a man who was haunted by his weight. However, years later, when he saw me at 118.3 he faced his ghosts and asked, “are you anorexic cause of me?”

I woke up one morning to my heart racing and tightness in my chest. I hadn’t eaten in two days and feared the worse. I thought of Jeremy Gillitzer, the once beautiful male model who lost all bone density in his face and had starved himself into an early grave. I didn’t want to be in a coffin at twenty-four. I wanted to live.

Like my father, I too just started eating again. Eating again was the easy part. However, anorexia does not vanish, no matter how much you feed it. It’s living with the disease daily that’s difficult. Even now as I look at photos of me at 118.3 I have to stop myself from thinking my stomach looked bloated or that my arm had too much fat on it

In the years since my anorexia, I think of all the possible origins for my disease: rebelling against male stereotypes in the Cuban-American culture I was raised in, subconsciously following in my father’s footsteps, or my gender-bending attempts to be one of the girls. It’s callow to point fingers and truthfully, none of these were the cause of my disease. My anorexia was my own doing and I needed to come to terms with my changing body.

I’m heavier now. I don’t own a scale so I don’t know my exact weight, but I try not to care. Some days are easier than others but I eat healthy and have a strict gym regiment. I’m glad to be winning against my disease because I now truly understand what it means to be invincible, to see yourself in the mirror and see someone fuerte—not physically, but spiritually fuerte.

Don't forget to share:

Help make sure LGBTQ+ stories are being told...

We can't rely on mainstream media to tell our stories. That's why we don't lock Queerty articles behind a paywall. Will you support our mission with a contribution today?

Cancel anytime · Proudly LGBTQ+ owned and operated