Letters To My Little Brother: Misadventures In Growing Older (12 page)

Love,

-Big Boy

CHAPTER Thirteen:

How to Love your Fellow Man

Dear Squirrel,

Lately I’ve begun volunteering with Middle Eastern refugees in a sort of “language exchange.” We switch between Arabic and English, educating one another through interlingual discussion. But language is only the surface reason for the program. In reality, it’s about cultural awareness. It’s about opening yourself to someone else’s world, and then accepting them as both valid and beautiful.

Luckily you and I were raised with open minds, so this type of exchange isn’t really a shock to us. But that doesn’t mean that we don’t struggle with understanding and loving the whole of humanity. People only enter language and volunteering programs when they are prepared to face something foreign to our own reality. There are so many issues, though, that we inadvertently ignore.

I remember, for example, the first time I learned about the term “race” (and no, not the kind that involves speed-based competition). I was in third grade and I had to fill out a form about my interactions with fellow classmates. One of the questions — in a roundabout manner — asked if I had issues with minority students. I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand why someone would think I might have a problem with an African-American person like my friend Percy. He and I definitely competed on who could finish their multiplication tables first, but we still chose to sit next to each other in class. We were friends. Why wouldn’t I like him?

In high school I grew intolerant of others and began rallying against things like gay marriage and abortion. It wasn’t a conscious effort, but in retrospect I’m sure it was because I hated Mom and Dad and wanted to rebel against them in every possible facet I could. I’m still embarrassed by that period of time. I can hardly think of anything that I hate more than intolerance. (Is that an oxymoron? Like is hating intolerance itself intolerant? Hmm.) Nowadays I snap when I hear people talk about Islam and my Muslim brothers in a woefully uneducated, racist manner. I bark when people say things about how boys shouldn’t be exposed to gay men at a young age. “Not because gay men are pedophiles,” they say in an attempt to sound open-minded, but because boys need “traditional male influences.” What does that even mean? What are traditional male values and influences? Lifting weights? Throwing back a brew and talking about boobs? I know a hell of a lot of dudes who lift weights and throw back brews and just so happen to be gay. And, on occasion, they talk about how awesome boobs are. So explain why boys need “traditional make influences” again?

But I’m conscious of these problems. I recognize them when I see them. There are so many other issues and dysfunctions, however, that I still feel so woefully unable to understand. And I want to understand. I want to be the most accepting person the world has ever seen. But you don’t know what you don’t know, right?

Imagine a girl. Any race, hair color, creed, whatever. Just imagine a girl. Now picture that she’s a little on the thin side. Maybe it’s because she eats really low-cal foods. Maybe it’s because she’s a fitness nut and exercises to the point of compulsion. Either way, imagine that she’s lean. Now imagine that you’re at lunch one day. You order a turkey sandwich. She gets a salad with the dressing on the side, hold the croutons. You talk and laugh and have a good time, but, after a while, you notice that she’s just pushing the food around on her plate. She lifts the fork to her mouth, but never seems to take a bite. She says she’s not hungry. She says she had a big breakfast. Her stomach kind of hurts, hence why she says she’s been pounding Diet Coke like there’s no tomorrow. You hug, say goodbye, and walk away with a smile on your face. It was a nice lunch, right?

Now imagine that, a few days later, you go to dinner with the same girl. Say this time you go for pizza. You chat and enjoy yourselves, but in the dim light you notice this blonde peach fuzz on her face and arms. You try not to stare because you’re friends and it’s pretty rude to call a woman hairy. You also lean a little too close to her and get a whiff of her bad breath. You kind of wish she had some gum, but again you don’t want to be rude so you don’t point it out. You get your pizzas and she literally engulfs hers. You didn’t think she could eat that much — especially after how little she ate at lunch the other day — but the pizza’s really good and, hell, you ate your whole pizza too. The night gets later and later and eventually it’s time to go. She takes a quick run to the restroom before you two hug once again and say your goodbyes. You walk away with a smile on your face. It was a nice dinner, right?

Would you be surprised if I told you that this imaginary girl is actually real? Or that she’s a friend of mine? Probably not, right? After all, I constantly reference people under pseudonyms. That was an easy guess. But what if I told you that this girl had multiple eating disorders? That she was both anorexic and bulimic? That she restricted her calories, had four scales in her bed- and bathrooms, and drank excessive amounts of caffeine to make up for the lack of nutrition/energy in her body because, no matter what anyone told her, she truly believed she was a fat fucking whale? That she would binge eat cookies and candies and cakes and pizzas and chips, thinking that they’d make her feel better, only to hate herself and her body even more afterwards? That she would run the water in the bathroom to cover the sound of her purging herself into the toilet after a meal? Would you have guessed that too? What if, after not seeing her for a few years, you noticed she’d gone from dangerously thin to looking bloated, tired, and heavy? And, if you did, would you have said anything to her about it?

I had these suspicions about my friend. I sometimes whispered to my pals about whether they agreed with me or not. They kind of shrugged and said something noncommittal. I felt like I should bring it up with her, but we weren’t really that close. We certainly weren’t on the BFF level and we rarely, if ever, talked about our emotions with one another. I told myself that it was not my place, that she knew more about eating healthy than the guy (me) who ate In-N-Out burgers two or three times a week, that she should be proud of her commitment to extreme fitness (which I always wished I had). What I did was so, so wrong. I should’ve had more courage and I should’ve offered a helping hand to a person clearly in need.

Every one of us knows someone afflicted by an eating disorder, whether we realize it or not. Since eating disorders are, among other things, a form of control, those afflicted are experts at hiding their secrets. Some hate their fathers, their mothers, or the popular girls in school. Some just hate themselves. Some restrict and some purge. Some tell themselves that losing weight makes them prettier. Some do it to feel successful. Some do it so they don’t feel so fucking numb or angry or hopeless anymore. Some tell themselves they need help. Most don’t.

I found about my friend’s eating disorders a few years ago. I’m not really sure why she chose to finally admit her issues, let alone to me. When she casually hinted that she needed to start seeing psychiatrist during one of our occasional conversations, I finally had my confirmation. But I still said nothing. I spoke her about mental health and its importance, about how much her happiness means to the people around her, and how I have felt similar pains in my own lifetime. So she sent me an email one night, asking me to read it before she gave it to her parents. And, in that letter, the truth came out. She’d been battling the eating disorder voice in her head since she was a teenager (so about ten years) by taking diet pills and doing 1000 crunches before bed. She used to cut herself out of self-loathing. She avoided social situations so she didn’t have to confront the issue of eating while someone watched. She lost friends and romantic relationships due to her secrecy and inability to socialize. Instead of turning the short corner of the street as she ran, she’d instead go all the way up and then all the way over in order to burn that extra few feet of calories. She told me she’d considered suicide a few times because she felt so alone, so hopeless, and so disgusted by herself and her body image.

And this time I did something. I extended my hand and, thank God, she took it. With every baby step she took, I was there to encourage and support her however I could. Sometimes that meant listening. Sometimes that meant talking. But, no matter what, I refused to give up on the person who entrusted me with their deepest, darkest secret. No judgment, no admonishment. Just compassion. Just friendship.

She ended up doing the bravest and scariest thing she’d ever done in her entire life: she chose to be admitted to a residential hospital for girls with eating disorders. That meant two months tucked away in another state, fighting her demons day in and day out. This included being weighed daily; being forced to eat all meals or else drink those vile Ensure shakes to compensate for the calories; and spending a full fourteen hours a day taking classes or therapy sessions to learn how she can recover rather than destroy her body. In treatment, she learned that purging causes instant heart attacks and seizures. She learned that her anorexia might cause her to never bear children. She learned that an eating disorder’s negative effects on the body are so astounding that they are the number one killer of women ages 15-24.

But, for the first time, she was surrounded by people to whom she didn’t have to lie. She lived with girls ages 13 to 60, all struggling to (quite literally) stay alive. Apparently some women even had feeding tubes because they couldn’t be coerced into eating. And while she called me almost every day to talk and laugh with about horribly uncouth eating disorder jokes (ex. “When we went to Panera today, we each picked the thing that is best to binge on and then purge hahaha”), she found girls in treatment that will always share an eternal, enduring bond. “Imagine going to place and living with people exactly like you,” she said, “with the same secrets, the same fears, the same hopes and the same dreams.” She no longer felt alone. She no longer hated herself for going into a treatment facility. She no longer felt the stigma of her eating disorders. She found solace in camaraderie. When she was discharged, she knew she had an uphill battle ahead, but she also knew going backwards would only end in her death.

All of us know a person struggling with an eating disorder and all the unbearable pain that comes with it. So please, please, please be open to helping them. That doesn’t mean telling someone that they’re beautiful no matter what and they still would still look good if they could stand to gain a few pounds. That doesn’t mean shouting someone down and telling them they should just fucking eat. That doesn’t mean taking it personally and thinking that — because of their issues and their self-image — you are incapable of making them happy or that they love you any less. It means putting yourself aside and committing yourself to someone else’s well being. It’s never about telling someone to get better. It’s never about pulling away and telling them that they need to take control of their problems on their own. It’s never about calling them “weak” or “psycho” if they need to go to the hospital to save their lives. It’s about showing them how much you care, no matter what.

I don’t talk to my friend much these days. She’s busy with her job and her recovery, and I’m busy cracking jokes about Ultimate Frisbee for the World Wide Web. Every now and again I’ll get a text or call from her, sometimes just to chat and sometimes to tell me about her progress. She hasn’t purged in almost 7 months. She’s finally been willing put on a few pounds too. And when I went off the deep end about my romantic issues, she was the first person I called. We know that, no matter what happens, we had a connection that will never fade. She’ll always be getting a Christmas card from me.

This story isn’t supposed to have a happy ending. This isn’t even a success story. She still has to combat and endure this suffering on a daily basis. She still has to force herself to eat a certain amount of protein and dairy and calories everyday. She still has to challenge herself every week by eating an Oreo or a scoop of ice cream. This story is about helping others. This story is about the stigma of discussing eating disorders and the frightening consequences of letting eating disorders go unaddressed. I talked to her the other day, and she told me something truly terrifying: over ten girls she was hospitalized with have ended up in residential treatment again. It’s a frightening thought to know that, no matter how hard she tries, she could easily slide back into that personal Hell and that facility like the girls with whom she shares so much in common.

I’m not an expert in eating disorders, but please believe me that they are real. They need to be discussed and we need to dismiss this notion that eating disorders are solved by 10
th
grade emotional health classes. Don’t brush these issues under the rug or leave them in the classroom. Don’t joke about a girl being fat. Don’t encourage girls to go on diets. Don’t tell little girls that a certain weight is equivalent to a certain success. Don’t tell them to believe that the societal standard of anorexic, airbrushed models is the peak of attractiveness. Don’t give up on these people. They need our help, and we need to be prepared to give it to them.

This girl didn't have a certain race, religious, hair color, or whatever. She was just a person, one who needed help. So I helped her. I don’t say that to toot my own horn. I say it because it’s important that you learn to judge and value your fellow human beings. Some people are bad, sure. But most are good. And lots need help. Get to know people before you make judgments, Squirrel. Find out who they are as people, not as amalgamations of traits like color or creed.