How not to talk to people with an eating disorder

http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/may/06/how-not-talk-people-eating-disorder

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By all accounts, I’d been enjoying the conversation. We were two pina coladas apiece in, and between us had covered the breadth of holiday small talk. The weather, the flight over, the cult of the Kardashians, to name but a few. Then Jenny, the woman who had been stretching on the sun lounger beside me all day, got personal: “I know all about your problems,” she said as matter of fact. “You’ve just got to eat.”

With that, she happily skipped back to decrying Kim Kardashian and her much-debated posterior. I sat in silence, scared to burst the supply of tears that had slowly gathered and begun to leak. I then got up and retreated to my room.

I don’t know about you, but there are some things that are, as far as I am concerned, off the conversation table. Combine British sensibilities with a growing PC culture, and you’ll find a number of topics are practically anathema – and for good reason too.

Honestly, would you tell a person in a wheelchair that they needed to walk? How about an alopecia sufferer – would you feel the need to inform them they were missing hair? Hell, I bristle at the thought of presupposing a woman’s pregnancy. She could be nine months gone, screaming and flailing as the little ’un bore forth, and I would still think twice about wishing her well.

To destigmatise mental illness we must discuss it. But by that, I mean counting it among other illnesses

Why, then, am I constantly contending with strangers wishing to comment on my eating disorder? And no, this is not simply a matter of needing to grow a thicker skin.

Over the past year – the length of time that I have been “in recovery” – I have become accustomed to unprompted remarks from passers-by. “You look so skinny!” they shriek, with arms raised and eyes bulging. “Don’t you like food?” Frankly, I don’t know who weighs in more: the average Joe with a view on my condition or me, as I make my weekly ascent on to my consultant’s scales.

I fully support the notion that, to destigmatise mental illness, we must discuss it. But by that, I mean counting it among other illnesses. I mean showing sensitivity and sympathy to sufferers, rather than disregarding their problems as “attention-seeking” or “diet-obsessed”. I do not mean inviting outsiders into the innermost crevices of my anxiety-ridden condition. Because that is what an eating disorder is, ladies and gents. It isn’t a diet.

The irony is, before I stepped into the ring to fight this wretched disease, I seldom dealt with the opinions of others. It was almost like my denial muffled their assumptions. But now, tackling it head-on, with ringbinders full of meal plans, psychoanalytic theory and meditation practices, everyone has a point of view. One that I simply must take heed of because, God forbid, I hadn’t considered the idea of eating before. “Genius!” they expect my response to be. “Got any deep-fried Mars bars on you?”

I’m sorry to sound so angry – and, in truth, my anger is more directed inwards, at my own work in progress. But frustration mounts when I feel so exposed. It is almost as if, as my body lost fat and muscle, it became less my own. It slipped through my fingers into public consumption. And for someone trying to effect control by any means necessary, this is just a bit unbearable.

So the next time you see an underweight person, I implore you to think twice before you speak. That is what their family, friends, doctors and dogs are for and, when it comes to strangers, some things are better left unsaid. The one thing I can promise you is that there is no need to inform them of the importance of food. I assure you, they already know.