When I first cycled into an eating disorder it was the 1970’s. I dropped 40 pounds in a period of a couple of months. I was at a crossroads and needed to make decisions about the future. I knew what was expected of and from me and the pressure to follow the long established life plan was oppressive. Anxiety was high and I wasn’t able to eat. I would get hungry but by the time food was ready the hunger was gone.

Choosing the acceptable life plan would have been good but I was in no way emotionally capable of what was expected. I broke under the pressure. The need to please everyone was off the charts. That I should make a decision that was for my best didn’t even occur to me. That was never a consideration. I was driven to be perfect, to be what everyone expected. If I didn’t, I was a failure.

The years that brought me to the breakdown were unreal then and remain unreal. There was trauma in the home, bullying and rejection at school and church was difficult as my Dad was the pastor. There was no place I felt safe. I was not allowed to experience “unacceptable emotions.” The focus in the home was super spiritual. Many rules had to be followed and should a rule be missed there was punishment. I was taught that God would not accept you if you were not perfect.

Occasionally, I would connect with someone I believed to be safe. Sometimes they were and more often they were not. I had to be hypervigilant to make certain I did not tell something that should have remained confidential.

In June, before my breakdown in August, we had moved to a new town. Dad had accepted an assignment at another church. As we made the move I was able to let down my guard because these were people who did not know me. I felt safe and didn’t want to venture far from that bubble. Safety was simply an illusion.

I was stuck, young beyond my years, no support system and the world was just beginning to be aware of eating disorders. At that time it was considered a problem for young female teens and young adult women. Doctor’s didn’t know how to address the problem. Insurance companies denied coverage for treatment. When my parents were told I needed psychiatric help that door was quickly closed because they would not accept that their son needed emotional help.

I did what I had done up to that point, I just kept going knowing without any doubt that I was fundamentally flawed. I couldn’t put words to my thoughts. I was emotionally isolated.

The “how I got there,” story is going to take some time to write but it is essential for my story to be told. I will be changing names and locations but even with the changes don’t be tempted to think the story is fiction. I cannot make this stuff up.