When my husband and I first started dating, I was in a bad bulimic phase of my eating disorder. (Not that there ever is a good bulimic phase.) It was rough. It wasn’t something that I could keep a secret for very long. So I said something that I had only said from a therapist’s couch. It started with, “I have an eating disorder,” and slowly grew to include all the self destructive things that I did.
He never outwardly judged me. And was always willing to be there. No, he didn’t like it when I used behaviors, but he always held me after. I learned that I could count on him when I began feeling the urges.
I have been through a lot of therapy. Both on my own and with him. I feel that in the past 4 years, I have really grown and am not so entrenched in my eating disorder. I learned I didn’t always have to go to him when I had an urge. I was learning that I am more than the eating disorder. I started school. I started reading (fun and homework) again. I was starting to enjoy myself.
That’s when everything shifted.
We started fighting constantly. We each said hurtful things. I cried. He sulked. And somewhere in between my intense summer schedule and him working late and coming home wreaking of whiskey, we stopped talking to each other.
During one fight, he admitted he didn’t know how to be in a relationship with me when I wasn’t so involved with the eating disorders. In front of my therapist, he admitted to not knowing how to fix me now.
I am not broken. I don’t need to be fixed. I never did. I just need love and support while I worked on healing myself. I am not an object to be repaired.
He doesn’t quite get that I don’t need my hand held all the time. I am quite capable of standing on my own.