HIS NAME WAS ED
Written by Ethan Feinstein
As a teenager, I was in my first deeply committed, monogamous relationship. I had a companion that brought me a sense of purpose and safety. We grew together, and I was heavily dependent on him. I had something I thought no one else had, and it was my secret that I kept hidden away. I was elated that I had this feeling of protection and security, but the relationship quickly controlled and overpowered me. Abusive would have been an understatement. My thoughts and decisions were not my own and my personality dwindled away.
Both the way I perceived the world and (most importantly) myself were influenced by him. I obeyed every command and followed his instructions to a tee. He was the first thing I woke up to in the morning, who I thought about as I tried to drift off to sleep, and who I dreamt of every night. Not only was this my first serious relationship; this was my first relationship with another man. I wanted these secrets to be kept sacred, to me and to me only. His name was Ed.
Ed did not come from a loving family, or grow up playing on the little league baseball team. I never met Ed’s friends and family, and we didn’t share holidays or go on vacation together.
Ed was the voice in my head that gave me a sense of identity and poisoned my thinking. Ed was my Eating Disorder.
For years, I silently struggled and was at war with myself as Ed held the reigns. I was indebted to Ed as he came before any relationship, interest, hobby, education, and life itself. It was not until one day sitting in the backseat of my Dad’s car that I broke my silence. “I can’t do this anymore,” I sobbed aloud. I communicated that I needed help for the first time.
In that moment, I reached my breaking point and violated my relationship with Ed and exposed my secret. I hated myself for doing it but when I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror I was disgusted. I hated the shape of my face, the lack of definition. I looked down at my legs in my shorts, choking on my tears. At six feet tall I was at an unhealthily low weight. I lived with the symptoms of being constantly cold, irritable, light headed, and foggy. Depression and anxiety were at an all time high. I had blinders on, tunnel vision for Ed and nothing else. My vulnerability and dire need to expose Ed were the catalysts for a long journey of treatment and self-discovery.
I was in and out of outpatient treatment facilities for the next four years while simultaneously battling Ed’s judgements and banter in my head. I was sick enough and qualified to be hospitalized but at the time, resources didn’t accommodate men in the Boston area. In MA, a state where hospitals and healthcare thrive, there was a major gap in the system that pushed me aside.
Men were nowhere to be found and not accounted for in the treatment of eating disorders. I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa. “Diagnosed? Seems a bit dramatic,” Ed would laugh to me, like a villain cackling in a Disney movie.
Luckily, Instagram and TikTok did not exist when I was going through my eating disorder and treatment. I did not have social media platforms as an accelerant to my body dysmorphia - I had Ed for that. Ed was his own media power house, “feeding” me constant images and “facts” I had to abide by. Unlike current
times, I was not bombarded with filters and Facetune telling me what beauty and male standards are. Daily we hear the negative impacts that social media has on young girls. What about the men? The media rarely discusses, and tiptoes around the fact, that men are also impacted by unrealistic standards of what the perfect physique is. Six pack abs, muscular arms and legs, small waist, defined jawline, chiseled cheekbones, and a full set of thick hair are just a few characteristics that our favorite movie stars and social media influencers embody.
Regardless of the toll taken on my health, I did everything in my power to please Ed. I had become a really good liar, from suppressing my emotions to hiding wrappers from the little food I had consumed. Once I allowed myself to be vulnerable, and admit that I was Ed’s puppet, I was determined to take back my life.
Each time I was admitted into treatment, I was the only male, made to feel like this was a problem that only those who identity as women dealt with.
I wanted and needed professional help and tried not to let the feeling of being a minority get in the way of my healing and recovery.
Ed and I had different goals. For me, it was never about a number. Many who suffer with eating disorders feel like they need to weigh in below a specific weight. In treatment, we would line up in a single file line waiting to step onto the scale. This was reminiscent of walking the plank to plunge into a sea filled with ravenous alligators. I didn’t care what the scale said; Ed had more control over me than a scale ever did.
I would watch the other patients, cringe at the sight of a scale, and beg to skip that day’s weigh-in. But when it was my turn to be weighed, the lower my weight was, the more Ed patted me on the back and congratulated me on a job well done. At this time, he was my only cheerleader, my advocate and biggest support system - so I thought.
I worked with countless social workers, psychiatrists, nutritionists, and doctors during the course of my treatment. I was on and off different anti-depression and anxiety medications to try to even out my manic and chaotic thinking. Nutritionists had me weigh out portions, write in food journals, log in details and check off the different foods I was mandated to consume. I had Stacy’s cinnamon and sugar pita chips for a snack and started to like it. I learned skills like Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, Dialectical Behavior Therapy, and new ways of coping and living with Ed, without acting on his every demand.
Ed thought treatment was a temporary stunt, a fun game that was a minor detour in our conquest of being the best at starvation and control. Like many real life relationships, a breakup is not always cut and dry, black and white, and neither was my separation from Ed. I learned to live with him but to ultimately live with and listen to myself. I learned to quiet his judgments and criticisms that would have eventually killed me if I didn’t seek help.
Over my years spent in treatment, I began to clearly see how Ed had defined me.
I was robbed of my life for so many years and desperately wanted the cycle to end. Not only did he take away my joy, he led me down a dangerous path that significantly impacted relationships, my well being, and my future.
Ed made holding a steady job and living on my own nearly impossible. And it was because of Ed that I shamefully moved out of my dream city, NYC, to go back into treatment in the suburbs of MA after moving there less than a year prior.
I was told recovery was possible, and while in treatment I thought that was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard. Believe it or not, years later I became the one who told others that recovery is possible. I began to appreciate food as nourishment and something to enjoy. Slowly, I stopped restricting and obsessing over my body from head to toe. Over time, I made space in my mind for other things, all the while using the tools I learned to suppress and ignore Ed’s voice which finally became whispers and afterthoughts. I took steps to repair tarnished relationships with friends, family, and ultimately with myself.
Recovery takes a lifetime, and will not happen overnight. It’s about taking ownership over the problem of how one deals with the detrimental self-talk, self-doubt, self-criticism, and taking a firm stance against Ed.
Ethan is a a thirty something year-old living in the beautiful neighborhood of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. During the day, he works as the Global Influencer Marketing Manager for Clinique at the Estée Lauder companies. He loves all things social media and beauty and connecting with new and up and coming talent. Originally from Massachusetts and Rhode Island, he loves to find hidden gems that NYC has to offer - restaurants, bars, and outdoor areas. He hopes his experiences can help and inspire others, while bringing awareness to this disease, especially men who have not yet found their voice or comfort level to ask for help.