Memoir: I was addicted to starving myself
I grew up in an upper-middle-class Toronto neighbourhood, with a loving family and supportive friends. Despite my privileges, I was always stunted by negative self-esteem. I thought I was too awkward, too cerebral, too different from everyone else. I never believed that my friends genuinely cared about me, and I internalized that insecurity: most nights, I’d lie awake staring at the wall, wishing I could learn to like myself.
As a kid, I gorged on candy and guzzled six juice boxes a night. By the end of high school, I was tired, overweight and worried about my health. I became a vegetarian in the summer of 2010, trading chips and pizza for fruit and salad. The weight came off quickly. When I enrolled in undergrad at Queen’s that fall, I was addicted to dieting—it allowed me to regulate not only my weight but also my self-image. I could control the uncontrollable. After losing 20 pounds, my body naturally plateaued, so I began starving myself. In less than a year, I shrank from 176 pounds to 116.
At first, I didn’t think I could have an eating disorder. Guys didn’t get anorexic, or so I thought. But as the months passed, I realized I was wrong. I also knew it was dangerous, but I figured the rewards justified the risk. If I got sick, I’d have martyred myself for perfection. My eating disorder ritualized pain that I couldn’t otherwise process. I forced myself to surrender to a higher power that I called the Anorexia God. For weeks at a time, I’d subsist on celery and water. My ideal weight was a moving target—I’d reach it, then instantly set a new five-pound goal and fast for days. Sometimes I would stare into restaurant windows to test my willpower. The ability to control my consumption was exhilarating.
My family and friends all pleaded with me to get help. “You’re killing yourself slowly,” my mother would say. “You’re such a smart kid, you should know better,” my father often lamented. I ignored them. The voice in my head was too persuasive. “Maybe I should have some brown rice today,” I’d say to myself. “Don’t even think about it!” the Anorexia God would respond. “We’re building toward something here. You’re too fat right now.”
Eventually, at my parents’ insistence, I agreed to see an occupational therapist. She asked me to write a food log, but keeping an inventory heightened my fear of calories. I quit after only two appointments. A few weeks later, I sought counselling from a spiritual healer a classmate had recommended. “Hi, my naaaame is Jonath-one,” he said in a hushed tone as I walked through his beaded curtain. “Sorry, you said your name is Jonathan?” I replied. “No, it’s actually Jonath-one—like the number one. As in we are all one.” After an hour spent tucked into a bed in a dark room, listening to this guru play the harmonium, I left feeling more hopeless than ever.
By then, I’d been dieting for about eight months. My body was continuously sore. I was too sick to write my exams, too weak to stand for more than a minute at a time and too tired to stay awake during the day. On many nights, I was hunched over the toilet, throwing up blood. Otherwise, I was lying awake, my mind sprinting. Why did I eat that apple? Why did I break my fast? Every lapse made me hate myself more.
I hit rock bottom on St. Patrick’s Day in 2011. While most of my friends were out drinking, I swallowed a bottle of Tylenol in a feeble attempt at suicide. The next morning, I woke up on the dusty carpet of my Kingston apartment, half disappointed to be alive, half relieved. Many of the pills I thought I had swallowed were sprinkled across the floor around me.
I began to see what anorexia was doing to me. I love to laugh, but I couldn’t appreciate humour. I love to read, but books were too challenging. My ribs and pelvis protruded, my skin was pale, and my face was concave. I finally listened to my friends and family when they called or texted me to check in. For the first time in my life, I believed they genuinely cared about me, that I had value. Soon I was eating again, a few hundred calories at a time—first plain chia toast, then chia toast with almond butter, then avocado salad. Every day I had to fight the voice in my head, taunting me with calorie counts—it took months before I was able to shut it out entirely. By the summer after first year, I’d gained back some of the weight I’d lost.
I’m still a vegetarian, but I’m no longer fixated on my weight. I have a girlfriend, Dana, who accepts my past. I love her more than I ever thought was possible. I am starting law school in the fall. And I have regained my sense of humour. I would never want to relive the misery of my anorexia, but it gave me a perspective that I’d always lacked. It allowed me to breathe, to appreciate my good fortune and to stop obsessing over minor setbacks. It gave me the ability to be happy.
Jacob Roth is a writer and a law student at the University of Toronto. He recently completed a book about his experiences with anorexia.
Email submissions to memoir@torontolife.com
I started doing that in my early teens as I was constantly picked on by my siblings I didn’t have a weight problem growing up to that point. My parents were both working at that point and my mother wasn’t cooking not that she was good either. It was awful takeout or nothing. Things got worse by 14 and yes I can relate to wanting to end things. I survived but continued on my bulimia and starvation diets until I was 27. I almost didn’t notice my first pregnancy it didn’t last 5 months. Since then plagued by injuries I put the weight back on and then some now in my 40’s regretting letting myself go and now pre-diabetic making me tempted to go back to what I was doing then. It did so much damage to my lungs and bones and I am conflicted. I am glad you were able to walk out of it and share your experience with others. As most don’t think that eating disorders are unisex and can happen to anyone for any reason in any economy. But even for me it’s still a battle with self image even now disgusted with myself but I am working on it with my therapist. Someday like you I hope to come to terms with it and be able to maintain a normal healthy weight again and not fall back into my old destructive habits.
Just curious though did TL push you to put that upper middle class label I don’t see how that makes any difference as eating disorders can happen to anyone of any class levels they don’t really come into it.
This was difficult to read – I’m also a lawyer and went through something similar about 10 years ago. Good to see you’re doing better.
Re: the ‘upper middle class’ comment – possibly not relevant but it also sets context. I’m from a supportive, affluent family and despite “all the benefits in the world”, eating disorders can get the best of us. As Stella pointed out, it can happen to anyone.
No, Toronto Life didn’t push me to include it. The point of adding my positional context was to demonstrate that eating disorders and mental illnesses affect individuals regardless of their privileges. Economically, socially, and family-wise, my life seemed ideal. Despite this good fortunate, I was depressed and eventually became anorexic.
Thank you for sharing your experiences. I hope that you soon learn to accept yourself because I can already tell that you have a lot to offer the world.
I think my context is important, as it undermines pre-conceived notions surrounding anorexia and mental illnesses.
Amazing Jake! So inspirational and well written!
Thank you, Julia!
Thanks I am trying and hope others will benefit from feeling not alone in the fight with this article and find some inner peace I am still working on that not given up yet. It’s not always easy to talk about it as I don’t usually in the outside world because a lot of people don’t understand.
This story is a real eye opener for me. Admittedly, I’ve always thought of anorexia as something experienced by young girls and women. Before reading Jacob’s article, I had never heard or read anything about men suffering from it too. Most of the media seems to focus on the challenges women face in finding and accessing reputable treatment options. Obviously, that has to change.
Thank you Jacob for sharing your own experience, the good and not-so-good. I commend you for your honesty and perseverance and I wish you all the best in your personal and professional life. Kudos also to your Dana for her understanding and support. It’s wonderful to know how much you are in love and looking forward to the future. :)
I also thought that Jake`s article was inspiring and well written. Shouldn`t be a surprise since he helps students write essays.
Good luck to Jake with his book!
Good article. I wish it was longer…”control the uncontrollable” & “E.O. disorder ritualized the pain that I couldn’t otherwise process”….so interesting. Most turn to food to stifle pain, make life more pleasurable, even if only momentarily, this is understandable – food tastes good. But anorexia, (so hard to grasp) – life is painful, therefore I will force MORE pain on myself by denying myself the pleasure of eating…? I never understood this. And “the ability to control my consumption was exhilarating” I wish I could harness some of this ‘power’ to loose ten pounds. Because it is so much easier to eat and so much more difficult to restrict calories, I do respect it…