‘Laxatives for Dinner’: My Life as an Anorexic Man

This post was originally published on Broadly Germany.

My name is Michael Buchinger; I'm a YouTuber, and I was 18 when my anorexia peaked. As one of the so-called "influencers," my job is to make my life an open book for my followers: From Instagram posts of me lying hungover in bed to livestreaming myself preparing for a colonoscopy, there are few aspects of my everyday life I don't share with the Internet—except when it comes to my old eating disorder.

Just recently, for example, I was with my good friend Sarah at the lake. In a moment of friendly affection, I rested my leg on her lap. She cried out in pain. "Ow, your leg's heavy," she yowled, like I'd poured hot soup on her vag. Instantly hurt, I considered drowning my lovely companion in the water.

Since I had never told her about my anorexia, Sarah couldn't have known that her comment about my legs would trigger memories of my disorder; nevertheless I made a mental note to treat her passive aggressively for the next two weeks.

There was the dinner party, for example, when friends of my parents asked me—with a pointed glance at my legs—whether I was really allowed to eat as much as I wanted, or if my mom or dad sometimes stopped me. Stopped me? Like I was a serial killer on the run, and my parents the detectives? "Of course I'm allowed!" I replied cheekily, lifting a bread roll to my mouth.

The message was clear: I was a bit too thick, and that was bad. In previous years, I had repeatedly tried to lose weight with a healthy diet and exercise, but had always failed miserably. I found myself, at the age of 18, compelled to "control my urges."

Henceforth unwilling to eat more than one large meal a day, I had to get creative to avoid my mother's watchful eye. One day, I nonchalantly told her that I wanted to start eating breakfast in my room with me, like Hugh Hefner having an especially chilled-out brunch morning in the Playboy Mansion. I was known to be a bit weird, and no one questioned my eccentric request.

As soon the toast hit my desk and my mother left the room, I began working faster than a murderer clearing up the scene of his crime. I'd quickly deposit the offending carbohydrates into my lunchbox, wash a laxative down with with my coffee, and make my way to school. Once I got there, I'd hand my breakfast over to a younger kid and go to class feeling pretty great about the whole thing.

Between six hours of classes, the pain from my empty stomach, and the slow-acting laxatives, I must have looked like the corpse from Weekend at Bernie's. During my lunch hour, I would drive at breakneck speed to the supermarket, violating every single traffic rule along the way, and purchase a small fruit salad (consisting of 200 grams of fruit) and a sugar-free energy drink.

I ate this meal, which had to be exactly the same every day, in the parking lot of the supermarket with the enjoyment of a raccoon in a trash can. Sometimes, old people would walk by me and say things like "Would you look at that! This young man eats fruit in his car! How healthy!" Grinning, I waved to them like a women laughing over some salad in a stock photo. I can't wait to shit all this out, I thought, smiling.

The real art lay not in the task of avoiding food, but rather in the lies I spun. After coming home from school, I would sit with my family and, unprompted, tell them about the delicious lunch I had enjoyed with my friends that day. Do the old couple from the parking lot count as my friends? I wondered. At this time, I was still felt uneasy about lying to my parents.

After my dinner—the first real meal of the day—I worked out with a fitness DVD. My choice: Kim Kardashian: Fit in Your Jeans by Friday!.

In retrospect, I realize a Kim Kardashian workout was perhaps not the best way to lose weight in your thighs, and it may therefore be hardly surprising that there was still no sign of my desired thigh gap. However, thanks to news that my mother would unveil at the beginning of that summer, it'd soon be time for a more drastic change in diet.

"Michael, we know it's a bit spontaneous, but we have decided to go on a beach vacation in Spain next month. For seven days, just for fun, sun, and beach, beach, beach!"

She sounded like Oprah giving me a brand new car. A normal child would probably be delighted beyond compare at the prospect of such a holiday. Don't get me wrong: I was also delighted, but immediately began planning to intensify my diet. My mother had said beach four times in her announcement, and my body was far from beach-beach-beach-beach-ready. I began to fast several days a week, using laxatives to keep my metabolism moving.

The most fascinating thing about this phase of my life is that I never realized how anorexic I was. In my mind, I was just paying attention to my diet, and could resume eating normally again after the holiday if I wanted to. I gladly watched documentaries about anorexics, crooning things like "I can't believe it," and "those poor souls!" while I had a cigarette and laxatives for dinner.

Where I expected a veritable thigh gap convention, I found the exact opposite: Chubby men reading tabloids and plump pensioners in yoga pants dominated the beach. I had convinced myself that I was hungry to become beach-ready and fit into society's norm, but society—unlike myself—had no problem with me or my body.

The Spain holiday was an unambiguous washout: I was constantly irritable, my embattled metabolism meant I often woke up during the night to rush to the bathroom, and I didn't even have enough energy to join the conga line at the beach. This holiday marked the low point of my anorexia. I knew things could not go on.

I'd love to say that I had an Eat Pray Love-style epiphany and immediately began eating normally and enjoying my life to the fullest. Unfortunately, it didn't go down like that. Often it seemed to me as if I was split between two personalities: one who wanted me to get better, and another who continued to deny the reality of my anorexia. After the holiday, I consented to see a doctor, but I sabotaged myself by drinking three litres of water before the examination in order to weigh more.

"I don't see anything wrong with you," said my doctor. "When I was your age, I weighed the same. Don't listen to what the others say, Michael!" After just five minutes, I was out of his office with a pat on the back.

Things changed once I moved out of my parents': although I had planned to step up my diet after the the move, something felt off after my first skipped meal. It turns out that what I had liked about anorexia was not my sleeker body; it was the lies I told to my friends and family—when I told my mother I had eaten with friends in town and I felt "really great," or when I "confirmed" with a doctor that my weight was normal. Without the option of lying to those around me, it was harder for me to convince myself that my routine was as harmless as the latest Beyoncé diet.

Where once my thighs were my primary concern, I was now afraid that I could end up dead if no one stepped in to make sure I ate once in a while. My anorexia had badly affected my circulation and I often felt on the verge of fainting. What if the neighborhood dogs found my body? I thought. This marked the unspectacular end of my anorexia.

More than my physical eating habits, the actual obstacle in the way of my recovery was a psychological one: I had to learn that not everyone who offered me a piece of cake was a nemesis trying to sabotage my figure. And statements like "Michi, you've grown!" were meant as a compliment, and certainly not a reason to annihilate a friendship.

While I figured that anorexia is not the greatest topic for small talk (and statements like "Hey guys, I'm finally having regular bowel movements again!" don't exactly inspire the masses), I eventually told my closest friends about my situation. Although the confession felt like admitting weakness, my decision to speak openly about my disorder ended up being a tremendous help.

For the first time in a while, I didn't try to convince my friends that I was feeling great, but simply told them the truth about myself, my problems, and the long recovery I was facing. While secrecy and lying were the highlights of my anorexic period, an honest conversation began to taste better than even the most embellished lie about a lavish meal I didn't eat anyway.

Five years later, I rarely think about that part of my life, and don't say anything about it to new friends (like Sarah, for example). I am doing better: It was no small thing to take a spontaneous trip the the lake with my friend and sunbathe in nothing but my bathing suit, surrounded by strangers. Two years ago, that would have called for a two day fast in preparation. I'm fine, I'm healthy, and I feel more ready for the beach than ever. Just please, whatever you do, refrain from screaming if you're going to touch my legs.