• Share. Be Supported. Recover.

    We are a friendly, safe community supporting each other's mental health. We are open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

[CW negativity] BED, CSA, lack of research / awareness, and feeling very alone



Jun 26, 2021
Santa Cruz, CA
I am so fucking sick of being the only person on the goddamn planet with even the slightest idea what's even wrong with me let alone how to fix it.

I repressed this memory pretty hard, but from what I can gather after all these years of wandering through my dissociated mindscape, here's what it seems went down.

Now, some of this, the more graphic portion, is quite unreliable; my true memory of such details is long fragmented, and I've pieced together this version from the fragments through many years of extensive introspection, as well as abductive reasoning from premises of what little absolute knowledge my shattered recollection did afford me. I don't know this is what happened. I can only say with considerable confidence that it was something like this.

My dad had always lived dangerously. Did a bunch of drugs, slept with a lot of women, had a lot of delinquent buddies.

[Speculation begins here. This gets somewhat graphic.]

Seems when I was four, he got himself too drugged up one evening, came home with the idea in his head that I was looking fine. Slipped my mom a little something to knock her out so she wouldn't hear me crying. Took me to the bathroom and sexually abused me.

[Speculation ends here. Everything from this point forward is crystal-clear genuine recall.]

Next day I was up early and apparently crying. Weird thing was I didn't know I was crying. I didn't remember the incident at all -- at least I didn't think I did. I was sitting on the floor playing games with my dolls which, looking back, featured an age-inappropriate caliber of sexual curiosity. I was, at least so I thought, enjoying a nice quiet morning to myself, so I found myself pretty irritated when my mom got up for the morning and interrupted my solitude.

She rushed over to me looking very worried and started begging to know what was wrong. Sat me down on a kitchen stool and tried to get me to calm down; well, I was calm, as far as I knew, so I wasn't sure what to tell her. Though I did find myself choking on my words, unable to speak, as if I were crying.

I kept trying to tell her nothing was wrong and to leave me alone, but the words wouldn't quite come out. Eventually I managed to speak, but what I said wasn't what I'd meant to say. I actually told her exactly what had happened. The first memory, the guarded gateway to the incident, had manifested. It had sprung up from my preconsciousness directly out my mouth, bypassing my consciousness entirely; as far as I was aware, I had no recollection of the event I was reporting, and had no idea where the words were coming from.

Unprompted, frankly unaware of what I was even saying, I started telling her everything, spilling out all the disgusting details. Felt like my lips were moving without my say so.

She took a look at me down there to confirm my story. (I was still so very young that this wasn't so terribly embarrassing or outlandish as it sounds, you see.) From what I hear, I was -- well, I'll spare you the description that reached my own ears, but suffice to say it was clear I'd been violated.

Things went in a decent-ish direction from there. CPS took our case. It made its way to the county. There was ruled to be insufficient evidence to prosecute, but on related grounds we were able to saddle my dad with a restraining order and a child support contract.

Of course, no matter how well things went, reparations could only go so far. The damage had been done. That incident ruined my life, and starting at age five, I was about to discover for myself the essential cornerstone of exactly how.

Because of where my father's lust had stained my body, I learned a morbid, intrusive fascination with the digestive system. Even though I still didn't consciously remember my trauma except in intense recurring nightmares, I had grown an unconscious hunger, both figurative and very literal, for vengeance and traumatic mastery. I craved to take back what I saw as taken from me, to renegotiate and place myself in control, to use against him this body of mine that he'd used against me.

I felt -- I feel -- so, so much crippling shame, around my weight, my binging, and my artwork, all alike. Self love, self esteem, feels impossible. I'll never be someone I can love; losing this weight surely wouldn't hurt my chances, but with all I've learned, I'm all but certain it wouldn't help them either. All I've got to rely on is the poor substitute for self love constituted in, well, exactly everything I'm ashamed of: my weight, my binging, and my artwork. In this subject of shame I can find momentary pockets of paradoxical, perverse, facetious, somewhat toxic "pride." It's mostly this sad excuse for pride which sustains the pile of ash and rubble called my ego.

Carrying this burden all alone is exhausting.

Obesity on its own is poorly enough understood; everyone knows it's primarily caused by accumulating food energy surplus, but no one can figure out the root causes of this accumulation behavior, nor how to treat the behavior itself. The hateful among us, the ignorant, the insensitive, would go so far as to say the behavior itself is its own only cause, and simply ceasing it is itself its own only solution, and if anyone can't manage to do that on their own, well, fuck them, right? (/s) So insight from dieticians and primary care doesn't tend to wind up being helpful.

Meanwhile, binge eating disorder remains among the less researched eating disorders, and it seems specialist therapy often resorts to borrowing from methods of treating restrictive eating disorders, to mixed effect, for lack of BED-specific research or treatment plans. Then there's CSA therapy, which is goddamn impossible to get.

So, none of these angles of treatment even work on their own. A holistic approach between them -- well, that's what I'm attempting right now, but it just seems like the system isn't equipped for that. Society isn't equipped for that. Society isn't equipped to help someone who challenges their preconceived notions the way I do: a male survivor of CSA; an obese sufferer of an ED. Sounds like nonsense, right? I'm sure that's what they all think. To their credit, it feels like nonsense. It's the nonsense world I live in. Doesn't matter how I try to explain it, nor to whom. In one ear, out the other, and I can't even blame them.

On the bright side, I've finally found a medication that's actually got me in recovery weightwise. So at least there's that. For what little that's worth. For what little good that'll do. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's huge. It'll do a lot of good, physiologically. If I can see this through, I'll come out of it much less prone to an early death. But psychologically, I just don't see it being all that helpful. The underlying problems are all still there. Refusing to cope with them isn't going to make them go away any more than coping did.

Yeah, anyway, I'm fucking tired of being alone in the world.

Every now and then I get sucked into a rabbit hole of looking up my problems on Wikipedia or something. Typically a tangent from reading about something unrelated. And whether it's that, or remembering a rude comment someone said to me, or thinking about a healthcare appointment where the kind person who was only trying to help me ended up just telling me what I already know, or whatever, I just have to remember, this person doesn't have the context I have. They don't know what's actually going on with me; just looking in from the outside, of course they'd think what they're saying here.

Because no one actually fucking gets it. I'm an alien on this planet. Ever since dad stripped me of my humanity. Now I'm an alien, in a strange and hostile mind and body, in an even stranger and more hostile world, where no one knows jack shit about what kind of creature I am, so if I ever have any questions, I'm shit out of luck, and all I can do is wait for some unknown merry shitmas morning when I inevitably discover answers for myself in the worst possible way and pull yet another new maladaptive behavior out of my ass like some kind of sadistic present lovingly wrapped up in decorative go fuck yourself.

Look at all the happy, healthy people out there. So self-loving. So all-loving. So worthy. So perfect and clean. So untouched by excessive appetite, and bitterness, and the poison of others' crawling hands. I'm nothing like them. Never will be. I'm not worthy like them. Not worthy of my own sympathy that I afford to others. They're so good -- I see them as so good, regardless of whether I'm right -- and yet no matter what I do, or how I try to think about it differently, I can only ever see myself as evil, worthless, subhuman filth. I think that's what hurts the most.

I've gotten good at pretending. I've gotten great at ever so slowly getting better by pretending I actually care about the other self inside me and am not just trying to stop the pain. But for as helpful as it can be at times, it's still just pretending. I still don't know how to truly see myself as a person and not as a slimy bloated cockroach.

It was cathartic to write this. I actually feel a little better now, as hard as that may be to believe reading it back.
Last edited by a moderator:

Quietly Invisible

Well-known member
Oct 29, 2021
Everyone has something. Some people have many somethings. We (on this site) are the ones with the many somethings. Losing the weight is going to make you feel better physically and mentally. It just does. If you have a plan that is working for you, DO IT! Get that conquered and then work on the next problem. No one's life is perfect, but we have to do what we can to try to improve. We owe it to ourselves to live our best life. It sucks that we have to work so much harder, but...everyone has something.

Similar threads