The secret of male bulimia
Luke Chivers would spend $100 a day on junk food, scoff it in secret, then hunch over a toilet bowl forcing himself to vomit. Jehan Casinader reveals the hidden battle of male bulimia.
‘Iwas once happy. I was focused. I felt in control. I was given praise. I achieved my goals. I loved people, community and friendship. Trust and integrity were important to me. And I loved life. It’s amazing how one thing can take all that away from you: food. It was my true friend. It has become my enemy.’’
These are the words of Luke Chivers, a young Tauranga man caught in the grip of an eating disorder.
Confused, misunderstood and desperately lonely, Chivers began keeping a journal to document his experience with bulimia, an illness that trapped him in an endless cycle of bingeing and purging. His journal entries are punctuated by words like ‘‘disgust’’, ‘‘lies’’ and ‘‘regret’’.
Food. It was my true friend. It has become my enemy. Luke Chivers, Tauranga
From the age of 20, bulimia hijacked his brain. It drove him to spend $100 a day on junk food. He would scoff it in secret, before hunching over a toilet bowl for hours, forcing himself to vomit, up to 20 times a day.
As Chivers’ weight began to fall – and his teeth began to fall out – the illness nearly killed him. But against the odds, he found the strength to ask for help. After four years, he is finally on the road to recovery.
Tonight, Chivers is taking a brave and unusual step: he’s telling his story on TVNZ1’s Sunday programme. Never before has a Kiwi man opened up on national television about the cost of his eating disorder.
There’s a simple reason for that: when it comes to body issues, our culture demands absolute silence from men. But unless we’re willing to allow more males to take their own lives, the silence, shame and stigma need to stop – right now.
Back in July, Welsh rugby referee Nigel Owens sent shockwaves across the sporting world, when he revealed that he has battled bulimia for three decades.
It began in his late teens, when, struggling with his sexuality and ashamed of being fat, he began making himself sick after every meal. At times, he has been able to shake the habit, but it often returns during periods of stress. He lives in its shadow.
Owens isn’t the only sporting figure to come clean. In May, English cricketer Freddie Flintoff revealed how bulimia got hold of him.
Teased for carrying too much weight across the pitch, he would vomit in the changing rooms in between innings. Flintoff realised he had a problem when he found himself in the toilet of a Dubai hotel, spewing up a $750 meal that he had just paid for.
These men are smart, highly paid professionals who have greater access to doctors, nutritionists and psychologists than the rest of us. Their success relies on keeping their bodies in good nick, and yet they’ve abused their bodies, in a quest to improve their self-esteem. Both men say their bulimia was caused, in part, by a desire to lose weight and perfect their looks.
For generations, we’ve believed a destructive myth: that guys are exempt from the pressure to have perfect bodies.
We fondly cling to the quaint belief that men hunt, gather and occasionally play rugby – but never look in the mirror. Meanwhile, a lucrative male cosmetics and fashion industry has sprung up around us.
Social media empires have been built upon the painfully self-conscious traits of young men. And increasing pressure to perform on the sports field has driven guys to extreme lengths to super-charge their physiques.
Too fat, too thin, not buff enough or not fast enough. Climb inside the mind of a young Kiwi male and you’re bound to stumble upon one of these recurring thoughts. I’m no exception.
Two years ago, I wrote an essay in this newspaper, ‘‘Confessions of a thin man’’. I spoke about my own struggle with body image and how I was ashamed of being a 25-yearold male with a 56kg figure.
I interviewed other young men who’d had similar experiences, but never felt they were able to talk about them.
In the media, the objectification of the male body is socially acceptable – and commercially valuable. Rugby players are our modern Adonises.
Billboards are plastered with images of All Blacks in their undies, as part of Jockey’s new campaign. Video of the photo shoot shows the players being plastered in makeup. Their waxed chests are sprayed with oil, as they describe how they’ve been working on their abs and cutting back on food in the lead-up to the shoot.
The campaign is called ‘Real Men’, and features actor Will Hall, who represents the blokey everyman, complete with sunburn.
Jockey wants to send a message that their products are accessible to all ‘‘real’’ men. The irony is that the whole campaign is built around the bodies of ‘‘unreal’’ men – rugby players who make a living from perfecting their bodies.
The players’ tanned, toned, taut physiques are used to remind men that they, too, can be attractive and successful – as long as they buy the undies, of course.
Whether they admit it or not, most Kiwi guys have tried to fix their bodies in some way, by restricting or increasing their food intake, taking supplements or steroids, or just going hard at the gym.
When those strategies fail, we find ways to mask our insecurities. We put more energy into succeeding at work, mastering other skills, and winning people over by giving them a good laugh. But for some men, body issues lead to mental illness.
‘‘I hate my body,’’ Chivers wrote in his diary in 2013, ‘‘and I hate how I am living’’.
‘‘Depression haunts me. Suicide whispers to me. But I know that, somehow, there will be freedom. One day, I will be free from these thoughts. I will be able to look in my mirror and see nothing but my reflection. I will be free from the voices of shame and hatred.’’
In recent years, we have begun to allow men to speak about their mental health. Sir John Kirwan and Mike King have given men the strength to seek help for depression and anxiety. But body dysmorphia and eating disorders are rarely discussed in the media or in schools. I’d put money on the fact that most parents have never asked their sons how they feel about their bodies, or what strategies they use to manage their weight and appearance.
The silence is beginning to break. Twilight star Robert Pattinson has revealed that he had body dysmorphia, while former One Direction singer Zayn Malik admits he suffers from disordered eating.
Experts credit these celebrities with breaking the stigma around eating disorders. In the United States, the number of males seeking treatment for those disorders has increased by 70 per cent inthe past six years.
In New Zealand, we have a long way to go. Last year, only 86 Kiwi males received specialist help for eating disorders through our public health system, compared with 1204 females.
Experts say the figures are skewed because male sufferers aren’t accessing services. When they do ask for help, they are sometimes misunderstood or incorrectly diagnosed.
Chivers spent four years trying to get help. In doing so, he discovered that his eating disorder was rooted in deeper issues: a strong desire for perfection, unrealistic standards for his image, and his wish to please others.
He’d been a successful runner – even winning the gruelling Colville Connection, an offroad marathon, in 2013. The hobby had fed his obsession with his body.
It’s a reminder that our examination of male body issues needs to be more than skin deep.
We have to encourage our young men to develop true self-worth. That doesn’t come from a billboard. It comes from connection, belonging and acceptance. Guys need to be reminded that we have something to offer. And despite what society tells us, our value is not tied to our achievements or our physiques. If we can learn to respect ourselves, maybe the shape of our bodies won’t matter so much after all.
Jehan Casinader’s male bulimia investigation screens on Sunday, 7.30pm on TVNZ1