The Vulnerable Man

Content Notice: This story contains references to Eating Disorder and Death.

What are your most vivid childhood memories? The ones that stick for the rest of your life? Perhaps they helped define or shape you. Was it that first sleepover camp? Learning to ride a bike, how to swim? A birthday party? A vacation? So often these memories are full of comfort and nostalgia. We seem to forget about skinned knees, fights with friends, even parents divorcing— as if children are immune to pain. They’re not. I was not.

My most vivid childhood memory is May 15th, 1997. It was a chilly spring day in Chicagoland. The sky was painted an abstract portrait of grays, whites, and yellow, a portrait to match the mood inside the Wood house. The home where glorious memories were once made had now looked like a makeshift hospice center. My dad, my hero, lay in a hospital bed drifting in and out of consciousness. Cancer ravaged his body much like this event would eat away at me for years to come.

I was holding his hand when he whispered to me, “I love you, Jason.” His body, yellow from jaundice, looked like a fragment of the man I once knew. This was my last memory with him. He breathed his last breath a few minutes later and life changed forever. That is the memory that defines my childhood. It quickly trumped the joyful ones of holidays and fishing trips. My idol, my innocence, and my naivety died that day.

Before he died he told me I was the man of the house now. I needed to take care of mom, who was chronically ill herself. My childhood was over at age 11. I needed to be an adult. I masked my inner fears and feelings because I thought any sign of vulnerability would be seen as weakness. I lost touch with who I was, chalking it up to just growing up under special circumstances.

2005 felt like a terrible rerun. Mom, my last pillar, slept in a hospital room full of beeping machines and rattled breathing—sounds that still haunt my ears. Her lungs filled with death. I was only 19, what the hell was I supposed to do? I was not prepared to live in a world where I had no parents left. I held her frail hand, her veins bulging as her body wasted away. She reminded me to let the dog out and then she joined dad. I was alone, really alone.

After my dad’s death, I still had tried to maintain a positive outlook on life. My friends loved the happy-go-lucky Jason. The fun guy, who was always there to make them laugh. I was seen as a teenager, who escaped a painful past and kept an optimistic view of the future. Mom’s death changed all of this. Hope died at that cold, rainy cemetery when we laid her next to dad.

My friends were off at college, having fun and created life-long memories. I, on the other hand, faced eviction, arrest, a nasty estate battle, and a few dead-end jobs. I was in a constant state of survival mode, life felt like an impossibly steep incline to an invisible summit. I felt broken and useless. Above all, I hurt.

I sat in a dark apartment with no electricity with an eviction notice on the door. I was barely scraping together enough money to eat. I was a high school honor roll student who seemed to flunk out at adulting. I could not turn to my siblings, they just viewed me as a disappointment. I felt hostage to the pain of my past and anxiety of the future. I was afraid asking for help would make me look like a vulnerable disappointment—proving my siblings right.

Did I ask for help? No—the man of the house would never do that. Act tough, put on a brave face, and impress others with my resiliency. I suffered from low self-esteem and felt the obsessive need for control. I couldn’t let others into my inner world of pain and turmoil. Instead, my unhealthy relationship with food accelerated as I started to take out my anger on my body. I had lost a significant amount of weight. A scare with colon cancer–the same disease that murdered my dad–left me feeling bitter at the world, at my family, and at life for handing this unfair deck of cards. I hated my body for turning on me as if it wanted to evict me just like my landlord did, and I feared I wouldn’t make it past my thirtieth birthday.

When I met my future husband I could never understand why he loved me. I felt like I was not worthy of him like he could do so much better than me. As such, I only allowed him to see the tip of the iceberg into my pain. I feared complete openness might chase him away. I had already lost too much to lose anything again.

In 2020, I bottomed out. My weight and self-respect reached all-time lows. My husband, Matt, finally expressed his concerns. He was like my in-house repairman. He rescued me from a dark period in my life, giving me hope for a brighter tomorrow. Matt was the first sense of an intimate family I’d felt since that night my mom’s heartbeat its last. Finally, someone loved me for me again. I had a number one fan.

I broke down one night at dinner after the restaurant could not substitute an item to meet my standards. At that moment, Matt acknowledged the pain he saw in my eyes. Hearing him address my childhood loss, my early-adult shame, and the pain I was in at that very moment, awoke something within. I needed help. I wanted to be the husband he deserved. I wanted to be the me I deserved. He recognized my pain and in a move of independence, I did too. I was broken. I ached. I needed help. The road to recovery began. I worked through personal issues with my therapist. We discussed how I was never really able to eulogize my parents. We discussed my jealousy over never having a normal childhood or adolescence, the pain from losing my family, and how the fallout from the estate battle left the good childhood memories tarnished. Coming to terms with these things allowed me to address my disordered eating.

I opened up with my therapist, holding honest conversations. In turn, I embraced vulnerability. I felt empowered each time I let my guard down. I found the strength to take the upper hand on my eating disorder, to cope with the pain I buried away down deep. By being vulnerable, I reconnected with the parts of me that I always loved. I remembered who I was before life’s vicious attacks commenced—the compassionate, supportive friend and husband, the eternal optimist. I finally saw a future with hope rather than fear.

My therapist encouraged me to write my story. I’ve always enjoyed writing. Following dad’s death, I wrote a poem. This poem was the only time I publicly expressed my hurt. When I write the words course from my mind and soul through my arms. My innermost thoughts and emotions burst from my fingers onto the paper or screen like fireworks—a beautiful release.

After writing my story, I read it back to myself. My life changed. I viewed my journey from an objective point of view. Compassion consumed my heart for the man who fought to survive for so long. I realized the man of the house can show vulnerability. That it does not equal weakness; instead, it shows love for himself and those around him. Through therapy and writing, I uncovered hidden strengths. I fell back in writing. The need to help others reappeared. I found myself waking up each day in that brighter future Matt always promised: a world free of the fear of history repeating itself. I no longer worry about what I eat or who I will lose next. Now, I embrace the moment. I can be honest with myself, with my husband, and with my friends. I broke free from the chains of my eating disorder, my insecurities, and the hurtful memories.

Vulnerability is defined as the quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally. All along, I was the one doing the attacking and harming to myself. I spent far too long in my uncomfortable comfort zone, afraid to share my struggles for fear of appearing weak. In reality, what I needed to do was embrace vulnerability and self-compassion. Brene Brown says it best, “Loving ourselves through the process of owning our story is the bravest thing we will ever do.” This is my story and nothing will ever stop me from sharing it again.