The Good Eater

Q. So, where are the 1.2 to 6 million male sufferers of BED?
A. Hiding right in front of us.
When I was little, my father challenged me to an eating contest—I was victorious and he was happy. I soon realized that being “the good eater” was a tool I could use to bring peace to my chaotic childhood, one dominated by harsh, military-style discipline and a suffocating fundamentalist religion.
As my use of food as a coping mechanism grew, I predictably swelled from big-built to obese. At the age of 17, a year after my dad left, I went on my first diet—something much easier to discuss than how I had put on all of the pounds in the first place. A year later, I was rewarded with my first date and my first kiss—ecstasy.
What I didn’t know then was that I had no chance of keeping the pounds off. I was slowly being overtaken by BED (binge eating disorder), a malady that, according to NEDA (National Eating Disorder Association), affects somewhere between 3 and 15 million Americans. Unlike bulimia and anorexia, which predominantly affect females, 40% of BED sufferers are male.
In college, by cramming my life with school and work, I unwittingly created the ideal high-stress environment for BED to flourish. As I stood in front of my college roommate, trying to explain why I’d eaten his cake, box of cookies, and two boxes of cereal, I felt humiliated. Unfortunately, instead of inspiring me to admit my problem, the incident only served to teach me to be less sloppy so I wouldn’t get caught in the future.
At the age of 21, someone shocked me with, “Are you a model?” Flattered and excited, I decided to go for it. Soon after, my food restriction and exercise began to approach dangerous levels.
That was 1984; modeling was the final component that would lock me into a terrifying eating disorder. Little did I know then that the magic I so desperately sought was still 20 years away.
Less than a week after signing my modeling contract, the war between Good Ron and Bad Ron began. Ten months later, Bad Ron declared total victory. I was left scarred and broken—I’d gained 70 pounds in six months, called in sick to fashion shows, and played hide and seek with my agent. No one ever asked me why.
When the commercials had finally quit running on TV, I thought the torture was over—I was wrong. My sister discovered Random House’s Sports Fitness and Training at a bookstore: I was the man on the cover. Walking into a bookstore, now almost 300 pounds, and seeing my former slim self convinced me I was fundamentally weak and flawed.
My continued search for magic would take me on a rollercoaster of failed careers—including standup comedy and the Marines—and sink me into destructive relationships, drug abuse and personal tragedy.
Twenty years later, with a bit of luck and the help of an angel (my wife Leslie), I finally found the magic I so desperately sought. It was the truth of who I was, what I suffered from, and how I’d arrived at my affliction, plus the important knowledge that I was not alone—only then could a lasting recovery begin.
So, where are the 1.2 to 6 million male sufferers of BED? Hiding right in front of us. I kept it from my family and friends until I was 42; I know how hard it can be to admit.
The question is, how do we reach these misguided sufferers (of which I was one)? Part of the answer lies in normalization—removing the stigma associated with eating disorders in males through dialogue and openness. Hey, if we can talk about the “blue pill” and erectile dysfunction—something that, until recently, caused men to childishly cover their ears and chant, “blah, blah, blah,”—then there’s hope for us yet. It is my wish, in some small or big way—I’m rooting for big—that my book, The Good Eater, can be part of this normalization process.
Let’s all keep our hands off our ears and be strong.