3.30am. We were outside. Me sitting on a slightly damp mesh chair, S standing; smoking and drinking white wine.
S kissed me on the forehead.
Me: “If I had a problem, and felt weird talking to you about that problem, would that be silly?“.
So I told him. Confessed I’d lied last weekend about feeling ill, and in fact I was trying my best not to eat. Explained how it’s all about control and, haltingly, listed the reasons why I’m grabbing onto a past ED to cope.
He didn’t ask why.
He didn’t tell me to stop.
And he didn’t get angry.
He just kissed the top of my head and rubbed my shoulder.
“How are we going to fix this?”