My mother turned me into a starving man—until a rehabilitation therapist gave me back my appetite for life.
It took me a while to realise my hunger wasn’t physical—it was for love and acceptance.
My name is Oliver. I’m thirty-four. Born and raised in Manchester. My mother raised me alone; my father left before my first birthday. My childhood memories are nothing but tension, anxiety, and an endless scramble for her approval.
Mum was a woman of chilly elegance—refined, severe, a perpetual dieter, marathoner of slimness, and devoted to beauty treatments. She was never satisfied with herself, and by extension, with me.
I was never enough. Not in school, not in sports, not even in my own reflection. She scheduled my meals like a military operation, weighed me from nursery age, banned sweets, carbs, and forced me into sports when I’d rather have drawn or read. “No one will ever love you if you’re not thin,” she’d say.
That belief stuck. As a teen, I was awkward, gloomy, friendless. I wanted girls to like me but was convinced they never would. So, I settled on a backup plan: if I couldn’t be loved, I’d be flawless. I worked out till my muscles screamed, starved, ran myself ragged, survived on protein shakes. My body was armour, painstakingly sculpted.
Women noticed eventually, but inside, I was still that terrified boy, certain he’d be abandoned. All my relationships were short, jittery, shallow. Until the crash. A blown tyre on the motorway sent my car flipping. I woke in hospital with a broken leg, a dislocated shoulder, and my precious control over life thoroughly crushed.
At rehab, my therapist was Eleanor Whitmore—early thirties, firm, unshakable, but somehow… warm. She didn’t treat me like just another patient. She saw the fractures inside.
At first, I resisted. But her questions were so direct, her voice so steady, I cracked. I told her about Mum, the endless hunger for approval, the women I’d lost. She listened, never interrupted, only occasionally saying, “You deserve love. Just for existing.”
Those words shattered something in me. We met daily, and I caught myself waiting for her—not as a patient, but as someone finally feeling warmth.
I fell in love. Quietly, without declarations. Just a stupid grin whenever she walked in. Sometimes we talked books or films; other times, life itself. When she mentioned a two-week conference, panic hollowed me out.
We texted. Her replies were kind, but measured. I didn’t know if she was seeing anyone—only that she was all I had. After she returned, I finally asked her for coffee. She sighed, almost apologetic.
“Oliver, you’re dear to me. But I can’t date a patient. It’s against my ethics.”
I understood. Thanked her. Walked away. Yes, I cried—first time in years. Not because she’d said no, but because I felt alive.
Now I walk without crutches. I go to the gym—not to be perfect, but to be strong. And if I ever see Eleanor again, I’ll ask her for coffee. Not as her patient. Just as a man who’s finally full—body and heart.
