My mother made me a starving man—until a rehabilitation specialist brought back my appetite for life.
I didn’t realise at first that 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. All I remember from childhood is tension, anxiety, and an endless struggle for her approval.
My mother was a woman of cold beauty—elegant, severe, forever on diets, fitness challenges, and cosmetic treatments. She was never satisfied with herself, and so, with me.
I was never good enough. Not in school, not in sports, not even in my own reflection. Mum made me eat on a schedule, monitored my weight from nursery age, banned sweets and carbs, and forced me into sports when I’d rather draw or read. She’d say, “If you’re not thin, no one will ever love you.”
I grew up with that belief. As a teen, I was awkward, brooding, lonely. I longed to impress girls but was convinced no one would want me. So I decided: if I couldn’t be loved, I’d at least be perfect. I trained to exhaustion, starved myself, pushed through runs, weights, protein diets. I sculpted my body like armour.
Over time, women noticed me, but inside, I was still that terrified child, afraid of being abandoned. All my relationships were brief, tense, shallow—until the accident. A blown tyre on the motorway, the car skidding, flipping. I woke in hospital with a broken leg, a dislocated shoulder, and a shattered illusion of control.
In rehab, my therapist was Emily—a woman in her thirties, composed, firm, yet… warm. She didn’t treat me like just another patient. She saw the fractures inside me.
At first, I held back. But her questions were so direct, her voice so steady, that I began to talk—about childhood, my mother, the endless chase for approval, the women I’d lost. She never interrupted. Just listened. And sometimes said, “You deserve love. Just for being you.”
Those words cracked the concrete in my chest. We met daily. Soon, I looked forward to those sessions—not as a patient, but as someone finally feeling warmth.
I fell in love. Quietly, without confessions. Just happiness when she walked in. Sometimes we talked books or films; other times, life. 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 had someone. But she was all I had. After she returned, I asked her for coffee. She looked at me sadly and said,
“Oliver, I care about you. But I can’t date a patient. It’s against my ethics.”
I understood. Thanked her. Left. Yes, I cried—for the first time in years. Not because she said no, but because I felt alive.
Now I walk again—without crutches. I go to the gym—not to be perfect, but to be strong. And if I ever see Emily again, I’ll ask her for coffee. Not as a patient, but as a man who’s no longer starving. Not in body, nor heart.
