I still have so much anxiety about what and how much I’m eating because my body will stop at nothing to get what it wants–even if I think it doesn’t need it, even if I think I did everything right, even if I think I know what I am supposed to do.
Words from friends play over and over in my mind as I observe myself:
“Looks like you’ve got some good meat on you now,” she says, gently pinching my arm. I feel the heat rise in my face. Anger? Frustration? Guilt? Embarrassment?
“Yeah, I thought you looked different from the last time I saw you.”
Do they really see more fat? Do I see more fat? Have I gained more since they’ve seen me? What makes me skinny or fat? How am I supposed to know, how am I supposed to see the difference? How the hell am I supposed to know anything about my body anymore if I don’t even know how to eat? I’m scared of hunger, yet I love it. I love eating. I love food. But is it my body that loves eating? Because I feel so detached from food when I am sitting at a meal. I’m scared to feel full, but I feel that my body wants to feel full.