I am exhausted. And my thighs are expanding by the second. I can keep going so long, then my body erupts and takes my mind with it. Or the other way around; my mind goes tits and so my thighs do? God alone knows. I have so much I could write about, so many things to think about, so much in general to do, and I'm squandering my potential stressing about the irrelevant size of my body. Just for a day, it would be nice not to feel like a complete failure. A failure at recovery, because I'm so stressed and (ever so slightly- don't worry) limiting my diet and I failure at whatever the hell I think I should look like, to carry the label of anorexic.
It didn't help that I was told earlier this week that I don't look anorexic. There's something about that. Is 'anorexic' a label to aspire to? Or should I be glad of the privacy of not having people assume certain things, just because I'm very underweight? Should I be glad that I'm healthy? Or should I worry that I've lost my identity, of being ill? Sometimes I miss, and I hate admitting this, not having to verbally express my struggling and letting the scales speak for me. I hate scales.
Gaining weight is just dealing with a symptom. I wish I could scream this from the rooftops. It was necessary and it took some of my poor health with it, but it was just. dealing. with. a. symptom. Weight actually has bugger all to do with eating disorders. Losing weight is a way of channelling and projecting my own pain and attention onto the surface of my body. And now, it seems that all the help and care from other people only went into my weight. If only people stopped to think about the bare fact that eating disorders are psychological problems and only physical as a by-product, life for those of us trying to recover would be a hell of a lot easier.
I am so, so tired.