I am having a pretty difficult night. I work in a few hours so I know I really need to get some sleep, but at the same time, there is just something haunting me about the past.
The truth is, I LOVED being anorexic. I loved the way it made me feel. I remember how excited I was when I laid down on my side and my thighs didn’t fall into each other with the general flow of gravity. There wasn’t enough fat there. I loved looking at the scale and seeing the pounds drop off one by one. I loved looking at food and knowing that I had won this secret battle. I wasn’t going to eat it. I had conquered it in some sick way. I loved waking up in the morning and feeling the pain in my skin as my hipbones stretched the thin layers to its limit. I miss it. I miss the feeling of not being able to stand up in the shower and knowing that I was winning. I couldn’t do simple algebra anymore, but none of that mattered.