Inevitably, there are going to be times when no matter how recovered I get, a small pang of missing my smaller body and anorexia might pop up.
But if being sick was so good, why did I want to recover in the first place? Why did I go back to treatment with my tail between my legs for the umpteenth time? Why did I sit in the day patient dining room four times a day forcing down every bite of food that felt like it was going to kill me?
Maybe what I actually miss is that feeling of determination and control, and knowing exactly what each day would be like. Never having to expect the unexpected, because every day living with anorexia is groundhog day. I enjoyed having a sense of purpose: to be the lightest version of myself that I could be, to exist purely to make myself…
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