Like a bulging-out-of-my-flesh size two. This is corpulence at its best stifling my lungs. I can't breathe, and I take shallow lung-expanding gulps of air. I may be in recovery, and actively participating, but I'm not anywhere near 'recovered' in the psychological aspect. A logical part of me knows that this is a product of the mind, just a petty delusion I have. I know that this is a fickle disease. I know I need to accept that weight gain is a part of the recovery process. But it's definitely crazy-making.
Living with my anxious-overly-demonstrative aunt at this point, and it's most assuredly rubbing off and sticking like glue to me. The unexplainable moments of anxiety are debilitating and breathless. I worry, I fret; I can even nourish and stroke my flitting butterflies. She makes me eat whole meals, and for that reason only, it's hard for my ED mind to harbor no grudge against the fact that she blatantly shoves any worry I may have over the situation aside. I must feel like Atlas - a hulking weight pressing on my body. But I worry over worrying.
I want to be back in my nest: at home, alone with my books, and my pills, and my ED.
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