So,* here's what happened:
The beginning of this year brought with it a period of unremitting, profound stress unlike any I've known in my adult life thus far. (It was totally unrelated to the economy, hilariously enough.) Like any good former anorexic, one of my main tools to drag myself through the stress swamp was to stop eating as much as possible. The stressful period abated, mostly, after about a month, and I'd lost about five pounds. Not a huge deal either way, five pounds. But, like any good former anorexic, I found my affinity for hunger didn't fade into the background with the stressful situation. Now, in mid-April, I've lost more like 8 or 9 pounds. Still not the end of the world. I am still well within my healthy weight range (which is a larger range, for nearly every person, than the media would like you to believe). It's not a question of how much I weigh (about what I did at the end of college, in my final period of weight gain post-anorexia). It's a question of why I'm allowing myself to delay and shrink meals, to revel in the feeling of lightness if not lightheadedness, and to fixate on my waist or my arms or my belly in a way I haven't in several years now (that is to say, in an accomplished, purposeful way instead of a defeated, disgusted one). I am at a medically sound weight, but I feel that old, familiar pull.
* How many sentences do I not start with "So," on this blog? Maybe 40%? Yeah, I'm thinking that maybe Joyce Carol Oates doesn't write like that.