It's been an up and down time, literally. My weight was really quite down for a while there. I broke below the three-digit mark for a couple of months, which hadn't happened since 2003.
And now it's back up. Just... boom, like that, all of a sudden. Back up above BMI-chart-underweight. Back up to something near BMI-chart-healthy-weight (which is lower than my historical set point weight, but whatev).
And I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.
There is only so much reasoning, only so much logicking, only so much Pro And Con Listing I can do. I hate it.
The husband loves it. He's been more helpful than not, though he does suffer from Heteronormative Man Syndrome, which means trying to solve problems before just listening. (For that matter, I also suffer from Heteronormative Man Syndrome with him sometimes.)
But there's only so much he can help. This one's on me. And I hate it.
I wish I could better describe the internal experience: That I've been tricked and betrayed by my body... that I know (without believing) that my body's just doing its thing, and that it's not tricking or betraying me at all... that I also know (without believing) it's my mind that's tricking and betraying. I can know, and know, and know... and still not believe.
And that, of course, is the disorder. That's how having anorexia or bulimia or ED-NOS is different from... well, shit, from normal modern life for a horrendous percentage of the Westernized world.
In recovery (from an eating disorder, from OCD, from addiction, from depression, from anything) you hear the refrain from those who went before you: It'll get easier, it'll get easier. So while my mind is still rebelling at that promise, I'll try to follow my body in the meantime.
But, oh, do I hate it.