I'm increasingly preoccupied with my stomach. It seems to have gotten so much bigger in a relatively short time. This is probably due to my lack of a stable body image, but I just don't know - could I really be gaining weight? Part of me is scared shitless by that; part of me is brave, a little resigned, and accepting.
My eating habits have been wonky, which is no doubt contributing to the overall uncertainty. I've been eating little incidental things - a couple of saltines or wheat thins here, three or four peanuts there. I don't know the impact of these things, though. It could be negligible, it might not. I know my doctor, mother, and most of the people I know would say I, of all people, do not need to be worrying about the stray triscuit or two. But I do.
I'm of two minds - either this summer experience will make me completely insane, or it will help me get to a place where those little things really and truly don't bother me any more. The boyfriend once said after I had creme brulee at a restaurant that it was nice to see me eat and not worry about it - I didn't realize I telegraph my anxiety so much. And think of how many brain cells I could free up.