I haven't weighed myself in over a week. At this point, I'm a little afraid to. My body is changing - I can feel differences. I have more muscle, especially in my legs. But I also have a little more ... give, I guess you would say. I can grip skin where I couldn't before. Lately I've been unconsciously rubbing my stomach, like I'm anticipating its eventual expansion.
Oh, the vagaries of body image. Do I even look thin anymore? I don't think so - not unnaturally so, at least. And as much as I hated the concerned or sidelong looks, the very sickest part of me took those as vindication, as reassurance. All my efforts were paying off! And now that I'm getting better, that sick part - it's smaller now, but it's definitely still there - doesn't want to see that go to waste.
There's always that tug-of-war. I like the things that are happening to my body. At least the rational part of me does. But there's still that piece of me that looks in the mirror and sees something revolting and out of control.