Oh holy MOLY that last post is full of bravado. Today's events make it absolutely clear that I am in no way "recovered."
Today, I took a half-day (yay!) to go to the gynecologist (boo). During the pre-exam, I told the nurse my spiel: "I'm in recovery from an eating disorder, so I get weighed backwards."
"Okay, that's okay, whatever," she replied. She wasn't mean about it, just kind of blase - just one more weird demand from a patient. So I hop on and she fiddles with the counterweights.
And then she says the first two digits. "Oh wait, you didn't want to know ..."
Too damn late, lady. I looked at the scale and figured out the last one. And oh my dear god it was so much higher than I expected. So much higher.
I kept it together in the office. I mostly kept it together on the ride home and while I was getting the car serviced. At the gym though - all those mirrors, all those people - I freaked the fuck out. Panic attack time. I made it back to the car and called my sister. She listened while I cried and sobbed and continued my freakout for a solid ten minutes. I took another ten to calm down after we hung up, and then I went back inside and finished my workout.
Now I'm furious with myself. All the meals out, all the wine and cheese, all the little nibbles - what the fuck did I think was going to happen? And I've got to stop sharing my internal thought processes because they are majorly triggering. Just know that my head is not a friendly place right now.
So no, I'm not recovered. I'm lots of other things that I don't want to list but I'm not recovered.