Chubby, chubby, chubby. My will has utterly evaporated and now I'm stuck here in the body, encased in fat and wobbling. My exams will be finished in less than a month so finally - I'll be free to starve once more. It's just now that I've had this insight into life without weighing every single gram of food and not panicking every time a friend invites me round for dinner, I'm somewhat reluctant to give it all up once more to persue that unobtainable ideal. And yet... I haven't looked at my body in weeks. I get dressed, I shower, I have sex and if I concentrate hard enough, I can forget how much this body repulses me. The way my arms splay out against my sides, the bulge of my stomach and the way my thighs touch. I miss my old body. Since going on the pill, I now have breasts (as opposed to simply nipples) and curves.
So instead, I distract myself from the overwhelming sadness and claustrophobia. I've found a new way to torture myself, a new hunger: jealousy. After I broke up with the Boyfriend, he told me had sex with Some Older Girl. Quickly he added, how much he regretted it, how ugly she was, and how clingy she'd become. I brushed it off, after a quick search on facebook, I realised that she was a whale. Even I, with my dismorphia could realise she was fat. But I carried on clicking through her photos, realising how many photos she was in, her arm around the Boyfriend. And these photos were all taken whilst we were still together. And now... all I can think of is - did he fuck her whilst we were still together? Is she better in bed than me? Does he prefer her body to mine? Is he using me?
I keep trying to silence these voices, this grawning bile in my throat everytime I find another photo of them posing together like a couple. Mostly because the ex-Boyfriend and I don't have a single photo together and because I've lost control. I've lost control of my body and I've lost control of me. I can't stop, I just can't stop. I want out and the only way is to regain control of my once perfectly hungry body.
Thank you everyone for the lovely things you said, and thank you to the anonymous bloggers who said what I couldn't. It's undeniably true - I love my mental disease far more than I love my body, my family, my friends, the people I fuck. I live in a place, distant from reality, where I can nurture my delusions. And they're beautiful too - if you pretend hard enough, eventually reality disappears and nothing hurts quite as much as it did before. I think I constructed some malleable notion of love in order to create the illusion that I could still come back. That some irrevocable connection would rescue me. Paradoxically, I know I'm the only person that can rescue me. I'm not lost, I'm hiding. 
