On Gaining Weight

Recently I went to the doctor's office where I was, by standard procedure - weighed. And I've spent the week beating myself over a number. A number I haven't heard in awhile. In other words (gasp) - I've gained a few. Now the rational side of me knows this gain isn't even perceptible to those around me and is healthy; but the 17 year old Rebecca sees this as a sign of failure. I haven't even had regular access to a scale in over ten years for this very reason. It's been awhile since I've truly restricted, even when I've gone through my ruts this past year - I kept eating. This is the first time in my life that has ever happened. And I'm completely frightened by the prospect of having beaten the anorexic side of me. I had become so accustom to being depressed and looking at a sunken face. And feeling better when my hands would shake with physical weakness. Anorexia is a strange disease. It's like any addictive disorder. It has a calming effect. The act of disappearing becomes a worn blanket fort for anyone who uses it as a self-defense mechanism. And I don't have my fort anymore. I suppose I pulled the blankets down; and now I'm just looking at them. On the floor. They appear faded, well-loved, and useless against outside forces. My gut reaction earlier this week was to restrict, and honestly part of me desperately still wants to take the rough past couple of weeks and numb it with the feeling of starvation. But I'm tired of my blanket fort. Afraid of hiding in it. I have to remember I'm 30 now, not 17. I have no reason to be frightened now. No reason to make myself ugly. No reason to be affectless. I know this uncomfortable feeling of being at a slightly different weight will pass. Just like when I would first gain weight back after a hospitilazion. You live with it and see that you are okay. It won't kill me. It won't make me any less funny. It won't make my friends and family love me less. It won't mean I'm weak. In fact, it might just mean I'm making progress instead of just moving...