Coming back
from China I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect in terms of corporal growth. I hadn’t weighed myself for six weeks and the
closest I had had to a mirror had been passing glass, and as for eating itself,
my sacred routine had been altered so much it had left me in nutritional bewilderment.
Rice every single day, for every single meal, is not exactly my idea of paradise, to the extent that the dinner men and ladies saw my daily “bu yao
mifan” as a canteen wisecrack: “no want rice” is like the equivalent of
refusing a cup of tea in England, or saying you don’t like gravy on your mash.
But it was so, and as such, tofu and mung bean soup provided my basic
sustenance.
Little
surprise then that I had in fact lost a couple of pounds. Luckily it wasn’t
more, had it not been for my eloping to distant lands in search of dumplings
and dragon fruit, but at least I am not in dire straits; I like to think that
my rationality is still hanging about somewhere. Nevertheless I thought it was
probably a good idea to follow up my previous appointments and see the
dietitian. As I couldn’t get through to the service by phone, I went to the
clinic myself, waited in the waiting room which was aptly playing Coldplay’s
Fix You until the secretary lady came along to tell me that “no one from THAT
department is back until next week”. I didn’t really mind, just thought it a
bit odd since as lovely as it would be, anorexia doesn’t take a holiday.
Even though
physically I feel (and pretty much look) fine, I know that psychologically I
still have a bit to go, but it’s hard to imagine a life in which food does not
occupy a huge part of my thoughts. It’s sad to say it seems to have become
habit rather than body image that keeps me in this adverse cycle. Writing it
down helps break out of that loop a little and look at things from the outset,
but there is no more futile a struggle than one with yourself.
Anyway I’m
still happy
