You will body check all the time. You will confirm that your thumb and middle finger still touch when you wrap them around your thigh, and when they cannot, you will feel ugly.
You will feel jealous of the people who are not going through recovery. You will scrutinise their goal weights and wonder how much lighter you would be if you hadn’t told someone. You will feel profoundly stupid.
You will go to weigh yourself and find that your parents have taken the scales away. You will estimate, then, using how far your stomach sticks out, and how many times your arms jiggle when you shake them.
You will begin to enjoy eating again. When you realise this, you will be overcome with a guilt so strong you will lie on the floor and cry for two hours. This will repeat at least once a week.
You will consider bulimia. You will stare into the toilet and stick two fingers down your throat and vomit nothing but your feelings up into the bowl. You will give up but never stop thinking about it.
You will absentmindedly touch your collarbones. When they begin to become less prominent, you will stare at yourself in the mirror and cry. Your parents think it is out of anger, but it is really out of grief.
You will recover, too, eventually. You will live. But first you have to die a hundred thousand times.