I stared at the 1/2 tortilla and sliced meat I had rolled up and it was almost as if it stared back at me. I took a bit and it seemed to be out of place in my mouth. I could have just put a cock roach in there and had the same reaction. I stared at the rest and couldn't do it. I threw it away and went upstairs. Finally, the tears came. It often seems like I don't have any left for this battle. I am losing- but as long as ED is winning, I am still thin. This is my dilemma. It hurts, but I really don't know what will come with victory- but it cant be good. It cant be good. So, I cry and I count and I stare at my stomach and keep a constant hand on it (as if I could hold it it in or keep it from growing). I go on. Some days are better than others. Some hours are better than others. But, ultimately, I am afraid. I am afraid of every meal and frighteningly aware of almost every bite. And for those which I am unaware, I generally mourn later. They all get accounted for. And it hurts. It hurts! Like the abused spouse who doesn't want to leave, I just want it to stop hurting. I don't want to be afraid of a piece of bread. I want to know that I can eat them and not be afraid of “what if I want to eat something else later?” I am always saving room and preparing for disaster. I don't even know how its supposed to look anymore.