Weary from the battle

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.