I can’t tell you why, but lately I’ve been having some pretty intense anxiety in public restrooms. Which I visit a lot because I always have to pee and because if I don’t have to, one of my two children does and I have to accompany them.

I keep telling myself I’m making up stories that are causing unnecessary anxiety. That’s how I cope with this newly obtained trigger. As if I needed more—what the fuck, brain?!

It seems like the more I eat the more my brain works in awful ways, and I can’t help but wonder if all these years—21! years—my eating disorder has served as one gigantic distraction from life and I still need it to serve me.

It makes me worry I shouldn’t be eating like I am because what if I’m not capable of knowing my brain? It makes me worry I have even more shame and I’m afraid I’ll find out I really am not worthy of anyone’s love. There’s also trepidation over what if I am not what’s shameful, but if fragments of memories become whole and that story is too much for me…then what?

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