Well that's exactly what I have found myself doing. I'll be a mad bag lady chasing pigeons next. But if I am a mad bag lady chasing pigeons whilst eating a big fat shortbread cookie (and enjoying it rather than it making me suicidal) then I don't give a fuck!
All of these years that I have been anorexic I have been a willing, compliant, 'all for the greater good' anorexic. The sacrifices I made for anorexia's Utopia, her zenith, her promised heaven seemed tiny. What she promised me was so unsurpassable that anything I suffered was barely even considered. I metaphorically wandered over white hot coals, barely feeling the pain because my glazed eyes were fixed on the light ahead.
I have always maintained that anorexia doesn't have complete control over me. examples of my arguments for this have been:
*But I kept my friends- I forced myself to. Katie would have died without her friends
*How can I be completely controlled when I can have an icecream from mcdonalds, drink a syrupy cocktail?