So it’s Christmas Eve. My second Christmas with this horrible illness. The day of the Christmas dinner looming. The unknown calories. The dread, the panic, the constant worry. Not wanting to eat it but not being able to get away without eating out. The anxiety. The uncertainty. Because I’m near my discharge date I feel my family (some of them) assume that means I’m recovered and well. But in actual fact the hard work had only just begun. They don’t see what the fuss about tomorrow is. They don’t understand. But there’s me. Struck down with anorexia watching people eat what they want, when they want. Grabbing a chocolate here and there, munching on sausage rolls and crisps. While I’m stuck in my routine sticking firmly to my plan. Expect for the big dreaded Christmas dinner. They don’t understand the dread I have for this. The unknown calories I’ll be consuming. Dreading weigh in day. Knowing I’ll have put weight on. This Christmas Day my illness has a name. Last Christmas it wasn’t diagnosed but it was still a struggle and still remains a struggle. When will life me normal? When will I be able to put my hand in a tub of chocolates and eat one? When will I be able to bake and eat what I’ve made? When will I be able to not count numbers? When? Today I went for a walk and all I could see was how fat my thighs were. Bursting out of my jeans. Touching the other one, barely able to see my feet.I’m no longer able to see my hip bones they’ve disappeared. Covered in fat. That’s how I measure myself. By fat.