I’ve lost weight.

I haven’t weighed myself in months (still don’t own a scale) but I know my body and it’s been changing: my stomach is getting smaller, there’s the teeniest of gaps between my thighs, and my ribs are bucking against my skin. That old intoxicating thrill is bubbling up inside me, and it’s threatening to boil over.

I’m not restricting – at least not intentionally or consciously – but I’ve not been eating as often or as healthily as I should; I haven’t been sleeping much either, so everything sort of blends together into one long, never-ending day, and it’s hard for me to remember when or what I’ve last eaten, if at all.

“It’s better this way,” Ana says, pinching at my waist.

I’ve had some small binges as well, eating whatever I can get my hands on, whatever can fill this space inside me. Then I feel it rise in my throat afterwards, a surging force so strong that I run to the bathroom in frantic anticipation, clutching the edge of the sink.

“You know what to do,” Mia whispers, holding back my hair.

Am I a failure for feeling these things? Am I relapsing? Am I weak?

The challenges and struggles are what make recovery recovery; one isn’t simply “recovered,” but rather a part of the ongoing fight. Some days are good and some days are bad, but as long as you keep your head above water, you’re eventually going to reach land.

You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn to surf.