On the Outside, so much has changed. But can I really change what lies deep inside?...

As I walk down the street I keep my head down and my eyes averted. I hope, futilely, that no one notices me. I hope that not one single person will glance in my direction as I pass down towards the library, hugging my copy of the Great Hunt to my chest. my long hair falls down my back in one long, uncombed cascade. My eyes are shadowed with dark circles; my face is devoid of any make-up. But it is not for these reasons that I keep my gaze fixed to the ground beneath me. It is not for any of these reasons that I walk as if I were treading upon glass.

I wonder what they do see; the ones who do happen to notice the girl who hurries by them so timidly. Would they just see a healthy, normal girl, a girl who is just in a hurry to get somewhere, and out of shyness avoids meeting any body's eyes?

If only, they knew.
This bmi, this number on the scales, an apparent indicator of healthiness, of being a step freer from Ed. But those numbers do nothing to change how I feel inside.

On the outside, so much has changed; since that day I committed myself to the gruelling task of gaining weight alone. My skin has a glow which wasn't there before; my hair is softer, stronger. My hands are no longer wrinkled and dry; the knuckles no longer cracked and bleeding and sore. I have a bust and my hipbones no longer protrude from my body. My legs and arms are no longer like thin little sticks which looked as if they would snap like a twig if I were to fall. I no longer look like a walking skeleton. My body has changed from that of a girl's, to a woman's.

If only I could say that I have changed on the inside, too.

Because that, I know, is where my illness really lies.

I'm not going to lie and say that peoples comments no longer affect me. Neither can I look in the mirror without wanting to look away again immediately, tears misting my eyes and a hard lump wedging itself in my throat. I cannot make myself like what I see: the healthy, strong body that I, through my own hard work and perseverance, now possess. Neither can I make myself want true recovery for myself. All along, I have been doing it, for those who I love and care for.

The last part of this mountain is steep and sharp-sided. The rocks here are jagged and cut me as I try to cross them. The hardest part. Yes. Here is the hardest part of my journey. This is where I stopped and gave up the last time: this is where, after having climbed so far and crossed so many valleys and gullies, I let myself fall down. for fear of what lay ahead of me; of the remaining gullies and rifts that faced me. The last part is shrouded in darkness. For though my body has changed, my mind is still the same: and this last part of the journey terrifies me.

If only the final stretch of this mountain was gentle and soft beneath my tentatively treading feet. If only the path that winds on in front of me was lined with soft sweet grasses, easy to follow and easy to tread. If only. But rather, what lies ahead is treacherous and painful. There are thorns which leave me bleeding; nettles which sting me and bring tears to my eyes. And now I know that I was wrong; at the beginning of this long, hard journey which I seem to have been travelling for so, so long. I thought then that weight gain would be the hardest part. But no. Now I know I was wrong. This is where the hardest battle of all will be fought.

But I know I have to close my eyes now and scramble blindly forward onto those sharp, jagged rocks. There is no shortcut or way around them; onto them, I must go. I know that I have to embrace this pain.