Having a bad body image day is analogous to crawling out of my skin. It's this acute awareness of my flesh that creeps in slowly in the most mundane moment -- when I'm driving or reading or talking to a friend -- and then infiltrates my entire stupid brain, growing more urgent as it remains. I feel like I am sheer flesh at the moment -- just fat without discernible shape or muscle. It is deeply uncomfortable.
It doesn't matter that my weight is pretty stable at a moderately thin weight, nor does it matter that I've received a lot of nice compliments from strangers and friends, the latter of whom are pretty much universally supportive all the time. And it doesn't matter that I intellectually know that I am not, in fact, grotesque -- because, honestly, if my eating disorder were an intellectual affair, I'd've thought my way out of the whole shebang in five minutes.
Rawr. Obnoxious Pollyanna-esque silver lining: this feeling always goes away with a bit of time. In the meantime, I have to focus on not restricting/purging/being eating disordered and try to get in some yoga. It makes me feel much more connected and cohesive and sane. And, more pressingly, I should get some sleep.