I'm fucking fat.

I really should be studying, but I feel as though it will help if I get these thoughts out of my system.
Today marks one month of my recovery. I have neither binged nor purged in an entire month. It has been six months since I've been able to take strides such as these. I am not proud of myself, though. Not in the least.
Every minute a thought passes through my mind, reminding me of how I so hate myself. I hate every breath I take, every smile, every tear. I hate how I look and how I feel. I hate that it's my fault I'm alone. I hate how I walk, talk, laugh, interact with other people. I hate every ounce of fucking fat on me. I hate when I can't run because I'm too tired because I'm disgusting and out of shape. I never pick out new clothes to wear after I eat because I feel as though my entire stomach is jutting out from me. I feel like my arms are sagging out of my shirts and my love handles are bunching out of the top of my jeans. I feel like my face is a glob of dough and my legs are lumps of cottage cheese. I'm hate how I feel disgusting every waking moment of my miserable little existence.
That is all.