I remember sitting on the black leather couch in my therapist's office longing to be free from my eating disorder, when she said something to the tune of, "There is no recovered. You get there and then you keep going."
I didn't like that statement. I so desperately wanted to believe there was a finish line. If I went all the way I'd cross it, and the tape would rip and I could throw my arms up in victory and I'd be done, pau, finito.