But The Quest for Beauty is a Beast. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fights, Cuts, Therapy, Hell... My mom and I got into a huge arguement this morning. As always, it started about food. From talking about brownies we somehow escalated to me crying and telling her to, (very ashamedly, I never used this term before) suck my cunt. She came storming back into the kitchen. "What did you say to me?" grabbng my wrists and shaking me. I couldn't speak. "No one has ever said that to me before. Maybe you and your little girlfriends do that but don't you dare accuse me of that!" I crumpled onto the floor in a ball of tears. "I am calling the police. You need a 72-hour hold." Another famous threat. "Just go to work!" I screamed, "You are late!" All the memories, all the flashbacks. I can't take it anymore. My brother already told all his friends. People whisper that I am a slut. People who don't know it was me talk about it freely. "Oh, whomever it was must be a slut." I used to be the "Goody-goody." It ruined me. I grabbed a lancet and hopped in the shower, tears streaming down my face. Images ran through my head. I proceeded to carve "Slut" into my thigh. Blood dripped down the shower. Than I moved onto my wrists, careful to avoid veins. I scratched at my arm, blood pouring down the drain. I went over the same cuts again, attempting to make them deeper. "I can't believe I am doing this" I thought. "I haven't cut in over a year." A big chunk of skin folded over, revealing disgusting adipose tissue. Blood ran down the drain. "More calories lost. I wonder if I could lose a liter..." Suddenly I don't feel too well. My head is buzzing and I am having trouble focusing and standing. Enough. I have to get this to clot. I step out of the shower. There is so much blood that I hold my arm over the toilet, crying, not believing that I am here, that I did this, that this is me... I call my therapist's office. I tell her what I did. She offers to let me come over and just hang out with the staff there. I eagerly agree. I can't stay here. My social worker comes to get me. I show her my cuts. Uh Oh, looks like those may need stitches. I can't let my mom know. She called me before I left saying she loved me and she was sorry. I apologized too. We show the nurse. I have to go to Urgent Care. M* takes me. We sit and chat. The doctor gives me a choice about stitches, recommending them but not forcing them. I agree to steri-strips and an antibiotic. Because of all my health problems, they tell me I must take it. I agree. I will. The nurse who cleans my arm can't be over 21. I tell her, "I really am not crazy." She replies, "Oh, I never thought that." M* takes me back to her office. We chat and serf the web. I tell her about the fight, about everything. My therapist comes in and talks to me. So does my nurse. They are my God sends. Without them I would be dead. I dread 12:30. I have Independent Study. My mom picks me up. We don't discuss it. I get all A's on my tests. We go shopping. I am ravenous. I need a binge. We get into another fight. "What you did was just another slap in the face. I can't believe you. You have really gone over the hill this time!" I am hysterically crying, begging to know where she hid my brownies. She is playing mind games. "Gee, what brownies? I don't remember any brownies!" I reach over to hit everything off the cabinet. I break the Lean Mean Fat Grilling Machine. Instant guilt floods me. "You stupid fool! That is it. I am so tired of this. I am calling the police!" "No I will fix it. I am sorry." "Are you stupid? That was your brothers. You can't fix it!" I try in vain. She is right. I binge and go to bed.I eat three tamales that she ordered amongst a plethora of other foods. Earlier I tried to explain that I couldn't eat those because they scared me and just one would set me off on a binge. "You will eat a pan of brownies but not these? I ordered them especially for you! That is so mean, I can't believe you." I wake up a few hours later, stomach churning. I run the bath water and puke. I fall back asleep. Later my mom knocks on my door. She holds up a bloody washcloth from the shower. "This is disgusting. How dare you." I honestly didn't know it was there. I apologize. She storms off. I pop a Metabolife. I hope this stuff does give me a heart-attack. J* calls. She is sweet. She tells me that she is here for me, that she cares. I feel a bit better. Than my aunt calls. "When are you getting your license? Are you planning on living home forever and being an invalid? Yea, you didn't do that great at school. You are a recluse. How is it having to do nothing? Are you going to kill yourself?" I hate it. I never talk to her anymore becuase of that. I hand the phone to my mom. Who cares, who cares who cares...? I go to binge. I am now here... 10:36 p.m. - 2003-03-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------- |
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