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But The Quest for Beauty is a Beast.

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A Feeling Inconceivable

Living has become so hard these days. I can't seem to pull myself out of bed until mid-afternoon, and even then I can only stay up for a few hours. I binge, binge to the point where it is inevitable that I will purge, and then I crawl back into bed, cold and shaking, praying that I will feel better, begging a higher power, any power above myself, that I will feel better.

I am 91 pounds now. All my clothes are too big. I should be happy, I am thinner than I have been in a long time.

I am not happy.

I want someone to tell me everything will be okay. I want them to listen to me and hug me close, a real hug, not one of those hugs that I always get where someone is running their hands along my back, trying to see how much more my bones protrude.

Hugs like that make me want to never be touched again.

My labs are very messed up. I am grateful that my mom doesn't know. Every time I get up it is a struggle. My only motivation is seeing the number that the scale shows. It glares back at me, kinder than the day before, yet still cruel.

My heart races, I can barely breathe, my legs quiver, I want to sink into the floor, collapse, lie there and die, die and go to the land of my dreams, where all good dreams become a reality.

Yesterday my therapist asked if I was on drugs. I was deeply offended. Apparently I was acting like I was on pot. I was too weak to think clearly and my heart was really pounding. I barely made it there. Everything seemed so far away. My vision was blurred, my legs shaky, if you pushed me I would have fallen, my only balance in my determination not to look like a fool, not to draw attention to myself, not to be noticed.

I wish someone would wisk me away, breathe into my soul, give me life, and take me away from this nightmare. Wake me up. I have been here for too long. Save me, make me stop.

The words recede cold in my mouth. Who is there to listen? Who is there to talk to anyway?

3:51 a.m. - 2003-04-04
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