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But The Quest for Beauty is a Beast.

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Hopeless Bloody Bile

I shouldn't have purged. I am doing it way too often. I was leaning over the toilet bowl, vomit spewing out of my mouth, when blood started trickling down. I thought it was my knuckles or my throat.

No.

I looked in the mirror. Blood trickled out of my nose and mouth.

"Gwen, you have got to stop. You have to."

So I stopped and called Center for Discovery, yet their kind words could not keep the guilt at bay, and I went and finished my job.

Only a bit of blood. I am okay...

But I am not.

I went and ate some soup and soft serve ice cream.

The stomach does not want it. Angry and vengeful, it churns and pushes up all matter in itself, demanding to be ridded of such vile substances.

I am so upset. I watch a few episodes of ER, yet I cannot ignore the nausea.

I walk out in the backyard. I lean over, jam my hand down my throat, flex my muscles, and stand there, legs shaking, heart pounding against my ribs that cages it, and puke. Wave after wave of acid flow up. I cannot see the vomit. It is too dark. For this I am grateful. It removes me from this action. It makes it so I do not have to whoely admit to the sins which I unleash upon my own flesh and blood.

My throat burns. It feels as if someone jammed a baseball into it. My face is hot, my legs are weak, and I am shaking.

But I weigh as much as I did this morning...

I fear I will die from this. I know I need treatment again. There is no denying that. Everyone says so. Rogers, UCLA, Del Amo... It is going to be one of those three.

I will not protest it. I will not be a hypocrite. I hate it though. I hate that I am in the revolving door cycle. So much treatment, so much hope.

I really don't want to end up like Jennifer Hendricks. She refused to give up, to give in, always consented to treatment, agreed to try new approaches to recovery...

But she died.

12:19 a.m. - 2003-10-16
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