But The Quest for Beauty is a Beast. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I Scare Myself... Not much has changed, I suppose. I am more tired, and I am purging more. I scare myself. I scare myself that I will kill myself, which is not what I want to do. When my urine smells sweet from glucose, when my legs feel ready to collapse beneath me, when I can barely make it to the bathroom... I scare myself. I have images of my head hitting the toilet bowl, cracking on white porcelain, blood oozing out the side of my mouth in thick, bright red. My family, finding me there. I can see my brother, standing over my dead body, the whole bathroom wreaking of vomit, screaming, "Mom, get in here! I think Gwen is dead. Shit!" And that scares the living crap out of me. I want to quit. Why is it so hard? I want to take my insulin, but the syringe to me is like poison, a poison that allows all that glucose into my cells, making me hungry, making me gain weight. And I cannot gain weight. I just can't. If I took my insulin I would eat and eat, gorge myself on everything in sight, turn into a human marshmellow. And no one would love me. Everyone would abandon me. I would sit in a corner, in total darkness, grunge, scream out, and silence. No one would come. I would be a prisoner of my own mind. But.. Am.. I... Already...? 10:48 p.m. - 2003-11-15 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------- |
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