But The Quest for Beauty is a Beast.

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A Stranger

As I read over my old diary entries I realize something; I do not know the person who wrote them. I am not that person. I am not the person who gorged herself to tears, skipped all insulin shots, vomited daily behind the pool when she could barely crawl out of bed...
No, I am not that person. The odd thing is, when I read those entries I do not remember typing them. I barely remember the misery I felt. All I know is that I felt like I was going to die every second. What I didn't realize then was already dead. What I do not like is that I do not know myself. I do not recognize myself in those past entries. I do not know myself now.
The one thing I do know is that the thought of going back there terrifies me. I could never withstand the torment I put myself through again.
Yet there is comfort in pain. Pain that you know you are inflicting on yourself. A level of pain that would be next to impossible to make worse. And then your fear is washed away with that pain... So perhaps there is comfort in that.
But I do not know that person. She is a stranger to me. But, I suppose, I am a stranger to myself every day, and different to everybody who sees me.
I know not who I am. I live in a dream. I am so far from reality that it scares me sometimes.
But none of us really know who we are.

8:22 AM - Thursday, Mar. 17, 2005
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dying - living