But The Quest for Beauty is a Beast. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Beating Death My mom told me she was sorry I am so sick. That no one my age, a mere 18, should be dying. And I told her I don't care, as long as I graduate. What am I doing? I am desperate for a cure. To truly mean it when I say that I am done purging, that I will take my insulin, that calories consumed are not calories wasted... I am not in control of myself. I feel like an outsider. I want help. But who can help me? No one. Stanford sent me home to die. "A chronic. We can no longer treat her. Take her home to die." So my mom did. And for months I struggled for life, hardly breathing, until finally I found one last place that would take me... And I have been there too many times. Did I ever tell you that I have always wanted to be a doctor? To work with children who have Cystic Fibrosis? And when I was younger I imagined myself walking the wards with other residents, discussing treatment options, drinking coffee after a 36 hour shift, happy... And now, now it is flushed down the toilet. Visions washed away in puke. Dreams flushed away in glucose ridden pee. Mom-"I simply don't know what to do with you. You are dying. Maybe you can get more help." Me-"I am okay." And I turn to the wall, tears streaming down my face, and my heart patters a little harder, trying to convince itself that it is more alive than dead. 12:23 a.m. - 2004-02-07 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------- |
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