Sunday, May. 11, 2003/9:28 pm

slam it shut

Stare into the long, sheen tinted mirror. Confront every piece of my body, covered in flesh, critisizing in detail. Standing full on, backwards, sideways. Checking my stomach doesn't stick out furthur, that the space between my thighs hasn't increased. Focusing on the creases of clothes, hanging from my waist, knees, arms. Trying to be content with what i see, but i never am. I can still pinch skin on my hand, of corse i can, everyone can, but to me it means i am not small enough. I have been pinching that skin for years, squeezing it as hard as i can, wanting it to evaporate under pressure.

Everywhere i go i look into windows, car doors, shiny shop signs, just to be sure that the reflection isn't corrupted somehow. After glancing at myself i usually bow my head and walk along wanting to disappear into the pavement cracks. My image haunts me. I want to cut pieces from other people and sew together a new me. A me that is completly different inside and out.

On Thursday i went to Guildford. Telling myself i was going to buy a new makeup bag and mosturiser which i did, but i had another agenda and i knew it, hidden deep behind excuses. I stopped at starbucks, millies cookies, thorntons. Indulging in yet one more ice cream sundae, cheesecake, more ice cream and a white chocolate mocha. Anything i could get, i couldn't stop. Then i eventually ended up at pizza hut, blowing my last �10 on food. I spent so much, completly out of any hold upon my actions.

My Dad gave me �40 yesterday and what am i planning for tommorrow? Yeah, you guessed it. I can't persuade myself any other way, it's useless. I live for this, i go out for this, i depend on this. I will buy something worthwhile just to compensate for a frivilous binge but the majority of my money will be flushed away down the toilet. This can't be normal. It's not. What am i doing?

I keep getting really awful headaches after purging, some managing to push me to tears. The pain throbs between my temples, i try to rub it away but it stays. Down a few paracatemol with a sip or water or diet coke but it rarely helps at all. The pins and needles in my hands, down my arms, legs, even face, curse my every wake. It's strange to think that even with all this i am so much healthier than i was. My body won't keep straight, it shifts out of place, swings and juts through malnutrition.

Gulps, crunches, slurps.

Smooth, hard, tough textures that slip down my throat, and right back up again.

Bones i never knew existed. At times it hurts to lay down because of the contoure of my spine. I'm losing weight again.

But theres still fat there, see there, grab it, try to pull it free but it springs back into place. Must lose, must decrease, must fit between the tinyest spaces.

High sugar levels, up and up and up. Making me fazy and completly exhausted. Constantly reaching for drink bottles. I took an insulin shot earlier to try and bring them back to the ground, but i am still in a very dangerous feild. None of this is new.

I keep going, somehow, keep crashing, burning, out of anyones reach.

They will never, ever understand me.

My friends have never seen my writing, my poetry, that have no idea. They just know i'm quiet, i keep to myself, i'm screwed up. Claire, she's a bit insane but she's alright, surely. Don't try to talk to her, theres no point, she never listens.

They just don't get it. Just because i can't snap out of this with just the reasurrance of words doesn't mean i don't need their comfort.

Everytime i type the word 'friends' or 'friend' it seems wrong. Everytime i speak it, the sound feels bitter and out of context. They aren't how i think they should be. They aren't how i am to them. They have their moments, they can be supportive but it doesn't last.

They don't have the time or the patience. This excludes just a few, perhaps.

Nobody knows me. I'm a social outcast that faces the wall and loses herself between pages and music they've never heard. Not one of them have ever listened to a Silverchair song, or Tori Amos. Even though it is well known i am in love with both of them.

Misunderstood, and i care. The real me is so far from what they know.

I am not okay.

I paint my face like a canvas. It's happening more and more. Now that the depressions become a little faded i can face my box of tricks again, cover up the truth. Fit myself into someone i am not. Peel away the layers and recoil at what you will find.

I'm a disintegrating, broken line. A dot to dot puzzle. A shape fading from view. Wearing a veil to disguise the white complexion. Another tinted dose to conceal the sick look.

Won't let them in, can't let them in, Open the door and they won't even hear the bell. Too busy, too involved in other things, miles from me.

Calling for nothing but the wind.

Taken in the arms of my own fear.

Rocking, slowley, moving, out. of. target.

Slam it shut with bloody hands.