Thursday, Jan. 15, 2004/9:44 am

history

I've had a long and near sleepless night. I don't really know how i'm still proping myself up here, but i am. Strung out on caffiene and thinking too much.

12.30 am - I drop off after reading several chapters of my book.

For the next few hours, i am jolted from dream roughly every 30 minutes. To use the toilet and pour yet another fizzy drink. Ketones sweet and sickly, fatigued and lagging.

3am - Naseous, illness seeping over me. I grab a bucket and put it on the floor by my side, just in case.

4am - Begin to be sick over my pillow before realising what is happening and aiming for the bucket. With a bit of help i watch my insides flood out of me. Thorough and all. Then carry it heavy to the toilet, and tip it away. Wash the bucket under the shower attatchment and strip my soiled bed linen. Force myself to take some insulin and try to drift back into slumber.

The pattern of disruption repeats, but at a slower rate. I test my blood at 5, and the meter still flashes HI, showing i must have been sky high in the first place.

7am - I notice my friend, who lives a few houses away from me, has her bedroom light on. A square of yellow life through the dark. She'd be getting ready for college. Deciding what to wear, brushing her hair, sorting out her books - what i should be doing. Instead i'm making sure the bathroom is tidy and smelling of mouthwash rather than vomit. The difference makes me want to cry, it hurts.

I remember when it all seemed so innocent. Young and ready for opportunity. Perhaps i just never wanted to grow up.

I've been told i'm looking grey again. I pondered over my reflection this morning, the shadows, the gaunt lines. My hands are cracked into lines and cuts because they are so dry. I look terrible. But when have i ever been able to say i look good or be happy with my appearance?

Okay here goes -

I've always been a file, a case study. I was in and out of hospital on a regular basis as a child.

Soon after i was born they noticed that i had a rare eye disorder called Dwaynes syndrome. Meaning there is a particular weakened muscle which prevents a certain area of sight, distorting my vision to the left. I've been told that when it was discovered doctors treated me close to a freak show. As the problem was so rare and most of them had never seen an example of it before. Other professionals unassociated with my care were called in to take a look, stare at the specimen, whilst they debated how to correct the defect.

Over the years i had a number of operations to try and improve the flaw. I was of course, given glasses, and even a patch at one stage to try and encourage my left side stronger. I got to choose a sticker to put on my patch and always took the pony.

Whilst all of this was taking place in the background flared my parents divorce. My Dad left after months of blasing rows. The question playing on my mind; what did i do? Is it my fault?

I was 7 when i recklessly let another friend ride my bike whilst i perched on the back. Disasterous implications followed. I thought that we were about to crash as she was going so fast, and i spontaneously jumped off. We were heading down a hill and i fell face forward onto the harsh, tarmack road. The rock scraped through my skin, i was wailing and bleeding thickly. My Mum had to drive 100 miles per hour up the motorway to hospital, with my brother holding a soaked teatowel over the gashes.

I was back in the familiar childrens ward, for quite an extended period. Under the maxilo facial and orthodontic units. I had pushed my front teeth up through my top lip, and had to have them pulled back down. Along with three stitches and the grit removed from my face during surgery. I had to be transported by wheelchair for weeks and missed alot of school. I was traumatized and in shock. It was all very painful.

From then on i've been having work done on my damaged teeth. For ten years, and it's still not finished. My two central molars began to rot slowley afterwards until eventually they both had to be removed. I became the girl with the black and brown smile. I felt moudy and disgusting. I felt ugly because people told me i was, and i believed every word. And what came with ugly? Fat. I was fat, look pinch that excess flesh on your stomach Claire, fat. I became afraid to smile and always strived to keep my lips tight in photos.

The accident was the only explanation they could form for the cause of diabetes, at 9 years old. Nobody in my family had ever suffered it, and it can sometimes derive from a sudden jolt to the system. I came up with my own theory. I thought it was a punishment. I deserved it because i was a bad person. I deserved it as another blow in a vast line of adverse experiences. I was also in denial. I literally said i *didn't have it, didn't have it, didn't have it.* It felt very unfair.

& all i ever wanted was to be normal. Like i saw everyone else. Normal, everything functioning properly. No, i was unfixable, and wrong. I would always be wrong. I will never, ever, be able to feel right.

Looking in the mirror i couldn't be satisfied. I wanted to be smaller, less of a disaster, less of a monster. I became so very shy. A distant figure who was terrified of speaking out, of people getting to know her. Invisibility so much safer, for myself and everyone around me.

Fed up of specialists and appointments, dentists and clinics. Yet i continued the trend, with eating disorders, just to prove the obvious, that i am a freak.

Destroying myself,

ripping the remains apart,

to cope, with who i am,

a broken body i can't stand to posess anymore.