74. Just two pounds from my lowest. In truth i know how close it is, how reachable, just a slight stretch from my fingertips. Yet, i keep telling myself it won't happen, i won't slip back that much, i'm not as ill as i was. Physically i am better, right? My kidneys and liver aren't failing, my potassium isn't dangerously low, not like last time, i'm okay, no way near sick enough.

I'm refusing to go to any further apointments with Jackie or Yvonne. Partly because i'm worried about the outcome, and also because i dont think they help at all anyway. I just get stressed out, sit there and talk very little, lie, listen to the same lectures, it's pointless. I can't deal with the questions anymore, the weigh-ins and the tears. I might ask my GP if there's anywhere else i could be referred.

Mum's boyfriend is going to be living in here for a few weeks. He's moving house and needed somewhere to stay in the change over. It's sure to be awful, we really don't get on. I'm terrified of eating infront of him, family meals, another set of disgusted eyes, and how i'll manage to binge and purge.

I'll be home alone tonight, as usual on a Saturday. Guess what i'll be doing? It's not so difficult to figure out. I hate that my world revolves around food. That i've been planning this all day, a list of gluttony detailed in my mind, the clock ticking over inside my head, a pot of boiling water ready to erupt as soon as my brother leaves for work.

I need to be able to feel something besides this numb, stark emptiness. Smash glass against the wind and let it shatter into my skin. Leave me bleeding, wasting, dying.