I put my debit card into the cash machiene and watch the glow of green lettering bounce up onto the screen - 6 pounds and a few pennies. I'm confused, shocked even, where did all my money go? I search my mind for items i may have bought, jewellerry, make-up, new clothes perhaps, but no, deep down the truth is obvious.

The answer lies in the drawer beneath my bed, a mass full of wrappers, bags stuffed with packets, spraying crumbs as i rifle through, trying to find food. If i'm lucky i will have something left, but usually it is just litter, the aftermath. I tell myself i won't go back into the supermarket but i do, i say, only £5, but the number rises. Any spare cash is spent on my obsession, i just can't halt myself.
Afterwards i always feel so ashamed, so deeply ashamed. I may as well just be chucking bank notes down the toilet.

I make excuses, try and let it pass by. I tell myself it's okay because gamblers indulge in their addiction, like my Father, alcoholics have to buy drink and drug addicts pills and powders. But of course, that doesn't make it right, not in the slighest. This is my problem, no matter how it compares to the mistakes of others. I must be truly awful, when others are starving, with dirty rain water and rations to live by, and i am wasting so much.

Desperation. That's it. I am desperate. Desperate for the means to destroy, and hate and bleed. I will die if i don't change, how long will it last? If i can't help or lift myself, i wil never heal.

I eat Pop Tarts cold because i couldn't get downstairs to use the toaster.
I finished a whole tub of Nutella with a spoon, the bread was too risky to get to, but i couldn't wait.

My blood sugar levels are all over the place. Mainly high, on rare occasions low. I feel drugged and drained, pulled towards the floor with a heavy led weight.

Today has been my free day from college, and i've spent most of the time hiding away in my room, avoiding everyone. When the house was clear this morning i binged, and i'm typing this now trying not to think about what is in the fridge. I know that as soon as i stop i'll end up rustling through the compartment in the bottom, where i keep my stash of perishable goods. Cutting off chunks of cheese, then burying them in my pockets until i'm safely upstairs again. Maybe a biscuit stashed up my sleeve.

You'd think my eating would be better with all the cutting i've been doing. I guess it just doesn't work like that. Will i ever be stronger? When will i be able to cope? Cope with the sting of my own voice.

Self deprication breathing down my neck, soft hairs that stand on end with fright. I'm so scared of what i have become, where i have been and where i might end up. These lethal whispers are determined to strangle me. I can't call out. I'm choking.